My hand drifted down, four fingers swaying briefly with the wind before falling by my side. I didn't care if they understood what it meant. They would soon enough. A few more, and even the dumbest among them would know—this was a count. A countdown. A sentence.
I walked.
Another sacrifice waited ahead—one more soul picked for the ritual. This one was different. Not calm. Not frozen. But scared, and yet willing to fight. That punch earlier… it had seeded something foul in the air.
Hope.
He raised a pistol, hands trembling, but eyes sharp. He was scared, yes—but determined. He thought this would save him. That steel and powder and fire could buy him another hour of breath.
I kept walking.
He fired.
The crack split the air—sharp and hungry—and the lead tore through the space between us. I watched it hit. Felt it pierce skin. Muscle. Bone.
Straight into my chest.
A clean shot.
But not a killing one.
Tch. Couldn't even hit me in the head.
I didn't stop. Didn't flinch. Didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing pain in my eyes. Because I couldn't let that kind of hope grow any further. Couldn't let them believe that bullets still mattered.
So I walked.
Closer.
Slower.
Unstoppable.
And as I neared, I raised my hand—bare and blood-slick—and dug my fingers into the fresh wound.
The bullet had gone deep, but not far enough. I could feel the torn muscle, the hot pulse of my own blood flooding around my knuckles. Pain barked, but I silenced it.
I pushed in harder.
Two fingers slipped into the hole one finger big, prying it open. Flesh tore with a sickening rip. Blood spilled faster, thicker. My chest ached from the intrusion, but I didn't stop.
I wouldn't stop.
Not until I found it.
My fingertips scraped something solid. Smooth. Cold.
The bullet.
I didn't grit my teeth. I didn't need to. This much was normal to me now.
It came free with a wet pop, coated in heat and red.
I held it up.
Let him see it.
Let all of them see it.
This was their weapon.
This was their best shot.
And I had pulled it out with my bare hands.
His face changed in that moment—from courage to horror. That kind of horror that eats away at your bones. That tells you you're already dead—you're just waiting for the pain to catch up.
Good.
That's what I needed.
No more hope.
Only despair.
Now he was ready.
Ready to become the fourth blood eagle.
I dragged him—limp, defeated—and placed him in position. One more offering laid bare before the girls, spine split open, heart still fluttering like it hadn't yet accepted the truth. His ribs stretched wide behind him, silent wings of agony.
Then, I rose again.
And with the same slow, deliberate motion, I raised my hand.
Three fingers.
Three more.
I didn't need to speak.
They knew what it meant.
The count was carved into the air now—just like their fate.
I turned my eyes toward another. Toward the next blood eagle.
His group saw me coming.
Every step I took made them flinch—shuffle back, just a little more.
One after another, they took careful steps away. Not in defiance. Not in strategy.
Just instinct.
Primal, pathetic instinct.
They thought maybe—just maybe—the sea was better than me.
That drowning, or whatever waited in the deep, might be kinder than what they'd seen on deck.
One of them proved it.
He jumped.
Didn't scream. Didn't hesitate.
He leapt headfirst, body folding into the blue like he was trying to make peace with it before it could take him. Like he hoped the monsters below would be faster than I was.
The rest—his group—they were still thinking.
Some had climbed onto the railing.
Hands gripping the wood.
Knuckles white.
Legs shaking.
I didn't need all of them.
Just one more.
I lunged and grabbed the nearest by his clothes—yanked him down hard before his courage could find the water. He hit the deck with a thud, the breath knocked from his lungs.
No time to resist.
No time to beg.
Just my shadow falling over him, cold and absolute.
His eyes met mine—and the despair was already there.
He knew.
Knew what he'd be.
What he'd become.
His mouth opened to speak—maybe to plead, maybe to curse, maybe to pray.
But I didn't care.
I gave him the usual.
The hilt.
The blunt rhythm of steel to skull.
His legs twitched. Arms flailed. His body struggled with itself—half wanting to run, half frozen by fear.
I kept hitting until the fight drained. Until the flesh stopped resisting and the mind stopped planning escape.
Then I flipped him.
He whimpered. Not like a man. Like something small. Something pitiful.
He didn't want this.
Didn't want his back split open.
Didn't want his chest laid bare like a slab of meat for the crows.
But I did.
And what I wanted… it mattered more.
The sword moved. My hand guided it like a craftsman shaping horror into symmetry.
Steel cut through cloth.
Then skin.
Then deeper.
Muscle split.
Tissue peeled.
The smell of iron filled the air again.
Familiar. Heavy.
Each rib cracked beneath the blade—one by one—each snap another step toward something that had started to feel like purpose.
I opened him.
Wide.
Let the air touch parts of him that were never meant to be exposed.
Let the world see him from the inside out.
His lungs swelled and sank, still clinging to life.
His heart beat. Weak. But steady.
Enough.
I spread his ribs like wings—wide, trembling, trembling like the rest of him.
A blood eagle.
Not just death. Not just punishment.
A mark.
A reminder.
I dragged him, blood trailing behind us like ink writing his final sentence. I positioned him like the others, facing one of the girls—her body still and quiet, bathed in the light of a sun she never saw alive.
His face dropped into the wood.
His ribs faced the sky.
His lungs sagged like wilted flags of surrender.
I adjusted him as nothing more than a sacrifice in the ritual.
This was what he became.
This was what I made him into.
And when I stood once more—slowly, purposefully—I raised my hand again.
This time, two fingers.
Only two more left.
And still, the ritual wasn't done.
Not yet.
Not until justice had seven wings.