Templar's Creed

Chapter 45

Rogers clutched the skull tightly, feeling the power surge through him once more. The artifact was alive, and it had responded to his touch. It was a sign of the destiny that awaited him, a destiny that would bring order to this chaotic world. The storm clouds grew thick above them, the winds howling with a fury that seemed to match his own.

The sea churned around his ship, the waves rising like the wrath of Neptune himself. Yet, within the eye of the tempest, his vessel remained untouched, a bastion of calm amidst the chaos.

Out of the storm, the Jackdaw approached them, a specter from the brink of oblivion. The ship looked absolutely destroyed, its sails tattered and blackened by the flames of battle, its hull scarred and rent by the fury of the mortar shells. Yet, it moved with an unearthly speed that sent shivers down their spines, as if propelled by the very spirits of the damned. The Templars watched in awe, their fear momentarily forgotten as the ship drew nearer.

With a thunderous crash, the Jackdaw rammed into the side of Rogers's vessel, the impact sending shockwaves through the air. The pirates had come for their vengeance, their eyes burning with the light of a thousand suns. They leaped from the wreckage, their cutlasses flashing in the stormy night. Edward was in the forefront, his eyes never leaving Rogers's retreating figure.

The Templar crew was caught off-guard by the sudden assault. They had been so focused on the skull that they had not anticipated Edward's desperate gamble. The pirates swarmed the Templar ship like ants on a rotting carcass, their battle cries drowning out the howling wind and the screams of their enemies. The ship's deck grew slick with blood, the smell of iron and brine thick in the air.

Edward fought his way through the melee, his eyes fixed on the retreating figure of Woodes Rogers. The general had made it to the quarterdeck, his men forming a protective barricade around him. The pirate captain felt the skull's power surging within him, guiding his every move, every swing of his cutlass. The storm raged around them, lightning crackling in the sky as if to underscore the intensity of their final confrontation.

With a battle cry that could have come from the very pits of hell, Edward leaped over the bodies of the fallen, his blade slicing through the Templar guards like a hot knife through butter. The remaining pirates followed close behind, their eyes alight with a ferocity born of desperation and anger. The clang of steel and the cries of the dying filled the night air, the storm's fury a backdrop to the carnage.

Rogers watched Edward's approach with a mix of fear and disbelief. His men fell around him like dominoes, unable to withstand the pirate's relentless onslaught. The general knew he was no match for Edward with the skull's power at his peak. Yet, he had not come this far to simply hand over the artifact. He clutched the skull to his chest, drawing on its energy to bolster his own.

The pirate captain reached the quarterdeck, his cutlass slick with the blood of the fallen. The two men circled each other, the skull's light casting an eerie glow on their faces. Rogers knew he had to act fast, lest Edward's rage overwhelm him completely. He lunged forward, his blade aimed at Edward's heart. The pirate parried with ease, his movements guided by the skull's ancient wisdom.

The battle raged on, a furious dance of steel and shadows. Edward's cutlass sang through the air, a deadly melody that sent Templars to their watery graves. Each strike was precise, each block a testament to his mastery of the blade. Rogers, once a feared swordsman, found himself on the defensive, his own attacks growing desperate as the tide of battle turned against him.

The pirates had overrun the ship, their cries of victory piercing the night as they slaughtered the last of the Templar crew. The deck was a tapestry of crimson and shadow, the rain washing away the evidence of their brutal victory. Edward felt the skull's power pulsing through him, urging him onward, driving him to end the threat that stood before him.

He and Rogers circled each other, their swords a blur in the flickering light of the skull. Each strike was a dance of death, each parry a step closer to the inevitable end. The storm had grown fiercer, the wind howling like a chorus of the damned, egging them on in their final duel. The general's eyes were wild with fear and desperation, his movements growing sloppy as he tried to fend off Edward's relentless assault.

The pirate captain's blade sang a mournful tune as it cleaved through the air, aiming for the heart of his enemy. Rogers stumbled, the skull slipping from his grip. It hit the deck with a thud, and the light within it grew brighter, as if in anticipation of the final blow. Edward saw his opening and took it, driving his sword through the general's chest with a roar of triumph.

Rogers's eyes widened in shock, his breath leaving him in a gurgling hiss. He staggered backward, the crimson stain on his shirt growing by the second. His hand reached out, grasping at the skull, his desperation palpable even in death. Edward watched him fall, the storm's fury a silent witness to the end of their bloody dance.

The pirate captain felt the skull's power surge through him once more, a heady mix of triumph and grief. He had won, but at what cost? His crew, his ship, his very soul had been sacrificed to this endless war between Assassins and Templars. Yet, as he gazed down at the lifeless form of his enemy, he knew he had to continue the fight. For Kenway, for Aveline, for the cause of freedom.

Turning away from the body, Edward picked up the Sage's skull, its power now fully his to wield. He could feel the whispers of the ancient ones, the weight of their knowledge and wisdom heavy in his grasp. It was a burden he never asked for, but one he knew he must bear.