Rigg emerged from the side alley as the Marines scrambled to control the growing chaos. Smoke choked the square, curling around the cobbled streets and stone buildings like restless spirits. The boy, still stunned, looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes.
"Don't scream," Rigg said calmly, kneeling beside him. He pulled a small vial from his satchel and poured it over the shackles. The cuffs hissed and bubbled—his homemade acid eating through the rusted metal. In seconds, the chains snapped.
Rigg grabbed the boy's wrist. "Come on, kid. We're getting you out of here."
They darted into the fog, weaving between shouting civilians and the legs of panicked Marines. Boots slammed against the cobbles, voices roared, but the smoke offered cover.
One Marine spotted them and leveled his rifle—until Selka tackled him from the side, elbowing his gut and twisting the weapon free before knocking him out cold.
She gave Rigg a quick thumbs-up. "Go!"
On the platform above, Lieutenant Hume's saber danced with lethal precision. His form was elegant, practiced—each swing calculated, each movement economic. He fought with the confidence of a man who had never lost a duel.
Toma fought like a storm.
There was no elegance in his swings, no formality in his footwork. His staff moved like it was part of him, reacting rather than planning. He dropped under a wide slash, feeling the whoosh of air as Hume's blade passed inches above his head. In one swift motion, he pivoted and caught the next strike with the shaft of his staff, sparks leaping as steel met steel.
"Your form is wild," Hume snarled between attacks. "Too raw. Too untrained."
Toma grunted as he blocked again, sliding back across the wooden platform. His boots skidded, leaving faint grooves.
"You've got strength, pirate," the lieutenant continued, eyes narrowing. "But you lack discipline."
Blood trickled from Toma's lip. His arms ached. His breathing was ragged. Every second fighting Hume was like facing a tidal wave of force and experience.
But even through the pressure, Toma smiled.
"Maybe," he muttered, planting his feet. "But you know what I've got?"
He spun the staff once, bracing it across his shoulders. "I've got friends."
From behind the smoke near the dockside crates, a small metallic cylinder flew through the air. It spun twice before Toma snatched it from midair—perfect timing.
Thunk.
Without hesitation, he slammed it against the wooden planks.
Boom.
A sudden explosion of dense, black smoke erupted, cloaking the platform in choking fog. Civilians screamed again. Marines stumbled back, coughing. Shadows flickered inside the cloud, echoing footsteps and the clang of metal confusing direction and intent.
"You coward!" Hume's voice barked through the haze. "You think you can run from justice?!"
His blade lashed out, slicing at illusions. Each strike hit nothing but air as footsteps circled him. He turned once, twice, breathing hard.
Silence fell.
As the smoke cleared… the boy was gone. So was Toma.
Only Lieutenant Hume remained, chest heaving, sword lowered.
He stepped forward, his gaze cutting across the rooftops and alleys. The townsfolk had fled. His men helped each other up, some wounded, most dazed. Scattered debris, broken chains, and faint footprints marked where the rescue had unfolded.
Hume's jaw tightened.
"This little one…" he muttered. "You're more trouble than you look."
His grip clenched around his saber.
"This isn't over."
He turned to his soldiers, rage sharpening every word. "I want a report on everything about that pirate. His name, his crew, his history—everything."
Then he walked off the platform, his coat snapping behind him like a blade unsheathed.
At the harbor, the Cloudchaser's gangplank creaked as the crew regrouped.
The boy stood between Rigg and Selka, eyes still wide with shock.
"What are we gonna do with this little guy?" Rigg asked, glancing at Toma.
"He's coming with us," Toma replied, his voice firm. "He's not safe here."
They helped him aboard. The Cloudchaser's sails unfurled with a soft groan, catching the late afternoon wind. The harbor shrank behind them, Shells Town fading beneath an orange dusk.
And then, from the edge of the dock, a figure emerged.
A woman—her face streaked with tears—waved with both hands. The boy gasped.
"Mom!" he cried, leaning over the railing.
She had been hiding during the chaos, too afraid to intervene—but she'd come now. Her face broke into a sobbing smile as the ship sailed away.
Rigg's hand rested on the boy's shoulder. "We'll get you back to her."
Toma stood at the railing, watching.
Selka leaned beside him. "Soft spot for kids?"
Toma didn't answer. He just exhaled, watching the waves.
Rigg returned from below deck, wiping his hands. "The kid's patched up. He'll be alright."
The boy sat wrapped in a warm cloth, watching the stars as they pulled away from shore.
"Why'd they come for you?" Selka asked gently, kneeling beside him.
The boy looked down. "My brother… he joined a pirate crew. I didn't do anything."
"You didn't have to," Rigg said quietly, settling nearby. "They needed someone to blame."
The boy looked up at them, voice soft but filled with wonder. "You guys… you saved me. Are you pirates too?"
Toma smiled, eyes reflecting the starlight.
"We're dreamers," he said. "That's more dangerous."
Hours later, under the pale light of a rising moon, the Cloudchaser pulled quietly into a small cove beyond the patrol routes. The boy was rowed ashore in silence. When he stepped onto the sand, his mother rushed to him. They embraced under the moonlight, clinging to each other like the world had nearly torn them apart.