The guards scream, their hoarse, panicked voices tearing through the air, already saturated with smoke and cries. Their weapons—gleaming blades and drawn crossbows—are pointed in his direction, but Mero has no time to linger. The fire he set spreads with a demonic voracity, devouring the sails of the Serpent Master's ship, turning the port into a blazing inferno. The flames dance, licking the masts, igniting the rigging, while the sailors, gripped by panic, run in all directions, powerless against the destruction. Their silhouettes are cut into chaotic shadows against the fiery backdrop, their screams blending with the crackling flames and the sinister creaking of burning wood.
Mero does not stay to admire his work. He leaps from the roof, his body violently protesting every movement. His wounds, barely closed, reopen, and a sharp pain pierces his side, as if an invisible blade is tearing through his insides. He grits his teeth, refusing to yield. Not now. Not when he's so close to his goal. His muscles burn, his lungs scream for air, but he keeps going. He must keep going.
He lands hard on the ground, rolling to absorb the impact. A blade whistles just inches from his face, narrowly missing his throat. He dodges instinctively, his mind already focused on escape. The dark alleys of the port open before him, a labyrinth of stone and shadow where he can disappear, where he can survive. The warehouse walls, tall and decrepit, seem to close in on him as if to suffocate him, but he pushes forward, driven by a force stronger than pain.
Behind him, the port is in chaos. The flames rise toward the sky, painting the night in an infernal glow. The sailors’ screams mix with the fire’s crackle, and the acrid scent of smoke fills the air—a stench of burning wood, charred ropes, and scorched flesh. The Serpent Master is trapped, his ship ablaze, his escape plans reduced to ashes. Mero knows it. He made it happen. But he doesn’t have the luxury of savoring this victory. Not yet. Not until he’s safe.
He runs, his footsteps echoing against the damp cobblestones, each impact sending waves of pain through his battered legs. Every movement is agony, every breath a battle. But he cannot stop. He must reach his ship. He must survive. The alleys twist and turn, narrow and winding, like the veins of a monstrous beast. The shadows dance around him, cast by the distant flames, and he feels the weight of danger trailing behind him, a tangible presence ready to consume him.
Suddenly, a massive explosion shakes the night, coming from the port. The shockwave trembles through the air, and Mero feels the burning blast hit his back, nearly knocking him to his knees. People spill into the streets, drawn by the noise and the light, their faces painted with shock and terror. Women scream, children cry, and men, armed with sticks or knives, stare toward the port with wide eyes. This is his chance. He blends into the crowd, invisible among the shadows and confusion. The guards are too occupied with the fire and destruction to notice him. Their attention is diverted, and Mero seizes the moment.
He moves through the alleys, evading patrols sweeping through the city's arteries. Each step brings him closer to his ship, each breath a testament to his determination. The heat from the explosion still lingers in the air, but he doesn’t look back. He knows it’s only a matter of time before his enemies realize the truth. Their lives are worthless compared to his. He has already won.
The port is near now—the salty scent of the sea fills his lungs, a reminder of what awaits him. He quickens his pace despite the pain tearing through his body. His wounds are bleeding again, warm blood trickling down his thigh, sticking his pants to his skin. But he keeps going. He must. It’s time to go home.
As he finally approaches his ship, the sailors stand guard, their faces tense, weapons ready. At first, when they see him, covered in blood and staggering, they take him for an enemy. Their eyes fill with suspicion, and their hands tighten around their weapons. Mero stumbles, his saber slipping from his fingers, clattering onto the cobblestones with a metallic ring that echoes like a death knell. He takes a few faltering steps, trying to speak, to tell them who he is, but the words won’t come. His vision blurs, the sailors’ faces becoming indistinct as if submerged underwater.
The pain overtakes him before reality fades. The ground vanishes beneath his feet, and his thoughts dissolve into the darkness closing in around him. The sound of waves, the distant voices of the sailors—everything fades. He feels a final wave of heat, as if the flames of the port have finally caught up to him, and then nothing. Only blackness, deep and endless, swallowing him whole.
----------------------------------------
When he wakes, the first thing he notices is the soft morning light filtering through the thin fabric of his cabin’s curtains. The golden rays dance along the dark wooden walls, streaked with veins and scars left by time and tempests. The air is thick with a familiar scent—a mix of salt, tar, and damp old wood. Mero blinks, trying to gather his thoughts, to remember. His body is heavy, and numb, as if he has been crushed under the weight of the sea itself. Every muscle, every fiber of his being, reminds him of the ordeal he has endured. He attempts to move, but a sharp pain stabs through his side, forcing a muffled groan from his lips. He lowers his gaze and sees his torso wrapped in bandages, the white fabric stained with red here and there—silent witnesses of his wounds.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
He is alive. That is the first thought that crosses his mind, clear and sharp. Alive. Despite everything. Despite the flames, the blades, and the men who wanted him dead. He takes a deep breath, feeling the fresh air fill his lungs, and for a fleeting moment, a strange sense of gratitude washes over him. But that gratitude is quickly replaced by something colder, more unyielding. He doesn’t have the luxury of resting for long. The danger is not yet over.
On a low table near his bed, his saber lies carefully placed on a dark cloth. Though wiped clean, the blade still bears the marks of battle—scratches, and dark stains that refuse to fade. Mero stares at the weapon, his reflection distorted in the polished metal. This saber is more than just a tool. It is a symbol. A faithful companion in this personal war he is waging. He reaches out with a trembling hand, his fingers brushing against the worn leather hilt. The feeling is familiar, and reassuring. He is not alone. As long as he has this blade, he still has a chance.
He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the steady rocking of the ship lull him. The movement is soothing, almost hypnotic. The waves lap gently against the hull, a constant rhythm that seems to whisper reassuring words. But Mero knows this peace is an illusion. The ocean, vast and calm as it may appear, is a place of danger and betrayal. And he cannot afford to be lulled into a false sense of security.
In his mind, the images of the previous night flash by—fast, chaotic. The flames, the screams, the blood. Mero clenches his fists, feeling the heat of anger rise within him, searing and relentless. Vengeance is not yet complete. This is only the beginning. He has taken one step, just one, but the road ahead is still long. And he is ready to walk it, no matter the cost.
He opens his eyes and slowly sits up, despite the sharp pain that tears through his side. The cabin is small but orderly. A sturdy wooden table, a chair, and a shelf lined with maps and books. On the wall, a nautical chart is pinned up, the outlines of islands and coastlines traced in black ink. Mero studies it for a moment, his gaze settling on a single point—Mor, the capital. The end of his journey.
The ship sways gently, waves lapping against its side in a soothing melody. They are at sea now, far from the city, far from immediate danger. The ocean stretches endlessly before him, a vast expanse that seems to promise a kind of peace. But Mero knows better. The immensity of the sea does not allow him to escape his thoughts, his memories, and his promises. Every wave that strikes the hull reminds him of what he has lost, what he must still accomplish.
He rises cautiously, bracing himself against the wall for balance. His legs tremble, but they hold. He steps toward the small window in the cabin, pushing the curtain aside to gaze at the horizon. The sky is a pale blue, almost milky, with clouds stretched like thin veils. The ocean, deep green in places, glistens under the sun’s rays. It is a magnificent sight, almost peaceful. But Mero does not see beauty. He sees the vastness, the infinity. He sees the dangers lurking beneath the surface, the storms that can arise without warning.
The pirate lord... it is because of him that Mero is safe aboard this ship. A part of him knows that debts must be paid, and promises must be kept. The pirate lord has given him protection, and Mero cannot afford to waste it. But deep inside, a fire still burns a fire that will not die until justice is served. Until those who attacked him pay for their crimes.
He turns toward the horizon, knowing that with every wave, a new chapter of his story begins. The trials he has endured have shaped him and forged him into a living weapon, ready to strike. And though his wounds run deep, though the pain still lingers, he knows he is ready. Ready to face whatever lies ahead. Ready to carve out his destiny.
The wind blows gently, carrying with it the salty scent of the ocean. Mero closes his eyes, letting the ship’s rocking carry him. For now, he rests. But soon—very soon—he will fight again. Because vengeance does not wait, and Mero de Sel is not a man who retreats.
Slowly, he turns back toward his bed, sitting down with caution. His hands tremble slightly, but he clenches them into fists, refusing to show any weakness, even to himself. On the table, next to his saber, lies a small glass vial filled with a dark liquid. A potion, no doubt, prepared by the ship’s medic to ease the pain. Mero picks it up, rolling it between his fingers. He hesitates for a moment, then sets it down. Pain—he knows it well. It is part of him, just like anger and determination. He does not need to forget it. Not yet.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the worn wooden floor. The planks creak softly under the ship’s weight, a familiar, almost comforting sound. He thinks of those he has lost, of those who are waiting for him. He thinks of the promise he made to himself, that silent oath echoing in his heart like a war drum. Vengeance is not just a desire. It is a necessity. An obligation.
Time passes, measured by the steady sway of the ship and the sound of the waves. Mero remains seated, motionless, lost in thought. But deep down, he knows this stillness is temporary. Soon, he will have to rise again. Soon, he will have to fight again. And when that moment comes, he will be ready. Because Mero de Sel is not a man who retreats. He is a man who fights, who survives, who avenges. And nothing—not even the endless sea—will stop him.