CHAPTER 52: [52] THE PRINCESS AND THE BELAYING PIN

Twelve men total. Three on deck. Gideon’s the primary threat—six-foot-six, maybe two-fifty, armed with that cavalry saber. The nervous one to my left has a cutlass but keeps glancing at the longboat. Wants an escape route. The stocky one’s got a club and no imagination. Alyssa’s behind me. Deck space is maybe twenty feet by fifteen. Cramped quarters favor speed over strength.

"Rigging!" Pierre barked, shoving Alyssa backward toward the mainmast. "Get behind the rigging!"

The nervous pirate lunged forward, cutlass gleaming in the afternoon sun. Pierre didn’t meet the attack head-on—that would be suicide against a trained swordsman. Instead, he let his enhanced agility carry him sideways, the D-rank speed feeling like lightning in his veins compared to his old Earth reflexes.

The pirate’s momentum carried him past Pierre’s shoulder by inches. Pierre brought his rusty pipe down in a vicious arc, not toward the man’s head where instinct might block, but toward the back of his exposed knee.

The wet crack of metal meeting bone echoed across the harbor.

The pirate’s scream tore through the salt air as his leg buckled at an impossible angle. He crashed to the deck, cutlass clattering away as he clutched his ruined joint.

"You little bastard!" The stocky pirate charged toward where Alyssa had scrambled behind the web of ropes and rigging near the mainmast. His club raised high, murder in his small dark eyes.

A wooden belaying pin whistled through the air and struck him square on the temple with a sound like a hammer hitting a melon. The pirate stumbled sideways, his charge turning into an uncontrolled stagger as blood trickled down his face.

Alyssa emerged from behind the rigging, another belaying pin already in her hand. Her platinum hair had come loose from its careful arrangement, and her pale green eyes blazed with something Pierre had never seen before—not fear, but righteous fury.

"Stay away from my ship," she said, her voice carrying every ounce of aristocratic authority she’d ever possessed.

She can’t fight, but she can throw. And apparently, her aim is perfect.

Gideon ignored his fallen comrades, his dark eyes locked on Pierre like a predator sizing up prey. The giant’s hand moved to the massive saber at his side, the blade easily as long as Pierre’s arm.

"Clever tricks, boy." Gideon’s voice carried the weight of a man who’d killed more people than he could count. "But tricks won’t save you now."

The saber cleared its sheath in one smooth motion. Three feet of steel caught the sunlight, its edge honed to razor sharpness. Gideon held it like it weighed nothing, muscle memory from decades of violence guiding his stance.

Pierre felt Hardy’s stolen essence humming beneath his skin—D-rank Strength, B-rank Endurance, the accumulated power of a man who’d ruled through fear for twenty years. This was different from fighting the broken captain. Gideon was in his prime, healthy, and very much wanted Pierre dead.

No more stalling. No more clever words. Time to see if Hardy’s power was worth the moral compromise.

Gideon charged.

The giant moved faster than his size suggested possible, boots pounding against the deck as he closed the distance in three massive strides. The saber came down in a overhead strike that would have split Pierre from crown to groin.

Pierre met the charge.

His rusty pipe intercepted the descending blade with a CLANG that echoed across Orellia’s harbor like a bell tolling. The impact sent shock waves up Pierre’s arms, but the pipe held. More importantly, his feet stayed planted on the deck.

Gideon’s eyes widened. He’d expected to cut through the pipe and the boy holding it. Instead, his blade had stopped cold against what should have been inferior metal wielded by inferior strength.

"What the hell—" Gideon began.

Pierre twisted his wrists, using the pipe’s length as leverage to push the saber aside. The giant stumbled half a step backward, his perfect balance disrupted for the first time in the fight.

"My turn," Pierre said.

He drove the pipe’s end toward Gideon’s solar plexus in a straight thrust. The giant barely got his free hand up in time, catching the pipe’s tip against his palm with a meaty slap. But the force behind the strike pushed him back another step.

From the longboat below, shouts erupted as the remaining pirates realized their advance team was in trouble. Pierre caught glimpses of movement as men scrambled to climb aboard, but his attention stayed locked on the mountain of muscle and steel in front of him.

Gideon’s face had transformed from confident superiority to genuine concern. He pulled his saber back and launched a horizontal slash aimed at Pierre’s ribs. Pierre ducked under the blade, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle his red hair.

"Stand still, damn you!" Gideon roared.

"Poor tactical advice," Pierre replied, driving his knee toward the giant’s thigh.

Gideon twisted away, but not fast enough. Pierre’s knee caught him on the outer edge of his leg, sending a jolt of pain through muscles that had never learned to expect such speed from someone Pierre’s size.

Another belaying pin flew through the air, this one catching a pirate who’d just hauled himself over the rail. The man yelped and tumbled backward into the harbor with a tremendous splash.

"Nice shot!" Pierre called out without taking his eyes off Gideon.

"I have excellent instructors," Alyssa replied, hefting another wooden projectile. Her voice carried a note of savage satisfaction that would have surprised anyone who’d known her as Commodore Hardy’s pampered daughter.

Gideon pressed his attack, launching a series of cuts and thrusts that forced Pierre to give ground. The giant’s technique was solid—military training mixed with decades of practical application. But every strike that should have ended the fight instead met the pipe’s stubborn resistance.

He’s stronger than Hardy was, but not by much. And he’s getting frustrated. Frustrated people make mistakes.

Pierre let himself be backed against the ship’s rail, playing up his apparent disadvantage. Gideon saw the opening and lunged forward with a thrust aimed at Pierre’s heart.

Pierre wasn’t there when the blade arrived.

He’d rolled sideways along the rail, letting Gideon’s momentum carry the giant past him. The saber’s point buried itself in the ship’s wooden rail with a solid thunk.

For just a moment, Gideon was off-balance, his weapon trapped in the wood.

Pierre brought his pipe down on the giant’s wrist with every ounce of Hardy’s stolen strength behind the blow.

Gideon’s roar of pain mixed with the sound of breaking bone. His hand spasmed open, releasing the saber’s grip as he jerked backward. The blade stayed embedded in the rail, quivering like a tuning fork.

"You broke my wrist, you little—"

Pierre’s pipe caught him across the jaw, snapping his head sideways. Blood sprayed from split lips as the giant staggered.

But Gideon wasn’t finished. His left hand, the unbroken one, lashed out in a backfist that caught Pierre across the cheek. The blow sent Pierre spinning, his vision exploding into stars.

Damn. Still hits like a sledgehammer.

Pierre tasted blood, but Hardy’s enhanced endurance kept him on his feet. He spat crimson onto the deck and raised his pipe again.

"That all you got?" Pierre asked, though his jaw throbbed with every word.

Gideon cradled his broken wrist against his chest, his face twisted with pain and rage. Around the deck, his men were either down or struggling to climb aboard against Alyssa’s ammunition barrage.

"This isn’t over," the giant snarled.

"No," Pierre agreed, stepping forward with the pipe held ready. "It’s not."

From the harbor behind them came the sound of more boats launching. Moreau’s reinforcements, no doubt.

The real fight was just beginning.