HoG - Chapter 31

Chapter 31: Help Me!

In the secluded corner of the Rosemary Inn's courtyard, the remnants of a feast lay scattered across the table—dishes half-eaten, cups and plates in disarray. The elite pirates of the 'Man-Eater' lay sprawled on the ground, their snores echoing like the rumble of distant thunder.

Only First Mate 'Bone Crusher' Miles and a handful of pirate officers remained upright, perched on chairs, their revelry continuing unabated. "Cheers!" they roared, raising their cups. "Let's not let those useless lot spoil our fun. Onward with the drinking!"

"Haha! A true warrior's mark is their appetite for both food and drink. These fools have none," another chimed in, his words slurred with mirth and mead.

Strangely, these pirates had noticed their appetites growing insatiable with time. They consumed more and more, their tolerance for alcohol increasing in tandem. The stronger they became, the more pronounced this change was. Those still sober were undoubtedly the crème de la crème.

Tonight, Byron had prepared a feast for Salman—fan scallops, braised prawns, and a rich sheep's offal soup. After the officers had their fill, they continued their banquet. Had they not feared Salman's wrath, they might have even summoned a bevy of buxom wenches to join in their drunken debauchery.

"The captain has finally decided to tap into our reserves. This 'Battle Blood' is beyond price," one officer remarked, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"I feel it, too—my injuries are nearly healed, and my strength is growing," another added, flexing his burly arms. "At this rate, I might just be able to hoist the yardarm by myself one day."

They drank rum laced with 'Transformation Blood' and Salman's essence. With Byron's high-quality 'Transformation Blood' nearing completion, Salman had decided to unlock his reserves, accelerating the "feeding" of these long-cultivated assets.

The pirates, uneducated and unaware, had no inkling of the changes occurring within them. The 'Transformation Blood' was, in essence, a potion of metamorphosis and replacement. Should they all become secondary ghouls, their reliance on human flesh would bind them to Salman's control, akin to the man-eating sharks haunted by their curses. The worst fate would be to become sustenance for 'ghouls,' while a slightly better one would see them as unwilling yet fearless guards.

The ship's boatswain clinked glasses with First Mate Miles, his jest cutting through the air: "I heard that new lad presented the captain with a new sail modification design. Came out empty-handed, didn't he? How can a greenhorn like him compare to us, the loyal veterans?"

"Let's raise a glass to our esteemed first mate," another officer chimed in. "Once you're a supernatural, you can make that lad dance to your tune. What does it matter if he racks up achievements? The captain's blood wine still isn't for his lips, is it? Though, I must say, the dishes that lad prepares are exquisite, a perfect pairing for this 'Battle Blood'..."

"To our eternal first mate!" the chorus rose, their glasses clinking in unison.

Yet, these officers were no fools. They understood that a capable leader could expand their horizons, enriching all who followed. But they were the most deserving to become "supernatural." They feared Byron would not only usurp their positions but also their chance at becoming supernatural individuals. Their fears were as misplaced as an owl worrying a phoenix might steal its rotten mouse.

First Mate Miles laughed heartily, reveling in the support of his comrades. But as another glass of wine found its way down his throat, a sense of unease crept over him. The thunderous snores of the pirates on the ground had inexplicably ceased. Turning to investigate, his gaze was inexplicably drawn to the reflection in a glass on the floor. As his eyes locked onto it, a pair of silver eyes blinked back at him from within the mirror-like surface.

A sharp, icy pain pierced his forehead, as if an iron cone had been driven into his skull. Darkness enveloped his vision, and he crumpled to the ground, consciousness slipping away.

The officers around him, thinking Miles merely drunk, moved to assist him but soon followed suit, collapsing one by one into a stupor.

Meanwhile, 'Magic Mirror' Wester, now a mirror demon, felt a wave of confusion and a throbbing headache. He couldn't fathom why that single drop of blood was connected to so many. "Even if the target took precautions after their blood was taken and distributed it among many, the blood's directionality never changes. Their life essences are clearly converging. This must be because of another ritual!" he thought, bewildered. "They said the target was just an ordinary mortal..."

"Damn Yorks, even such crucial intelligence can be wrong. You're going to get me killed," Wester muttered under his breath, realizing the gravity of his situation.

Despite sensing that something was amiss, Wester was already entrenched in his ritual witchcraft. If he failed to eliminate his target completely, the mirror demon's curse would backfire onto him. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on with his deadly mission.

After dispatching the defenseless pirates, who were unable to withstand his incorporeal assaults, Wester, now mentally drained, utilized the reflective surfaces throughout the inn to silently approach his final target in the backyard room.

...

Salman's spiritual alarm jolted him awake from his feigned slumber. "Hmm?" he pondered, having planned to sneak out after the revelry ended to sate his hunger on one or two pirates, easing the symptoms of his curse.

To his surprise, the pirates with whom he had established a spiritual bond had vanished from his perception within mere moments. As he opened his eyes, the room's mirror darkened ominously. The attack was imminent.

Salman attempted to roll off the bed, relying on his old pirate instincts to dodge, but felt as though a thousand-pound weight pinned him down, rendering him incapable of even twitching a finger.

Through the supernatural individual's 'Spiritual Vision,' a shadowy figure loomed over him, ghostly hands clamping down on his neck. The cold aura spread rapidly, threatening to freeze his consciousness.

With the ritual ambush in place, Wester held a significant advantage, even against another second-tier supernatural individual.

"Wh...o...are...you? Why...attack...me?!" Salman's consciousness ground to a halt, each word requiring Herculean effort.

Wester, however, was in no mood for conversation. The deer's foot herb's dispelling effect had suppressed Salman's spirituality, but the effort of killing over thirty mortal pirates had depleted Wester's strength to its limits.

"Finger Monkey, that idiot, got the target wrong!" Wester seethed. "Is this a mortal? This is clearly a second-tier 'Professional' supernatural individual! Fuck, when I get back, I'll make you pay!"

Roar! An inhuman roar shattered Wester's tirade.

Salman owed his transformation to Byron's overfed purine bombs, which made the change easier. His joints cracked and popped as he reverted to his ghoulish form—hunched, pale-skinned, and reeking of death.

A thick, impenetrable bloody spiritual radiance exploded outward, forcing the mirror demon to retreat slightly.

Seizing the moment, Salman grabbed a glass bottle from the bedside table and gulped down the blood-red liquid within. This was no longer Bacardi rum, but the 'Transformation Blood' left by previous chefs—his reserves for the final transformation ritual.

Ability: 'Nourishment'! A fiery blood flame ignited, engulfing the mirror demon in its purifying blaze.

Salman, however, was not unscathed. The fat he had recently regained was burned away, more so than during his previous battle with 'Fortress Guardian' Harold. He was reduced to a skeleton wrapped in skin, collapsing to the ground with a clang, too weak to rise.

As the mirror demon, now severely injured, prepared to deliver the finishing blow, the door burst open. A young man with a sword rushed in, his voice laced with anxiety, "Captain, an enemy has attacked? Are you alright?"

Salman's heart leapt with joy at the sight of the newcomer. "Quick, Byron, come and help me!" he urged.

The mirror demon, no longer concerned with killing, dove into the mirror and fled, panic in its wake.