The settlement rose from the waterline like a half-forgotten dream.
Low wooden buildings clustered around a battered pier. Smoke curled from distant fires, mixing with the salt haze until sky and land blurred into one heavy veil.
Art guided the ship slowly into a secluded inlet, the patched sails catching enough breeze to slip past the main docks unnoticed.
Nico crouched at the bow, eyes darting from building to building. "Are we stopping here?"
Art nodded, studying the shoreline through the musket's scope. "We need supplies. And if we're lucky… a navigator."
Nico shifted, clutching his small crossbow tighter. "And if we're unlucky?"
Art's gaze narrowed, lines tightening at the corners of his mouth. "Then we remove the obstacle."
---
They slipped ashore under a low moon.
Nico stuck close to Art's side, his small footsteps muffled in the sand. They moved between crates and fishing nets, shadows among shadows.
Near a weather-beaten general store, Art paused. A rack of faded charts and rolled papers sat beneath a canvas awning.
He stepped closer, fingers tracing the edges of the maps.
Handwritten notations. Extra coastlines, shifting reef patterns — things a naval chart wouldn't show. Personal.
A signature on one edge: Black Francis.
Art turned to Nico, voice low. "A man who makes these… he's no ordinary sailor. He's a navigator."
Nico's brows drew together. "Then… why are his maps here?"
A voice from nearby: two pirates, half-drunk and careless, arguing in the alley beyond the shop.
"—Soon as we get Francis aboard, we sail for Sothport! No sense auctioning him here!"
"Yeah, but you saw the price his last charts got? Man's a walking fortune. If the captain sells him, we're set!"
Art stepped back, eyes sharpening. "They have him. And they're planning to move soon."
---
Back on the hidden ship, Art rifled through the arms pile, pulling out four battered muskets.
Nico trailed behind him, wide-eyed. "What are you doing?"
Art set the muskets down, turning them over slowly. His fingers twitched, measuring imaginary lines.
"A sniper rifle," he muttered. "Enough range to reach them before they scatter."
He knelt, palms flat against the wood and metal. But he hesitated — breath tight, fingers curling.
Too much power. Recoil would break his stance, even tear the weapon apart in his arms. The design flickered incomplete in his mind, every outline fracturing before it fully formed.
Nico crouched next to him, peering at the scattered muskets.
"What's wrong?"
Art didn't look up. "I have the power. I know what I want it to do. But I don't know how to make it stable… usable."
Nico paused. His fingers hovered above the wooden stocks, then dropped to his knees.
"You always say it's about intent, right?"
Art's head turned slightly.
Nico went on, voice small but steady. "Did you know how your first pistol would turn out? Did you understand all the pieces when you made it? Or did you just… want it badly enough to let the fruit fill in the gaps?"
Silence pressed in around them, the ship creaking beneath.
Art lowered his gaze, breath sliding out slowly. His hands relaxed.
"It's not about having a blueprint," he murmured, almost to himself. "It's about having a purpose strong enough to shape the blueprint for me."
Nico nodded once, hugging his knees.
Art's fingers spread wide, palms resting on the muskets and scraps of metal.
"I want a sniper rifle. Something to strike distant threats. Stable enough to wield alone. Balanced. Accurate."
Metal began to hum beneath his palms, heat spreading up his arms.
"I want it to be mine."
The muskets and scraps groaned, warping under invisible pressure. Barrels thickened and elongated, a ribbed handguard split forward, and a skeletal bipod folded from spare braces.
When the shriek of metal stopped, Art lifted the new creation — heavy, but solid. A true long-range weapon, gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
He braced it against his shoulder, resting the bipod on a crate. Through the scope, the distant settlement snapped into view — rooftops, torches, drifting laughter.
Art exhaled.
Nico let out a small, amazed breath beside him.
---
They slipped back to the outskirts of the settlement before dawn.
Art climbed onto a low rooftop overlooking the pirates' moored ship. Nico lay beside him, trembling but determined, clutching his crossbow.
Art sighted in through the new scope.
A pirate staggered down the dock, yawning. The shot cracked like a thunderclap. He dropped instantly.
Another ran to investigate — fell before his boots hit the wood.
A ripple of chaos spread across the pier. Pirates scrambled for cover, ducking behind crates and barrels.
Art shifted his angle slightly. One by one, he caught them as they peeked, each shot ringing hollow and final.
When they clustered too tightly behind barricades, he lowered the sniper rifle and unslung the Repeater Musket.
He chambered an explosive round, aimed at the main cluster — fired.
A blooming roar, splinters and smoke. Bodies flung into the harbor like broken dolls.
He fired again. Another barricade gone. Screams rose and vanished beneath the blast.
By the time silence fell, only broken timbers and ash remained.
---
Art descended from the roof, feet hitting the dock softly. Nico followed, eyes huge, crossbow tight against his chest.
They stepped aboard the pirate ship.
Below deck, a thin man with shaggy black hair and sharp eyes lay bound at the ankles and wrists. His gaze snapped up when they entered.
Art tilted his head. "Black Francis?"
The man smirked, even through the grime and bruises. "You're no marines. That your fireworks out there?"
Art nodded once.
Francis glanced at the ruined harbor, then back at Art's weapons, his eyes flickering sharp and calculating.
"You here to free me or sell me again?"
Art stepped forward, slicing the ropes clean.
"We need a navigator," he said. "And you… you're coming with us."
Francis rolled his wrists, wincing. Then he looked up and laughed — a harsh, relieved sound that echoed in the smoky hold.
"Well… looks like I've been drafted."
---
They emerged together into the morning sun, the settlement still smoldering behind them.
Art turned toward the ship, the sniper rifle slung across his back, Nico at his side.
Francis stretched once, then glanced up at the patched sails, at the boy, at Art's quiet, waiting silhouette.
"Alright," he said finally, breath fogging faintly in the dawn light. "Let's see where you maniacs plan to sail next."