The afternoon sun poured through the high windows of Williamiles Castle's great hall, casting long beams of golden light across the stone floor. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and the faint tang of wine, a deceptive calm masking the tension coiled beneath.
Allen stood before a heavy oak table, his usual noble attire a crisp doublet and polished boots replaced by a calculated disguise. His clothes were tattered, his hair a wild tangle, and his posture slouched, as if he'd stumbled straight from a tavern brawl.
The act was meticulous, every hiccup and sway designed to lower the guards of the men before him, but his eyes gleamed with sharp cunning, betraying the predator within. (Image)
Seated across the table was a hawk-nosed man, his eagle-like eyes glinting with suspicion beneath a breastplate emblazoned with a black bull's head, the sigil of Count Cobry.
This was the Eighth Master, a Two-Star Gold-ranked illegitimate son, his reputation for combat prowess matched only by his devious mind. Further down, four Silver-ranked men in armor sat in a wary semicircle: the 14th and 19th brothers, both Cobry's sons, and two garrison squad captains, their hands resting on sword hilts. The hall's vaulted ceiling echoed faintly with their voices, each word a test of Allen's masquerade.
The Eighth Master leaned forward, his voice sharp and probing, laced with barely veiled contempt. "You're telling me this pike cavalry company you brought was slapped together three days ago, sent by my 21st brother?"
His stare bored into Allen, who responded with a lopsided, drunken grin, his eyes half-lidded but missing nothing.
Allen hiccuped loudly, swaying as he scratched his head, his voice slurred but dripping with feigned confusion. "Aye, milord, that's the truth of it! Orders came straight from the 21st young Lord—'Take the company to Williamiles, shore up the defenses.' I figured we'd ride into a proper battle, swords clashin', blood spillin'!" He chuckled, his tone light but edged with mockery. "But it's quieter than a crypt up here. Wasted our time, didn't we? So, uh… my men outside they comin' in, or we ridin' back to Geldos?"
The Eighth snorted, his voice thick with disdain. "Ride back? Don't make me laugh boy. Once you're here, you stay here. Give me your name and Battle Force rank now." His fingers drummed the table, impatience crackling in his tone.
Allen straightened slightly, his voice mockingly earnest as he bowed clumsily. "Jack Sparrow, milord, at your service. One-Star Silver, ready to… serve." He stifled a burp, his lips twitching with suppressed amusement.
The 14th brother, a man with a receding hairline and a sneer to match, barked a scornful laugh. "One-Star Silver? You? I never knew hollow shells could hold any weight. Not bad, but what is this mess!?"
"You have no discipline, no respect for your superiors. Soldiers these days are a disgrace." His voice dripped with superiority, his eyes raking Allen's disheveled form. "A drunkard like you is a company captain? Pathetic. It's a disgrace for our great family."
The 19th, clad in mail armor, raised a hand, his voice calmer but laced with calculation. "Easy, 14th. The 21st must have a plan. Why else send a fresh company? We're staring down the allied nobles' armies, although things are stable for now but a surprise attack's always lurking. Father sent these men to bolster us, mark my words." His tone was measured, but his eyes flicked to Allen, searching for cracks in the facade.
The Eighth nodded, his voice grudging but authoritative. "19th's got a point. Fine open the gates and let the pike cavalry into the plaza."
His gaze snapped to Allen, cold and commanding. "You, Spar-whatever—you're no captain. Your are too pickled to lead, you are dismissed from your service. Sober up first. I'll reorganize the cavalry this afternoon; you'll take a garrison squad instead."
Allen stood silent, his face a mask of sullen resentment, as if the demotion stung his pride. Inside, his heart thrummed with triumph the gates were opening, his men would flood in.
The Eighth ignored him, turning to his brothers, his voice low but firm. "Who's taking the cavalry? Two of you can pick amongst yourselves, and weave in our men to keep them in line."
His eyes shifted to Tarkel, who stood trembling at Allen's side, his chubby face pale as moonlight. "Well, now isn't that a familiar face of a cowering rat, Tarkel?" t
The Eighth continued, his voice a cruel purr, "What's a sniveling coward like you doing in a cavalry company? Tired of skulking around as a prison guard?"
Tarkel's knees quaked, his voice a stammering wreck. "E-Eighth Master, I-I didn't dare disobey the 21st M-Master… and J-Jack said an Iron rank like me belonged in the c-cavalry…" His eyes darted to Allen, pleading for salvation, his heart pounding with regret.
Why had he caught Hilter and Allen's eye? He was no warrior, just a gossip who thrived on rumors and analysis. Now, thrust into this viper's nest as Allen's attendant, he felt like a mouse in a hawk's talons.
'Josk would've been better.' he thought, his stomach churning. 'A powerful marksman, not a trembling fool like me!'
Tarkel's mind raced with self-reproach. Greeting old colleagues at the gate had been a reflex, had that doomed him? The Eighth was no fool, a Two-Star Gold rank with a mind as sharp as his blade.
Allowing only Allen's small group of two inside while leaving the rest outside was proof of his caution. Allen's hidden Gold-rank prowess was their ace, but Tarkel's fear spiked as the Eighth ordered the gates opened.
'They'll strike now.' he thought, 'and we'll be caught!'
His single cough in the hall had betrayed him, and only quick wit had spun a believable excuse. 'My wife, my son,' he mourned silently, 'how will they survive without me?'
The Eighth's laughter boomed, cruel and mocking. "The 21st must've been three sheets to the wind to send you, Tarkel! An iron rank afraid of a fight? You'll faint on the battlefield!" His brothers joined in, their jeers a chorus of disdain.
Allen swayed, his drooping eyes flicking to the hall's window. Through the glass, he saw his men filing into the plaza—Arman securing the side gates with silent precision, Fredrick's light cavalry poised for action, Josk's shadow moving closer. Elrod, Bale, and Hilter stood ready, their presence a promise of bloodshed.
The castle's garrison, half-armored and lounging after lunch, gathered to gawk, some sprawled sunbathing by the walls, oblivious to the trap closing around them.
'Now,' Allen thought, his pulse quickening, 'it's time.'
He drew his sword with a flourish, his voice slurring but laced with venom. "Tarkel's such a coward, he'll puke when I gut you bitches…"
The Eighth's face contorted with shock and rage, his voice a thunderclap. "You dare draw steel in my hall?" he roared, slamming a fist on the table. "Settle him now! Make an example for his men!"
He misread Allen's act as a petty rebellion over the demotion, not a declaration of war. The two Silver-ranked garrison captains lunged, their swords flashing with lethal intent.
Tarkel dropped to the floor, his heart hammering with despair. "He's lost it!" he thought, curling into a ball.
'What is Lord Styles thinking!?A Gold rank against one Gold and four Silvers? He's begging for death and dragging me down with him!' His mind screamed with panic, visions of his family's grief overwhelming him. "Why act now? Why not wait for the others?" he wailed internally, convinced his end was near.
Two cries pierced the air one a guttural moan, the other a sharp gasp. Tarkel's eyes snapped open, his breath catching. Allen stood unscathed, his sword dripping crimson. The first captain writhed on the floor, both arms severed, his pleas for death a broken sob. The second's throat was impaled, his body slumping lifelessly, blood pooling beneath him.
The Eighth and his brothers leapt up, their faces pale with disbelief. Allen's aura erupted, a dense Gold-rank pressure flooding the hall, amplified by Serena's magic from outside—elevating him from Two-Star to Five-Star Gold. The air crackled with his power, the hall's shadows dancing in its wake.
"Peak Gold Rank?" the Eighth gasped, his voice trembling with fear and fury as he drew his sword, his hand shaking. "Who the hell are you?"
Allen laughed, his voice light and mocking, tiptoeing with theatrical flair. "I'm the master of the Black Pearl…" His eyes gleamed with predatory delight, the drunken facade shed like a snake's skin.
"19th, sound the alarm!" the Eighth shouted, his voice raw with urgency. "The cavalry, they're enemies!"
The 19th brother nodded, his face taut with panic as he drew his sword and edged toward the exit, breaking into a desperate run.
Allen's heart surged with adrenaline, the hall a stage for his gambit. Outside, his men were in position, the garrison unprepared, their laziness a gift.