The Bloodsail Reckoning

Although Edwin VanCleef was young and hadn't yet crossed the treacherous bridge between youth and middle age, at thirty years old, his soul had been beaten down more times than a village blacksmith's anvil. As an officer of the Stonemasons' Guild, he'd learned that life had a twisted sense of humor—and nobles were the punchline.

This wasn't Edwin's first rodeo with the breathtaking arrogance and penny-pinching ways of the nobility. Hell, it wasn't even his hundredth.

Picture this: you pour blood, sweat, and tears into crafting a stone sculpture so magnificent it could make angels weep, only to have some pompous steward refuse payment because "the master finds it aesthetically displeasing." Translation? The balance gets stuffed into someone's already-bulging pockets while the stonemason who mortgaged his soul for expensive materials gets thrown to the wolves—bankrupt and broken.

When the nobles came calling again with their "requests," there was no room for negotiation. It was simple as pie: work or get ground into dust under their gilded boots.

King Llane was wise and great, shining like the morning sun over his people, bringing hope and glory to the realm. But even the brightest light casts shadows, and the golden badge of nobility was the perfect shield for their dirty deeds. The upper crust could squeeze the common folk dry again and again without facing a lick of consequences—like having their cake and eating it too, then demanding seconds.

Edwin's razor-sharp ears caught every word drifting from behind him:

"All citizens with valid passage tickets, listen up! Each person gets a whopping ten pounds of personal belongings—no more, no less! Don't worry your pretty little heads, from departure to Southshore, everyone gets daily bread and water. Plus, our magnificent king has stockpiled enough grub in Southshore to feed an army..."

Everyone had treasures they'd rather die than leave behind. Limiting luggage was like asking a dragon to share its hoard—necessary but painful as hell. The refugees understood the bitter medicine they had to swallow. In these bat-crazy times, with bloodthirsty orcs breathing down their necks, having any escape plan was like finding water in a desert. Everyone should've been kissing Duke's and King Llane's boots in gratitude.

But then Edwin witnessed something that made his blood boil hotter than a forge in summer. Naval officers and soldiers had their belongings hurled out of cabins like yesterday's garbage, all to make room for some noble's pampered hound. Beautiful maids who'd spread their legs for the nobility got golden tickets aboard, while the old servants—who'd served faithfully for decades—were left sobbing their hearts out on the dock like discarded rags.

Edwin VanCleef's fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white as bone. His nails dug trenches in his palms deep enough to draw blood, but he felt nothing except the fire of rage consuming him from within.

The nobility held all the cards, dealing from the bottom of the deck while fate played their rigged game. Time after time, Edwin had been shoved face-first into the abyss of despair, like a condemned man walking the plank.

Until he met Edmund Duke—a shooting star among commoners, a miracle child who'd clawed his way to the kingdom's upper echelons with talent sharper than a blade, courage fiercer than a dragon's roar, and wisdom deeper than the ocean. Here was fresh blood in the kingdom's veins, different from Anduin Lothar's traditional approach. Under Duke's banner, Edwin could actually make a difference instead of just surviving. Without realizing it, he'd hitched his wagon to Duke's rising star.

Would Duke eventually seize control of Stormwind Kingdom and clean house, washing away the filth of aristocratic corruption like a cleansing flood?

Edwin knew he shouldn't count his chickens before they hatched, but damn if he couldn't help imagining Duke sitting on the throne, justice finally served ice-cold.

Edwin was still green around the gills, wearing his thoughts like a neon sign. Among Duke's crew, Makaro wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but as the grizzled mercenary leader, he could read faces like an open book and had street smarts that could fill a library.

Makaro saw through Edwin's daydreams faster than a hawk spots a mouse. While secretly marveling at Duke's supernatural 'prophetic' powers, Makaro leaned close to VanCleef's ear and whispered words meant for him alone: "The master also said, 'Fate's got a special kind of hell waiting for yellow-bellied, worthless, and dirty sons of bitches.'"

Edwin VanCleef's spine turned to ice water. Was Master Edmund dropping hints like breadcrumbs?

He spun around, but the crafty old fox Makaro just gave him an innocent "Who, me?" expression that could've fooled a saint.

Suddenly, Edwin's gut was screaming louder than a banshee—Duke had cooked up some kind of master plan. Was he planning to wipe these scumbag nobles off the map? How the hell would he pull it off right under the king's nose while orcs were knocking at the door?

Even wise King Llane, great as he was, had never so much as slapped a noble's wrist, let alone actually punished them. Llane played it safe, improving commoners' lives around the edges of the nobility's iron grip on power.

But Master Duke... he was a different beast entirely.

Edwin's brain was spinning like a tornado. He knew damn well he was Duke's right-hand man, and Makaro was Duke's voice in the dark. No way in hell would Makaro feed him lies.

Had Duke peered into his soul and decided to win his complete loyalty? Was Edwin really worth such attention from the legendary Sea King? The thought made his head feel ready to explode like an overloaded cannon.

One thing was crystal clear: if these nobles met their maker during this escape, Duke's fingerprints would be all over it. The thrill of sharing earth-shattering secrets and joining Duke's inner circle hit Edwin like liquid lightning in his veins, setting every nerve on fire with excitement.

Edmund Duke might just be the hero of his dreams—the one who'd lead the people to a golden tomorrow.

Time flew by like an arrow, and after two grueling hours, they were finally ready to set sail.

Ironically, VanCleef's ship caught the wind first. The converted merchant vessels couldn't hold a candle to real warships when it came to speed or maneuverability—like comparing a mule to a thoroughbred.

Less than thirty minutes after departure, VanCleef watched the warships loaded with nobles and their precious treasure chests smoke past their transport ships like they were standing still. Within an hour, they'd vanished on the horizon where sea kissed sky.

Watching those warships that had torn down the Stormwind Navy flags, keeping only the kingdom's lion banner while hoisting noble family crests, VanCleef's lip curled in a sneer cold enough to freeze hell.

Night fell like a black curtain, then retreated with dawn's first light. But with the morning came danger stalking the nobles like death itself.

When the mist lifted, blood-red sails appeared in the distance, blotting out the sky like the wings of some hellish bird.

The noble's private lookout was so shocked he stood there like a deer caught in torchlight for several heartbeats before his brain kicked in and he sounded the alarm that could wake the dead.

"Sweet mother of mercy! It's the Bloodsail Pirates!"

The Bloodsail Pirates—a cutthroat organization of rebels led by Duke Falrevere of Kul Tiras, with their nest in the savage Stranglethorn Vale. Being ex-navy turned pirate, these sea wolves had combat skills that could make veteran marines wet themselves.

It was no joke—even if the nobles had kept their naval officers and soldiers, they'd be in for the fight of their lives against the Bloodsail Pirates. But throwing all their military muscle overboard? That was like bringing a butter knife to a dragon fight.

Fear spread through the noble fleet faster than wildfire in a dry forest, chilling every soul to the bone.

Countless nobles were jolted awake by alarm bells that could raise the dead. Their eyes were still crusted with sleep, but hearing "Bloodsail Pirates" cleared their heads faster than a bucket of ice water to the face.

"IMPOSSIBLE!"

This was every noble's knee-jerk reaction, delivered with the confidence of someone who'd never faced real danger.

When they stumbled out of their cabins with maids helping them dress, the terror on their faces was frozen solid as winter stone.

[Author's note: The Bloodsail Pirates didn't appear this early in actual history, but I'm rewriting the rules! Mwahahaha!]

Impossible? That was their first thought, delivered with all the denial of a drowning man refusing to believe he's underwater.

We're royally screwed! That was their second thought, hitting them like a war hammer to the gut.

Years of peaceful sailing had made them soft as butter. They'd forgotten that pirates even existed, like children who think monsters disappear when they close their eyes. Stormwind Kingdom had been too dirt-poor to attract serious piracy before. The occasional Kul Tiras fleet visiting Stormwind City was small potatoes—not enough wealth to make big-league pirates drool.

What did old Stormwind have to offer? A handful of fishing boats barely bigger than bathtubs. What kind of treasure could those floating matchsticks possibly carry?

As for Duke the Sea King's pearl fleet, it sailed under Naga protection—basically a floating fortress of death. Anyone stupid enough to attack it would get more holes than Swiss cheese.

But now? Now it was a completely different ballgame. The nobles fleeing Elwynn Forest had packed their ships with family fortunes accumulated over centuries. In their greed to stuff every last gold coin into their limited cargo space, these brain-dead aristocrats had committed the ultimate sin: they'd kicked off their own naval protection to make room for more treasure.

To escape Stormwind City's coming fall as fast as humanly possible, they hadn't even waited for the slower civilian transport ships. Otherwise, they could've used them as bait to buy time against the Bloodsail Pirates—throwing the commoners to the wolves while they escaped.

On land, the nobles could've put up a decent fight with their private guards. But out here on the endless blue? Most landlubbers were lucky to keep their lunch down on a rocking ship, let alone fight at full strength. And don't even mention the nobles' private sailors—they were merchant marine material at best, not warriors.

This was a masterclass in how to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Out of all the ways to die, they'd chosen the stupidest possible method in the most hostile environment imaginable.

"Turn this tub around and run like hell! Get back to the main fleet where it's safe! There are Kul Tiras warships there!" Duke Agathe Falrevere, who'd rushed topside after hearing the news, grabbed the captain by the throat, his eyes wild with madness and shot through with blood.

Yes! Anyone could become fish food today. But the noble bloodline couldn't be snuffed out on this cursed ocean—not on his watch.

The main fleet had Kul Tiras warships providing backup. Sure, those ships were crammed with civilians too, but at least they were crewed by seasoned sailors from the maritime kingdom of Kul Tiras.

If someone had to die today, let it be the Kul Tirans.

"It's too late—we're dead in the water!" the captain wailed like a man at his own funeral. "We're carrying too much weight! The ship's so overloaded we couldn't outrun a one-legged turtle!"

"Turn around and dump everything! Throw the gold overboard—all of it! You can't spend treasure if you're feeding the fish! What good is gold to a dead man!?" The old duke's silver hair and beard whipped in the wind like battle banners, his bloodshot eyes showing a spark of sanity in the midst of pure terror.

As the sails shifted direction, more than a dozen massive Stormwind warships began carving huge arc-shaped white wakes across the ocean. Unfortunately, without unified command, it was like watching a comedy of errors—some ships turned left, others right. The inevitable result was two vessels nearly kissing each other in a head-on collision. In a panic that would've been hilarious if it weren't so deadly, both crews managed to avoid total disaster at the last second. Even so, the grinding scrape of hulls passing each other scared both sides white as ghosts.

For a moment, the scene looked like a circus act performed by drunk clowns.

"Pathetic amateurs!" From the flagship of the Bloodsail Pirates' squadron, Commodore Lester Zanck sneered with contempt that could cut glass. But when he saw the nobles ordering their men to dump heavy boxes overboard to lighten their ships, his stomach dropped like a stone.

When he spotted the golden gleam from a chest that burst open mid-air, his worst nightmare came true.

Lester couldn't help but roar like a wounded dragon: "Gold! It's all fucking gold! You blue-blooded idiots think you can escape by dumping your load? Morons! Forget the ransom—I'll spend three days and three nights slow-roasting whoever came up with this brain-dead idea until they're charcoal!"

Lester was so furious he could've bitten through steel: This was the deep ocean! Precious metals thrown into the sea had one fate—sinking to depths no man could reach, becoming the world's most expensive fish food! How the hell was he supposed to fish it out of Davy Jones' locker?

"Fire! Fire the bow guns!" Lester screamed loud enough to wake Poseidon himself.

His first mate looked confused as a newborn: "Commodore Zanck, we're not in effective range yet! If we only use the bow guns..."

"You thick-skulled fool! Do you really think those pampered land nobles are going to fight a proper Kul Tiras-style naval battle? I'm going to crush their pathetic escape fantasies like bugs!"

As the command flag dropped, dozens of unglamorous parabolas formed a bridge of death in the pale dawn light, designed to shatter what little courage the nobles had left.

The cannonballs, never meant to hit their targets at this range, landed near the noble fleet with laughably poor accuracy, sending up massive columns of water that splashed down and created faint rainbows around the nobles' warships.

To the terrified nobles, this looked like the apocalypse—an overwhelming rain of destruction from the heavens themselves.

Then Lady Luck decided to play a cruel joke. In an era where long-range artillery had a hit rate lower than a blind man throwing darts, where anything beyond a hundred meters was basically prayer and wishful thinking, one lucky bastard proved that miracles could happen.

Hitting a target at range required overcoming wind interference, ship movement from waves and artillery recoil, plus the cannon's own mechanical quirks. Anyone who could hit within a hundred-meter circle was already a legendary gunner.

Landing a direct hit with one shot was the stuff of myths and tavern tales.

But some son of a bitch actually pulled it off.

A bow cannon fired from eight hundred meters away scored a direct hit on a noble warship's powder magazine, creating a chain reaction that would've impressed the gods of destruction themselves.

The explosion sent flames climbing toward heaven, wood splinters dancing through the air like deadly confetti, and human body parts scattered like a butcher's nightmare. The whole horrifying scene painted itself across the nobles' retinas like a masterpiece from the deepest pits of hell.

In less than sixty seconds, seven noble warships surrendered faster than you could say "white flag," hoisting their symbols of defeat high enough to be seen from the moon.

More Bloodsail pirate ships, built for speed and designed to be death on water, sliced through the noble fleet like hot knives through butter, unleashing close-range artillery hell on the nobles' private soldiers and sailors who were foolish enough to resist.

"BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!" The battle-hardened Bloodsail Pirates delivered a masterclass in naval warfare, using continuous bow-to-stern artillery fire to educate the nobles' forces in the fine art of getting your ass kicked at sea.

Of course, the nobles' private soldiers fired back with what had to be the most ridiculous volley in naval history. Lester, watching from a distance, was so stunned he nearly fell off his own ship. He'd never seen anything so spectacularly stupid—the massive recoil actually pushed their entire ship sideways for a full five meters. The cabin, built more for comfort than combat, made sounds like a house falling down.

But all resistance was as useful as a chocolate teapot in hell.

The pirates bit their curved cutlasses between their teeth and swung across on pre-rigged ropes like death incarnate. Everything was proceeding according to plan, but when they stormed into the enemy cabins, they got a surprise that would haunt their nightmares...

A massive demon materialized before them, still wearing a noble family crest on its chest like some twisted badge of honor!