WHOOSH
DRIP. DRIP.
The breeze howled, carrying with it the thick scent of blood. The sinking ship groaned as waves crashed louder and louder, almost drowning out the screams. Soldiers were dying like ants—being slaughtered—and Diablo could do nothing but cling tightly to the rail at the edge of the deck. He knew death was moments away, but at least he could savor the last taste of air before suffocation claimed him.
SPLASH!
All his men were down. He was the only one left.
The weak one.
The enemy soldiers had started tossing his comrades—those sent to kill them—into the ocean. One by one, they were thrown overboard, their bodies vanishing beneath the waves. It wasn't mercy. It was strategy. Every corpse overboard meant a few more seconds of survival.
The clothes he wore were already torn and soaked in blood, splashes clinging to his bruised skin.
What could he do?
In fact, the only reason he'd even been sent with the men was because of the food. He was in charge of meal planning. That was it.
His head hung slightly to the side, heavy with defeat, as his arms clung to the railing for dear life. They had boarded this ship on a mission to kill the villains—but it seemed the villains had been far more interested… and far more prepared.
Now, he was the only one left. The weak one.
The failure, as they called him.
One of the enemy turned toward him and spoke quietly, almost casually.
"Boss, what about him?" He pointed at Diablo with a nod.
Laughter erupted from the group. One of the men, hand slick with blood, leaned against the wooden mast for support before stripping the skin off a fallen comrade and tossing it into the ocean like garbage.
Then he asked, "Should we throw him in too? Might help the ship sink slower. After all, he's not useful."
The boss remained silent for a moment. Half of his face was scarred; the other side hidden beneath a dark patch covering one eye. Then he finally spoke in a low, gravelly voice.
"Keep him. He'll be useful. He knows things about them—some weakness. He's not dumb. Besides, he's skinny. He could be our pet."
The man's voice was calm, but his mind was already calculating how they could use Diablo—to act like a soldier, to gather information.
The ship groaned as it continued to sink, tilting further into the cold, dark sea. One of the men glanced around nervously and muttered, "Boss… it's sinking faster now."
The boss didn't flinch.
"Can't you swim?"
"N-Not that, Boss… but the rescue boat should be arriving any time now, and that water… the coldness is like a five-second death—"
What else could he say? The water was like ice. One dip and you were gone.
"Shut up," the boss hissed.
Then, to everyone's surprise, a sound cut through the tension—
Laughter.
It came from Diablo.
The weak one. Mr. Food Planner.
The one who'd been trembling.
His head bobbed slightly as he chuckled, then laughed harder, like something had snapped. His bloodied face lifted as he spoke.
"How many of my men did you kill? Hundreds, right?"
Silence fell over the group. A few exchanged confused glances, unsure what game the once-weak man was playing.
Wasn't this the one who cried? The one who hid in the corner?
The boss narrowed his eye, jaw tightening. "We could toss you overboard right now. Shut up, fool."
But Diablo only laughed again.
"Fool, huh?"
This time, his eyes shifted—one blazed with fire, the other glinted like ice. He raised his head slowly and spoke, his voice calm but commanding.
"I asked a question."
He turned his gaze toward the boss, lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile.
"When I speak… you answer."
The boss's eyes widened just as a blur of movement streaked through the air. A sudden gust of wind—then silence.
The boss's voice came out as a gasp.
"…Ahhhck—"
His words died as his head vanished.
The men stared in frozen horror as the boss's decapitated body slid forward, hit the edge of the deck, and tumbled into the sea with a splash.
W-What just… happened…? How?
And there stood Diablo—the weak man no longer weak—holding the boss's severed head in his hand.
"Now," he said, his voice soft but cold, "for the last time, how many of my men did you kill?"
No one moved. The ship was sinking. Any wrong motion could send them sliding overboard. Each man gripped the rail like it was life itself.
One of them stammered, "F-Five… five hundred…"
Diablo's smile deepened. "Oh really? But why the stammer? When you killed them, your hands weren't trembling," he said, lifting his hand to his jaw in mock contemplation.
"Or were they?"
He began tossing the boss's head lightly into the air and catching it again, like a child playing with a ball.
"My bad," he murmured, feigning innocence. "Why don't you all join me?" His lips curved up sinfully "My treat"
He stopped and pointed at a man whose limbs were wrapped tightly around the railing.
"I'll pass to you," he said, smile widening.
Then to another.
"You're next."
With that, Diablo kicked the severed head into the air, sending it flying with acute speed.
One of the men, panicking, shoved himself forward, freeing his legs from the railing to intercept it—but he missed. His foot slipped.
CRACK.
He tumbled.
Blood splattered across the deck as his body rolled violently toward the edge and plunged into the sea.
H-He was headless…
The others could only watch in horror, paralyzed.
Now, Diablo stood mid-air—impossibly balanced—holding two heads, one in each hand. With eerie grace, he kicked one up, caught it, and spun it. He began juggling, like it was half-time at a demonic football match.
In a swift motion, still standing mid-air in the middle of an endless sea and a sinking ship, he slashed his own palm.
SHHNK.
His blood poured.
PLOP.
It hit the water below.
ARRRRR! ARRRRR!
The sound pierced the air—sharks. Massive, black, circling sharks. Moving in rhythmic hunger.
Diablo's lips curled upward.
"Oh, the boys must be hungry," he said, glancing at his watch.
"It's evening… so dinner will be served."
Still airborne, still grinning, he juggled the heads—his movements sharp and fast—like a basketball game in hell.
"Damn," he chuckled, "I'm quite good at this."
He hurled the first head.
SPLASH.
A shark's gaping jaws swallowed it mid-air.
Without pause, he spun and flung the second.
SNAP.
Another was devoured.
Below him, one of the men lost control. A warm stain spread across his trousers as his body trembled violently.
Diablo slowly tilted his head, his grin stretching wide—unnaturally wide.
His eyes glinted—fire and ice, burning in sync.
"Who's next…? Don't be shy."
He spoke in a grave tone.
"My sharks don't bite… they swallow."