"Wait," Brokenheart spluttered, his one good eye widening in terror as Fin's fist connected again, this time driving deep into his solar plexus with surgical precision. The air whooshed out of him in a ragged gasp that echoed off the cell walls like a death rattle, but Fin was beyond hearing, beyond reason, beyond the careful control that had defined him for so long. The pirate's confession had ignited something primal and terrible, a red haze clouding his vision like blood dispersing through clear water.

What followed wasn't a fight, it was systematic destruction.

Fin unleashed a relentless barrage of strikes, each one calculated for maximum damage despite the fury driving them. Jabs to the floating ribs that cracked bone with wet pops. Hooks to the jaw that sent teeth skittering across the cell floor like scattered pearls. Uppercuts that lifted the pirate's feet from the ground before gravity slammed him back down. Every blow landed with the precision of a master craftsman wielding his tools, but driven by raw, unfiltered hatred that burned in his chest like molten iron.

Brokenheart crumpled to the blood-slick floor, his burned body curling into a fetal position as primal survival instincts overwhelmed his bravado. "Stop... please..." he begged, his voice a wet gurgle through lips already swelling beyond recognition. Blood frothed from his mouth with each word, painting his singed beard in crimson streaks.

But the pleas only fed the inferno raging in Fin's skull. Each desperate word was a reminder of the "exquisite" suffering this monster had inflicted on innocents, the children whose final moments had been orchestrated for his twisted pleasure. The red haze deepened, turning the world into a nightmare painted in shades of violence.

Fin dropped to his knees with predatory grace, straddling the broken pirate and raining down elbows like the hammers of an angry god. The first strike cracked Brokenheart's left cheekbone with a sound like splitting wood, the bone fragmenting beneath flesh that had already endured too much. The second split the skin over his eye socket, sending a cascade of blood that mixed with the burns to create something from the deepest pits of hell.

The pirate's body twitched beneath him, convulsions syncing with each devastating impact as his nervous system struggled to process the overwhelming trauma. His remaining good eye rolled back, showing only white, while his limbs jerked in involuntary spasms. The desperate pleas devolved into animal whimpers, then to barely human moans, and finally to the most terrifying sound of all, silence.

But Fin didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

The red haze had become a living thing, feeding on violence and demanding more. His breaths came in harsh, ragged pants that misted in the suddenly cold air. Brokenheart's face had become an abstract painting of destruction, pulped flesh hanging in ribbons, blood pooling in craters where human features had once existed, bone fragments jutting through skin like broken glass through velvet.

Still, Fin hammered on with mechanical precision. His knuckles split against shattered bone, the pain barely registering through the consuming rage. His Aos sí physiology immediately began knitting the wounds closed, only for them to split again with the next impact. Heal, split, heal, split, an endless cycle of destruction and renewal that painted his hands in layers of blood both his and his victim's.

The world had narrowed to this singular focus: the rhythmic thud of flesh meeting flesh, the coppery tang of blood that filled the air like incense in a temple of violence, the monster beneath him who deserved every ounce of agony he could deliver. Time became meaningless. Reality contracted to the space between his fists and the thing that had once been human.

"Monster," he growled between strikes, the word barely coherent through his heaving breaths. "You... fucking... monster..."

The cell door burst open with explosive force, hinges screaming in protest. The guard sailor rushed in, his face pale as sea foam and eyes wide with the kind of horror that would haunt his dreams for years to come. "What in the depths, stop! He's done! He's been done!"

The sailor grabbed Fin's shoulder with desperate strength, trying to yank him away from the corpse. But when Fin whirled to face him, the sailor's grip faltered and his blood turned to ice water. Beneath the featureless mask, Fin's eyes burned with such unbridled fury that they seemed to glow with their own malevolent light. The rage was a living thing, radiating from him in waves that made the air itself seem to shimmer with menace.

"I... I'll get the captain!" the sailor stammered, his voice cracking like a boy's. He fled the blood-soaked cell as if pursued by demons from the deepest ocean trenches, his boots slipping on planks made treacherous by his own terror-induced sweat.

Fin turned back to his grisly work, resuming his assault on what had long since ceased to be anything human. "Monster," he continued to growl between strikes, the word becoming a mantra, a prayer to whatever dark gods governed revenge. "Predator... child-killer..."

Each word was punctuated by another devastating blow, flesh parting like water beneath his fists.

**

Captain Tatum was midway through his midday meal in the mess hall when the guard burst in, his face ashen and breath coming in ragged gasps. The man's eyes held the wide, glassy look of someone who'd seen something that challenged his very understanding of human nature.

"Captain! It's Lasair, he's killing the prisoner! Beating him to death!" The words tumbled out in a rush, each one hitting Tatum like a physical blow.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Tatum's spoon clattered to the table, soup splashing across his charts. "What?" He surged to his feet with the speed of a man half his age, grabbing three of his sturdiest crewmen en route. These were men who'd seen battle, who'd weathered storms that could break lesser souls. "With me! Now!"

They pounded down the corridor, boots thundering on the planks like war drums. Tatum's mind raced, trying to reconcile what he'd been told with the controlled, almost detached young man he'd spoken with earlier. Lasair had seemed calm, professional, what could have triggered such explosive violence?

The door to the holding cell hung ajar like a mouth frozen mid-scream, and as they shoved it fully open, the scene inside didn't just freeze them in their tracks, it burned itself into their memories with the permanence of a brand.

Fin knelt over what had once been Brokenheart like some priest at a blood altar, his body moving with mechanical precision. The pirate was long dead, had been for some time, but Fin's fists continued to rise and fall with metronomic regularity. What remained of Brokenheart's face was unrecognizable, a crimson mash of bone fragments and tissue that bore no resemblance to anything human. Blood had splattered across the floor and walls in arterial sprays, creating a grotesque mural that would require more than soap and water to cleanse.

"Monster," Fin muttered, the word slurring into something barely coherent through his labored breathing. "Filth... predator... child-killer..."

Tatum's stomach lurched violently, bile rising in his throat. He'd seen violence in his decades at sea, raids that painted decks red, battles that left men in pieces, executions that were necessary but never pleasant. But this transcended violence and entered the realm of something far more disturbing: systematic, unending rage given physical form.

One of his men retched, turning away as his breakfast painted the corridor floor. "Depths preserve us," another whispered, his voice barely audible over the wet sounds of continuing impact.

A casual voice cut through the horror like a knife through silk, incongruously calm and almost amused. "Well, that's unfortunate."

Soga sauntered into the carnage as if entering a tavern for an evening drink. His mask was firmly in place, and his posture spoke of complete nonchalance. He glanced at the scene with the detached interest of someone examining a mildly interesting painting, then spotted the mana suppression device still humming on the chair. "Neat gadget," he remarked, making no move to deactivate it.

Without haste or apparent concern, Soga stepped forward. His hand flashed out with surgical precision, striking a specific point on Fin's neck where nerves clustered beneath the skin. Fin slumped instantly, his body going limp as unconsciousness claimed him.

Soga hauled his companion over his shoulder with the casual ease of someone collecting laundry. He turned to Tatum, who stood rooted in shock, his weathered face the color of old parchment. "Sorry about the mess, Captain. I know you wanted to haul him back for proper justice, trials and crimes and all that civilized nonsense." With a flick of his wrist, he stored Brokenheart's mangled corpse in his dimensional storage, the body vanishing in a shimmer of displaced air. "We can still collect the bounty on a dead man."

Tatum swallowed bile, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the tremor in his hands. "He was... your prisoner anyway. But those victims... he won't face consequences now. Won't answer for what he did to all those people."

Soga shrugged, adjusting Fin's weight across his shoulder as if discussing the weather. "Consequences come in many forms, Captain. Some are delivered by courts and judges. Others..." He glanced meaningfully at the blood-stained cell. "Others are more immediate."

He looked at the crewman who'd vomited, now wiping his mouth with a trembling sleeve. "Might want to get a mop and some strong soap in here. And maybe burn some incense, that smell's going to linger." With that casual observation, he teleported away in a flash of turquoise light, leaving Tatum and his men staring at what looked like the aftermath of a particularly creative massacre.

The captain exhaled shakily, rubbing his face with hands that wouldn't quite stop trembling. "Depths... what have we let aboard our ship?"

**

Fin's world swam back into focus like emerging from deep, dark waters. His head throbbed with the rhythm of a war drum, each pulse sending spikes of pain through his skull. He blinked at the familiar cabin ceiling, the gentle rock of the ship confirming he was still aboard the Seahawk. The taste of copper filled his mouth, and his hands ached with a deep, bone-deep soreness.

Looking down, he saw his knuckles were raw and split, though already knitting back together thanks to his supernatural healing. Blood caked his skin in rusty flakes, dried and cracking with each movement. The crimson stains had painted his forearms like macabre sleeves, a stark and damning contrast against his pale flesh.

Soga sat on the opposite bunk with his feet propped up on a crate, nose buried in one of his romance novels as if nothing unusual had occurred. He glanced up when Fin stirred, turquoise eyes holding an unreadable expression. "Look who's finally awake. Sleep well?"

Fin sat up slowly, wincing as fragmented memories began reassembling themselves like pieces of a broken mirror: the cell, the confession, the overwhelming red haze that had consumed everything. "What... what happened to me?"

Soga set his book aside with deliberate care, his expression growing serious. "You killed Brokenheart. Beat him to death with your bare hands. Took you about fifteen minutes to stop hitting the corpse."

Fin stared at him, confusion and something darker knotting in his chest. "I... what? I remember activating my mana suppression device, removing his suppressor... then nothing. Just... nothing."

Soga leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "I guess deactivating that passive skill of yours was a bad idea after all. All that bottled rage you've been carrying, all that careful control, it had to go somewhere when the lid came off. You went completely feral on him."

Fin looked down at his hands, flexing them experimentally. The blood, Brokenheart's blood, still crusted under his nails despite his healing, a visceral reminder of violence he couldn't remember. His stomach twisted, not with regret for what he'd done, but with a hollow unease at his complete loss of control.

"Am I... broken?" The question escaped him like a confession. "Did I lose it for good?"

Soga regarded him steadily for a long moment, then shrugged with infuriating casualness. "Only time will tell, kid. But in this world? A little breakage might be exactly what keeps you breathing." He picked up his book again, flipping to find his place. "Clean up. Tatum's crew is spooked enough without you looking like you bathed in a slaughterhouse."

Fin nodded numbly, rising to fetch water from the basin. As he began washing the blood away, watching the crimson swirl down the drain like liquid guilt, he felt something unexpected rising in his chest. Not remorse, not shame, but anger, sharp and focused and aimed directly at the man casually reading across from him.

The realization hit him like a physical blow: Soga had known exactly what would happen when he messed with Convergent Equilibrium. Had known and let it occur anyway. Was he really on his side or something else?

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