So… the waters were the reason.
All that stillness. That calm. That illusion of peace.
It was nothing but a veil—thin and trembling—barely holding back the monsters beneath.
Good.
Let them stay there.
Let them remind these bastards what real fear is.
But I had work to do.
I still had a ritual to complete. And it was far from over.
I lifted my left hand again—fingers spread wide into the air.
Five fingers. Five still left.
Five more blood eagles to carve.
Five more bodies to balance the scale.
Five more offerings for the dead that deserved more than silence.
The sword felt heavier now. Not from weight. From memory.
Blood dried on the hilt. Some of it mine. Most of it not.
It pulsed faintly with every step I took, like it too knew what it had been made part of.
My boots hit the deck with purpose. Deliberate. Final.
Every eye watched me.
Some in horror.
Some in resignation.
But the next one—my next subject—he was trying to disappear into himself.
He didn't run. Didn't scream.
He just shut down.
I stopped in front of him.
He wasn't moving.
His breaths were shallow, barely there—like maybe if he didn't breathe, I wouldn't notice him.
His eyes were squeezed so tightly shut, I could see the tension vibrating in his face.
Like he believed that keeping them closed would keep them in.
Keep them safe.
He didn't want his eyes ripped out like the last.
He didn't want to scream through nerves ripped raw.
He wanted to vanish.
He wanted to be forgotten.
But that wasn't going to happen.
"No," I muttered, gaze steady. "You are my third blood eagle."
That was fate now.
He belonged to the ritual.
I didn't ask. I didn't drag him slowly.
I swept his legs out from under him with one clean motion.
His body slammed onto the deck, a sharp exhale bursting from his lungs as the air fled his chest.
He choked on it—caught between breath and panic.
Before he could gather himself, I grabbed him and flipped him over, stomach down.
He flailed. Struggled. Desperation clawed at his every limb.
But I'd done this before.
I knew how the body moved in panic.
I mounted his back and pinned him down.
And then came the hilt.
Not the blade.
Not yet.
That was sacred.
This part—the breaking? That was mine.
I raised the sword by the grip and brought the hilt down on his skull.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each impact was a note in a song only I could hear.
The dull sound of bone absorbing trauma.
The slow collapse of fight.
He whimpered. Then cried.
Then the sound stopped altogether.
His resistance faded with every blow until he was limp beneath me—breathing still, but slow, slack-jawed. His body no longer fought.
It surrendered.
That's when I knew.
He was ready.
Not because he wanted to be.
Because he no longer had the strength to say no.
That was what the ritual demanded.
Not just blood.
Not just pain.
But despair.
And this one—he had given up all hope.
Perfect.
The blade met his back like it had the others.
Clean.
Precise.
Unforgiving.
It began carving, slow and deliberate, through the skin first—peeling it back from muscle and sinew. The flesh tore under pressure, warm and red, clinging to the blade in long strands that curled and dropped to the floor like offerings of meat.
The ribs came next.
Every rib—each brittle cage of bone—splintered under the sword's weight with that same dull, snapping crack. Not sharp. Not theatrical. Just final.
The sound didn't bring satisfaction.
It wasn't something I loved hearing.
I didn't enjoy this.
But that didn't mean it wasn't necessary.
It had to be done.
For them.
For the girls.
For the ones who never got to scream.
Who died too quietly in the hands of filth.
This was their justice.
Not through courtrooms. Not through fire.
But through a ritual that turned monsters into symbols of their own guilt.
I tore open his back fully, exposing ribs like broken wings splayed out under pressure. His body had become a grotesque sculpture—his lungs still trembling with life, pulled from the cavity like fragile red blossoms.
His heart was still beating.
I left it there.
The ritual needed it.
Not a corpse. Not a shell. But something that still remembered it was once alive.
I gripped his hair—sticky, matted with blood and sweat—and dragged him across the deck, his ruined body leaving a trail behind like ink on a scroll.
He left pieces of himself behind.
But I only needed what remained.
I reached the site of the ritual—where the girls lay with the sun finally on their skin, the only warmth they would ever know again—and dropped him beside the third girl.
His body crumpled to its knees, spine forced forward by how I positioned the ribs—splayed and open, framing the air like wings of shame.
His head faced her.
He would watch her.
Even in death.
Especially in death.
Then I tossed his lungs into the sea like the others before him.
A gift to the waters that had already taken enough.
Let them feed on what remained of the monsters they once feared.
Three blood eagles now stood in silent formation.
Three punishments turned into prayers.
Three pieces of art forged from guilt and resolve.
And still—it wasn't enough.
I turned again to the rest.
The scum watched me in frozen terror.
Sweat dripped from brows.
Some clenched weapons they had no courage to use.
Some simply trembled.
But every eye followed my hand.
As I raised it slowly—like a flag, like a sentence being passed.
This time, I held up four fingers.
Four.
Four blood eagles left to carve.
Four more bodies to turn into symbols.
Four more offerings to balance the scales.