The Weight of Coins

The pirate erupted into a fit of raucous laughter, unable to contain himself as he watched his comrade's unfortunate mishap. The source of his amusement? His fellow pirate, unaware of the rotting plank's frailty, had decided to rest on it—only for the board to snap beneath his weight. With a sickening crack, the pirate tumbled backward into a hidden pile of human excrement, freshly left behind in the tall grass by some careless crew member.

"Fuck it!" the fallen pirate bellowed, rage twisting his features as he scrambled to his feet, staring down at his pants and hands, both smeared with the filth. "When I find out who left this here, I'll cut their dick off!"

His companion was still doubled over in laughter, struggling to speak between gasps. "Ha-ha-ha! Well, what were you thinking? Somebody must've been drunk and decided to take a quick shit."

"I don't care if they were drunk! I'll find them and make them lick this crap off my clothes!" the victim growled, furiously wiping his hands on the grass.

"Hey, Hecr!" the laughing pirate called out to another comrade who was approaching them, still chuckling at the scene.

"What's going on?" Hecr asked.

"The captain wants tribute collected," the pirate explained. "You and someone else are supposed to head to Nitu's village."

Hecr turned to his now-filthy friend, still simmering with rage. "Feel like coming along for some company?"

"Not before I get this shit off me," the pirate grumbled, still trying to clean himself.

"Ha! Alright, get moving. I'll wait for you at Red's."

The two exchanged nods before going their separate ways.

Twelve minutes later, Hecr stood casually leaning against the wall of a building with distinctive red windows. He lazily flipped a gold coin in the air, counting how many times it spun before landing back in his palm.

"Well, I'm ready," Pal announced as he approached, now dressed in cleaner clothes. Granted, even the best-dressed pirates on this island carried the scent of sweat and grime, but at least Pal no longer reeked of excrement.

"Alright then, let's go," Hecr replied, pocketing the coin.

The two pirates set off toward the settlement of Nitu, a poor village that had sprung up after the pirates arrived on the island. Despite its poverty, the pirates returned regularly to squeeze whatever little value they could from it.

They trekked through the dense greenery, the trees towering above them with their vibrant green foliage casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. Their clothes were worn and ragged, frayed from the harsh life of a pirate. No amount of washing could restore them to their former state. Each pirate was armed with a saber and a flintlock pistol, ready for any resistance they might encounter.

The path they followed was barely visible, little more than a faint trail worn down by their boots over time. It was not a road by any means—just a narrow route that only pirates like them knew and used, a grim passage that led them to Nitu each month to collect tribute.

The journey usually took about forty minutes, but they quickened their pace today, cutting the time down to thirty. As they emerged from the forest, the village of Nitu came into view. It was a modest settlement, home to around a hundred souls, all struggling to survive under the pirates' oppressive presence.

Though the village was no more than a year old, it had undergone a surprising transformation. Simple wooden shacks had given way to sturdier homes—still plain in their appearance but built with a sense of permanence and resilience. Most notable, however, were the new brick buildings that had begun to sprout up, a sign that despite their hardships, the people of Nitu were determined to rebuild and persevere.

Step by step, the pirates treaded down the well-worn paths of the village, their boots crunching over the dirt as they made their way toward the elder's house. It stood a little apart from the other homes, yet it hardly stood out. Its modest wooden structure was bare and unadorned, the gnarled walls showing signs of age and weathering. The house, humble in every sense, had remained unchanged for months.

Hecr, with a practiced flick of his wrist, drew the pistol from his leather belt. Without hesitation, he raised the muzzle to the sky and pulled the trigger. The shot cracked through the air like a thunderclap, its echo reverberating through every house in the village. The sound rang ominously, sending shivers down the spines of the villagers. It was a familiar sound, one that signaled the darkest day of their month—the day when the pirates came to collect their due.

Within minutes, the villagers began to gather. They emerged from their homes, money clutched in their trembling hands, some carefully wrapped in cloth to protect what little they had. A palpable tension hung in the air as they huddled together, faces pale with anxiety, trying to hide the fear that gnawed at them.

At the head of the crowd stood a man with dark hair and weathered features. His clothes were worn and tattered, and his body bore the marks of hard labor. But even under the weight of his experiences, he held himself with a calm dignity. Just over 180 centimeters tall.

Earlier, he and others had tried to resist the pirates in the early days of their tyranny. But resistance proved futile, and now he is the village elder, responsible for keeping the peace and preventing the pirates' wrath. Thanks to his negotiations, the village was saved from total devastation, but at the cost of freedom.

"Greetings to our humble village," the elder said, his voice steady though laced with tension.

"Yes, hello," Pal responded, a crooked grin stretching across his face.

Hecr, the more methodical of the two, pulled a small, weathered notebook from his pocket. Inside were meticulous records of every villager and the monthly tribute they owed. He flipped it open with a bored expression, ready to check off each name.

"I want to get this over with quickly," Hecr muttered, his tone devoid of emotion. "Let's get to it."

The elder's face tightened with worry. He knelt before the pirates, the weight of responsibility pressing him down, and he spoke with careful desperation. "Please, be merciful. This month has been particularly difficult. Not everyone has managed to raise the money…"

"What?" Pal snapped, his voice rising in fury, his eyes blazing with impatience.

"I'm deeply sorry," the elder continued, his tone pleading. "One of the ships you granted us was lost in a storm. It hurt our trade badly, and to make matters worse, many of the villagers have fallen ill…"

"I don't give a damn about your problems," Pal snarled, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Do you really think we're going to start feeling sorry for you now? You should be grateful that we haven't slit your throats and left you to rot in a ditch."

Hecr, who had been watching the exchange with quiet intensity, narrowed his eyes at the elder. His voice was low, but the menace in it was unmistakable. "You said you lost the ship?"

The elder's stomach twisted into knots. He felt the weight of his words even before they left his mouth, knowing they could damn him and his people further. Still, he forced himself to speak, his voice barely above a whisper, but steady. "Yes, sir. Twenty days ago, a storm took our ship on its way to the village of Gis. Four men were lost along with it."

Pal's face twisted into a mask of rage. Without warning, he drove his boot hard into the elder's face, the brutal force of the kick sending the old man sprawling to the ground. The crowd gasped in horror, and one of the villagers instinctively rushed forward to help, but the elder waved them off with a weak hand. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself back onto his knees, blood trickling from his nose and mouth, but he dared not raise his eyes to meet the pirates'. His body trembled, but his spirit clung stubbornly to dignity, however much the pirates tried to strip it from him.

The villagers remained frozen in place, their fear tangible, their eyes wide as they looked on. No one spoke, no one dared to defy the pirates. They had all seen what defiance led to—it never ended well.

Hecr looked down at the elder, his expression one of cold disdain. "I don't care about your excuses," he said icily. "You owe us, and you will pay—storm or no storm. The next time you fail to deliver, your village will pay the price in blood, not coin."

The elder nodded weakly, his head still bowed. "Yes, sir," he muttered, his voice broken.

"Do you have any idea how much money you'll need to come up with to repay us for that ship?" Pal growled, his voice dripping with menace.

The elder swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he forced himself to reply, "I… I realize that."

Pal snarled, his eyes narrowing in fury. "You don't understand a damn thing! Idiots... all of you!" He seethed, his anger barely contained.

Hecr, ever the pragmatist, cut in with a cold, flat tone. "All right, let's finish up with the payments. After that, we'll figure out what to do with you."

The elder bowed his head in resignation. "Yes," he muttered, his spirit crumbling beneath the weight of their threats.

Hecr took out his notebook once more and began his methodical rounds, moving from name to name. He called names, found the corresponding entries in his ledger, and cross-checked the amounts owed. Pal, standing beside him, collected the payments and counted the money with a meticulousness.

Today, frustration mounted among the pirates—not just because the task was tedious, but because the villagers, beaten down by a difficult month, were falling short on their payments. One after another, they offered less than what was due. Some were short by five or seven thousand bellies, others could barely offer half of what they owed. The atmosphere grew tense, the pirates' patience thinning by the second.

Then, without warning, one of the men standing in the crowd collapsed to the ground. His face was pale and drawn.

Pal sneered down at the man with open disdain. "What's wrong with him?"

An older man with a bulging belly and thinning hair stepped forward, his voice quivering slightly. "He's very sick," he explained. "He's been this way for weeks."

"Fine, whatever," Hecr said with an icy indifference. His eyes flicked to the sick man's side, where a small cloth pouch lay. "Pal, check his pouch. The money should be in there."

Pal grunted in irritation but knelt down, yanking the pouch from the sick man's feeble grip. He pulled it open and quickly counted the coins inside. His eyes darkened with fury. Seven thousand bellies. Of the fifty thousand this man owed, he could only scrape together seven. Pal's face twisted into a mask of pure rage—this wasn't just a shortfall. It was an insult.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Pal roared, his voice echoing across the silent crowd. His face flushed red with anger, his hand shaking as he held up the meager sum. "Seven thousand? This is what you bring me?"

"Wait, please!" a voice called out from the crowd, trembling with urgency. "I'll cover some of it—I can add ten thousand!"

"Me too!" a woman chimed in, her voice desperate. "I'll add six thousand. Please, you have to understand—he's been sick for two weeks, all our money went to medicine."

The crowd shifted uneasily, hearts pounding with fear. They could feel the air thickening with tension, their collective anxiety swelling as they realized how dangerous this moment had become. The villagers had hoped their offers would quell the pirates' wrath, that a small gesture of solidarity might calm the storm. But it was too late.

Pal's rage had already reached its boiling point. With lightning speed, he drew his pistol, his eyes blazing with violent intent. Before anyone could react, he pointed the barrel directly at the sick man's head.

Bang!

The pistol fired with a deafening crack, and in an instant, the ground was stained red. Blood pooled around the man's lifeless body as gasps and cries of horror rippled through the crowd.

The village fell deathly silent, the air thick with shock and terror. Some of the villagers' faces were frozen in expressions of disbelief, while others turned away, hands covering their mouths as they fought back the urge to scream. Yet there was an underlying current of something darker—suppressed rage, a simmering resentment that pulsed beneath their fear.

Pal stood over the body, smoke curling from the barrel of his pistol, his face twisted in a cruel sneer. "That's what happens," he spat, his voice dripping with malice. "Let this be a lesson to all of you."

Hecr remained unfazed, his cold eyes sweeping over the crowd. He made no move to stop Pal—this was the way of their world, and he saw no reason to intervene. "Let's finish this," Hecr said, his voice as steady as ever, as though nothing had happened at all. He turned back to the remaining villagers, his notbook in hand, indifferent to the blood pooling at his feet.

The villagers stood in stunned silence, their bodies trembling with the weight of what they had just witnessed. None of them dared speak, none dared move. The pirates, unchecked in their cruelty, continued their collection, deaf to the quiet sobs that now filled the air.

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