The Scars of Progress

Jacob stood atop the highest point of the cliff overlooking Dead Man's Bay, his silhouette stark against the pale morning sky. The salty breeze carried a strange calm, the echoes of battle replaced by the rhythmic crash of waves below. He traced the horizon with his gaze, taking in the sprawling view of the cove, the remnants of the forest, and the fortress that now stood defiantly inland.

Two weeks of unrelenting struggle had reshaped the land—and them along with it.

Where once the jungle had pressed to the very edges of their camp, thick and untamed, the land was now scarred by flame and steel. The first burn, chaotic and brutal, had driven the native warriors back, but the smoke had barely cleared before their nightly assaults began. Wave after wave of islanders had hurled themselves at the defenses, their cries a mix of fury and desperation. Hundreds of them had died in those first ten days alone, their blood mingling with the ash as they sought to reclaim what was theirs.

Jacob exhaled, his jaw tight. The victory was hard-fought, but it carried its cost. The faces of the dead—pirates and natives alike—lingered in his mind. He didn't mourn the islanders; they'd forced his hand. But his own men, lost to poison-tipped arrows and brutal melee in the trenches, haunted him in quieter moments.

The attacks had slowed after the first week and finally stopped three days ago. At first, the sudden stillness had seemed ominous, but scouts had reported the truth: the natives had finally pulled back, their numbers too diminished to mount another charge.

Now, the battlefield was theirs.

Jacob glanced inland toward the sprawling encampment. Built on a flat outcrop six hundred yards past the edge of the cove, the fortress was both a testament to their survival and the foundation of his vision. The ground that had once burned with fire now held a complex of trenches, barricades, and timber-reinforced walls—structures layered upon the scars of previous battles. Cannon emplacements from the two marooned ships were stationed strategically along the perimeter, their black barrels gleaming in the sunlight.

The fortress spanned nearly a thousand meters deep and fifteen hundred meters wide, stretching between the towering cliffs that framed the cove like natural walls. Only eight hundred and fifty meters of the flatland were utilized for the camp itself, leaving a deliberate hundred-fifty-meter gap between the fortress and the edge of the jungle. That barren stretch was their killing field, funneled such that any attacker would be exposed to cannon fire and muskets long before reaching the walls.

The remaining forest loomed like a dark curtain beyond that open ground—untouched, but teeming with potential dangers. Jacob knew they could no longer burn the jungle with wild abandon. Timber was critical for shelter and repairs if they ever hoped to leave this place on ships of their own making.

A voice cut through his thoughts. "Captain."

He turned to see Garrett climbing up the rock shelf to join him. The first mate's coat was dusted with ash, boots stained from days of wading through muddy trenches. New lines of exhaustion etched his brow, dulling the sharpness that usually lit his gaze.

"What is it?" Jacob asked, though he could guess. Garrett always brought problems—there was no shortage of them.

"The men are asking about the trees," Garrett said, jerking a thumb toward the green boundary. "We've pushed the line as far as it'll go, but if we're going to start proper construction, we need to venture back into the forest. They're uneasy. You can't blame them, not after everything that's happened."

Jacob's eyes followed Garrett's gesture. He couldn't fault the men's reluctance. The jungle had been a deathtrap from day one—dense undergrowth perfect for ambushes, hidden ravines, and vantage points the natives knew intimately. Even the faintest rustling of leaves could spark a panic. But there was no alternative.

"We'll start with small teams," Jacob said after a moment, the wind tugging at his coat. "Pick the most experienced men, the ones who know how to handle themselves in hostile terrain. We'll station cannons and muskets to cover their approach. If any islanders try their luck, we blast them before they get close."

Garrett inclined his head but lingered. "There's more."

Jacob frowned. "Out with it."

"The men…" Garrett paused. "They're asking if this is it. The attacks have stopped, but they're worried we've just built ourselves a better prison. They want to know the endgame, where all this leads."

Jacob leaned on a jagged outcrop of stone, gazing downward at the camp's bustle. From this height, men looked like insects scurrying across the scarred earth—hauling timbers, dragging fresh water from the newly dug basin, reinforcing walls that had been tested night after night. Past them lay the cove itself: ships stranded on the sand, every day lost to the elements. Past that, the sea stretched into hazy distance, an unattainable freedom for now.

"It ends when we're untouchable," Jacob said softly. "When this place is more than a fortress—when it's a foundation. A staging ground for trade, or a place we can defend if the world comes hunting us."

Garrett studied him with a guarded expression. "And if the natives do regroup? If this quiet is just them biding their time?"

"Then we'll be ready," Jacob replied, voice hardening. "We took their ground once. If they want it back, they'll fight for every inch."

Garrett gave a curt nod, turned, and clambered back down the rocky slope toward the camp. Jacob remained a while longer, letting the cool wind tug at his hair, letting the hush of the sea and the quiet within the jungle set his thoughts adrift. The natives might be battered, but they were still out there. He could almost sense their presence—like the faint prickle of static in the air. They hated him and his men for the fires, the brutal pushes inland. And he, in turn, would not rest until Dead Man's Bay was indisputably theirs.

He finally made his descent, picking his way down the uneven trail. At the fortress perimeter, Barret and Kofi were already assembling the teams for timber operations. Barret, his gravelly voice carrying easily over the din, barked at a pair of crewmen to triple-check their axes. Kofi stood beside him, calmly organizing the supply piles—rope, pulleys, spades—gesturing for men to rotate tasks so no one stayed in the open too long.

Jacob's presence drew immediate attention. "You know the risks," he said to the gathered workers. "We've faced worse. Keep your wits, your discipline, and you'll come back alive. The jungle is just another enemy."

A subdued murmur of agreement passed through them. Jacob sensed their fatigue. They needed something tangible, a sign their sacrifice wasn't for nothing. But for now, the promise of eventual safety would have to do.

He turned to Barret and Kofi. "Rotate the teams often. Keep fresh eyes on the treeline. If there's any sign of movement, you fall back behind the walls and let the cannons do the talking."

Barret nodded. "Understood, Captain. We'll watch their backs."

Satisfied, Jacob strode on, touring the breadth of the encampment. Trenches had been widened, lined with stone in places to keep them from caving. Watchtowers stood at intervals, muskets bristling from every vantage point. Cannons faced the open killing field, loaded and primed. The men might be exhausted, but they were forging something formidable here. A fortress—harsh but undeniably theirs.

He paused at a corner of the rampart where a battered chest had been set aside. Leaning against the rough planks, Jacob let his gaze wander toward the jungle. Quiet, but not empty. Memories of the battles played at the edges of his mind—natives charging through smoke, weapons glinting in the firelight, the frenzied clash of steel and bone. He closed his eyes for a moment.

In the silence behind closed lids, he let himself reach for the system that pulsed somewhere in his consciousness—an intangible interface that had guided him since his inexplicable arrival in this world. He inhaled slowly, drawing the necromantic energy inward, feeling the familiar chill ripple through his veins. A flicker of recognition formed, and in the darkness of his mind, words appeared as if etched in faint light:

[ System Notification ]

Current Souls Collected: —

His awareness dipped deeper, recalling each time he'd absorbed the lingering death-essence from fallen foes. Two weeks of relentless skirmishes had claimed countless lives, and more than a few had perished under his direct hand—or by curses he set in motion. He braced himself, unsure if the system would provide a precise tally, or if the strange partial synergy he'd sensed these last days would muddle it.

There was a faint pulse, and the interface cleared.

Soul Count: 192/???

The number glowed for a heartbeat before fading from his mental view. Jacob's lips thinned. It was higher than before—and that made sense, given the many battles—but the system's usual clarity felt veiled, as if the island's aura interfered. Or perhaps it was his own overuse of power. Still, he was sure of one thing: those souls made him stronger, extended his capabilities. Each absorption chipped away a sliver of his humanity, too, leaving him colder in moments of introspection like this.

He exhaled shakily, dragging a hand over his face. In a fleeting instant, he wondered if that cost was worth the edge it gave him. The men needed a leader who could stand firm against both the natives and the unrelenting demands of building a settlement from ash. If the price was a gradual, numbing emptiness—he would bear it.

The system's faint presence receded as he opened his eyes. The fortress came back into focus, and with it, the distant shapes of workers venturing out for timber. Enough introspection for now. The men needed him alert, decisive.

Ahead, he noticed Garrett returning, apparently done with reassigning watch rotations. The first mate's gaze flicked to Jacob, and for a second, it seemed as though he sensed the swirling darkness behind Jacob's steady composure. Then Garrett simply nodded. "We're ready," he said, voice subdued. "Teams are heading out under guard."

Jacob forced a small smile. "Good. Let's hope the natives stay quiet a little longer."

The day wore on, and the men toiled under the watchful eyes of cannon crews. When Jacob climbed one of the half-finished towers, he observed small squads working deeper into the charred jungle fringe. Axes thudded as trees fell with resonant cracks, sending leaves and blackened bark scattering across the undergrowth. Meanwhile, roving sentries patrolled the new perimeter, muskets glinting in the midday sun.

As the hours passed, the men emerged with dragged timbers and sweaty brows, relieved to have encountered no ambushes. It was a cautious reprieve. They stowed the logs within the fortified yard, sorting them by size and quality for construction use. Morale lifted a fraction—another day survived, more resources gained. The fortress might one day become a true settlement if this continued.

Late in the afternoon, Jacob met Garrett atop the walls near the southwestern corner. They stood in silence, surveying the ring of defenses. The huts and barriers, the spiked trenches, the newly organized woodpiles. It was all progress, even if that progress was purchased with blood and an unrelenting weight of responsibility.

"Those who call this place a prison might not be entirely wrong," Garrett said, finally voicing what lingered in the air. "We're penned in by the jungle and the cliffs as much as by our own defenses. But if it keeps us alive…"

"We'll endure," Jacob finished. "Until we can stand without fear in our own territory—or decide we've had enough and sail away."

Garrett angled his head toward the cove, where the outlines of The Abyss and the partially repaired La Fortune were visible through the shimmering air. "That day isn't close, is it?"

Jacob's eyes hardened, though a faint glimmer of determination lit them. "No. Not yet. But it's coming."

The two men stood there for a moment longer, the hush broken only by the distant ring of hammers and the low drone of the surf against the cliffs. Jacob might have checked the system again, but the cold reminder of his last glimpse still lingered in the back of his mind. Another day, another night, and perhaps more souls would fall into his hands. He set the thought aside.

He rested a forearm on the rough wooden parapet. The land was theirs—for now. The natives had withdrawn, licking their wounds. But the struggles etched into the earth below told him how fragile that hold might be. For the briefest moment, he let himself imagine a future where the fortress stood tall, where the battered ships were repaired or replaced by new vessels built from the island's timber, where his crew moved freely—no longer pirates in the eyes of kings and crowns, but masters of their own destiny.

"It's ours to lose," he said quietly. "And we won't."

Garrett grunted his agreement. Then, with a final glance at the quiet jungle, they descended from the walls, each step echoing on the timber walkway. Behind them, the sky stretched wide and clear, tinted with the dying light of day.

Below, the fortress pulsed with life, each barricade, trench, and ramshackle hut a testament to determination. No matter what came next—native retaliations, storms, or the creeping sense of the island's own strange power—Jacob knew they had forged a place worth holding. He let that knowledge steady him.

Two weeks of pain and progress had transformed them from mere survivors into occupiers. And if the natives believed this lull signaled an end, they would soon learn that Jacob's ambition burned brighter than any torch set to the jungle.