Damon's Ascension-Chapter 78: Damon’s Message To The Universe Will 3

Damon chuckled lightly, stepping further into the warm, dimly lit pantry.

"You could say that," he replied smoothly, his silvery-brown eyes glinting as he took in the large iron pots and wooden crates filled with supplies. The scent of salted meats and stale bread filled the air, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked deck outside.

The cook, a stocky man with a gut that suggested he enjoyed his own cooking more than anyone else, kept his back turned as he continued chopping a slab of cured pork.

"Well, ’newbie,’ you better learn this quick. The moment you start letting those greedy sods push you around, you’ll never get a moment’s peace. You’d think they were the ones workin’ in here, the way they demand."

Damon leaned casually against a crate with folded arms, watching the man work. "Sounds frustrating, you must have a lot of patience."

The cook snorted. "Patience? Ha! More like I’ve given up on arguing with these lot. Bunch of louts, every last one of ’em. And the captain? Bastard wouldn’t know good food if it bit him in the ass. Eats like a damn pig and still complains that the stew’s too salty."

He slid a plate across the counter, not even looking at Damon as he did. "Here, take this and get lost before someone else comes sniffing around."

Damon glanced down at the plate, which had a generous serving of salted pork, a half-loaf of hard bread, and a bowl of what could only be described as ’ship stew’, a questionable mixture of whatever hadn’t rotted yet.

He picked up the spoon, swirling the thick, murky liquid for a moment before shaking his head.

"Smells... hearty," Damon said with twitching lips.

"Damn right it does!" The cook finally turned, crossing his arms with a self-satisfied grin.

He pointed at the plate with thick fingers. "You won’t get better food than this on the sea, I tell ya. Been cookin’ for near twenty years, so don’t go wastin’ it."

Damon nodded. "I wouldn’t dream of it."

The cook grinned, pleased with himself... until he finally got a good look at Damon.

His expression shifted from smug satisfaction to confused scrutiny. His brow furrowed as he took in Damon’s prisoner rags as opposed to the shocking cleanliness of his body, and most importantly, his light brown complexion.

Then his gaze drifted lower slowly and almost woodenly down to Damon’s feet, which were slick with blood.

The cook’s smile faltered. "...wait a minute."

Damon took a slow bite of the pork, chewing thoughtfully as he met the cook’s widening eyes.

"Y-You ain’t...You ain’t... one of the crew...!" The cook’s breath hitched.

Damon swallowed heavily, setting the spoon down neatly beside the bowl as he had no intention of ingesting that broth. Still, he released a slow and satisfied breath with a nod of his head.

"It’s quite good, you have real talent," Damon admitted, thinking of the suya-spiced pork sold in Ghana which was only slightly better than this.

No wonder the sailors always pestered this guy.

The cook stumbled back, his hand grasping for a knife on the counter, but Damon was already in motion the moment the cook formed the thought.

A silver blur flashed across the dim room as the cook barely had time to blink before Damon’s ice dagger was buried deep into his chest, the cold bite of moonlight-induced ice spreading through his body like frost creeping across glass.

The cook gasped, his breath hitching as his knees buckled.

"B-Bastard...!" He choked, his fingers twitching uselessly as he sagged against the counter.

Damon caught the fellow softly before he could collapse, lowering him gently onto the floor. He remained crouched as he watched the cook’s life fade, the light in his eyes dimming like a lantern running out of oil.

Then, with a sigh, Damon picked up his plate and continued eating the remainder of the pork, as there was no sense in letting good food go to waste.

He sat on a counter with his legs swinging casually, his mouth full of pork and a corpse at his feet. When he was done, he walked over to the barrels of water and saw that they had only clean drinking water as well as rum.

With a shrug, he decided to try the fabled rum of the age of sailing, fetching a small ladle full and partially freezing it with his power. Then he gingerly took a sip.

Huh?

Damon was shocked.

Was this actually the prototype of soda? Instead of a bitter taste, it was sweet and sugary with a complex mixture of heaviness and a little bit of heat.

Damon ended up taking a few more sips before washing it down with some clean water that was also partially chilled.

In a rare moment of youthful levity, Damon muttered to himself: "Could it be considered that I too have lived off the land?"

Now that his short rest was done, it was time to finish things up.

Damon patted his bum and got off the counter, not even paying the dead cook another look as he exited the pantry and came up to the deck once more, walking towards the captain’s cabin which was still yet unresponsive to what occurred outside.

Damon casually pushed open the door without knocking, admitting himself into the rather large space.

The captain’s quarters were surprisingly lavish for a ship of this caliber.

A grand oak desk sat near the center of the room, covered in maps, quills, and half-empty bottles of rum, while a large lantern swung gently overhead, casting a dim and flickering glow that made the wooden walls seem daunting.

A small bookshelf was bolted into the far wall, its contents shifting with the sway of the ship while the air smelled of pipe smoke, alcohol, and unwashed men.

At the center of it all sat who was presumably the captain of this vessel, a burly man with a thick mustache and an unbuttoned waistcoat, lounging in his chair with a half-filled mug of rum in one hand.

Around him were three officers, each armed, though clearly in the midst of relaxation. One leaned against the bookshelf flipping through a logbook, another was at the desk, marking something on a chart, while the third was slumped in a chair, fast asleep.

The captain took a slow sip from his mug before speaking, not even looking up. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

"I swear to hell, if one of you bastards bothers because another stupid dispute over rations, I will..."

He finally glanced toward the door and paused. His groggy and lazy expression shifted into one of confusion as he took in Damon’s dark brown complexion standing in the doorway, moonlight from the open door casting a silver glow behind him.

The room tensed instantly as the officer at the desk snatched for a pistol upon reflex.

Damon glanced at the quick fellow then raised a hand, the air immediately chilling slightly.

The already weak lanterns dimmed greatly, causing shadows to grow unnaturally long. A very thin coating of ice spread across the floor slowly in spiderweb-like fractures, crawling up the legs of furniture.

A sudden gust snuffed out the candle on the captain’s desk, leaving only the pale silvery-brown glow of Damon’s eyes to cut through the darkness.

The officer aiming his pistol hesitated, his breath misting in the air, not understanding what was happening and what he was looking at.

Utilizing this, Damon accelerated sharply, effectively becoming a blur to all those in the room.

With a casual coalescence of moonlight, three razor-thin icicles formed in his palm that were launched forward with a flick of his wrist, shooting towards the three officers with lethal precision.

The officer with the pistol barely had time to blink before an icicle pierced his skull, entering through his eye socket and exiting cleanly out the back. His body jerked once before slumping onto the desk, blood pooling across the captain’s navigation charts.

The officer at the bookshelf dropped his logbook, scrambling for his cutlass, but Damon was already on him. The young man ducked low, avoiding a wild swing, and drove his ice dagger up under the officer’s ribs.

The blade extended mid-pierce, impaling the man through the chest before exiting his back in a spray of frozen crimson.

The last officer, the one asleep, barely stirred before a crescent blade of ice formed around Damon’s arm and slashed clean through his throat. His head lolled sideways, the rest of his body slumping into its chair.

Silence.

The only sound was the soft creak of the ship and the gentle clatter of ice shards falling onto the wooden floor.

Damon turned his gaze toward the captain, who remained frozen in place, his hand still clutching his mug of rum.

His mustache twitched slightly as he set the mug down very slowly.

"...I’m guessing you’re not here to discuss trade routes?" the captain muttered.

Damon strode forward, stepping over the fresh corpses. He reached the desk, glancing at the maps soaked in the officer’s blood before flicking them aside.

"How fast can this ship reach the coastline from which we set off?" Damon asked, his voice as cold as the air in the room.

The captain’s Adam’s apple bobbed while his eyes flicked toward the cutlass at his hip, but he was a seasoned enough sailor to recognize death when it stood before him.

He exhaled shakily and straightened his posture, as if salvaging some dignity before answering.

"One hour and a half, if we push the sails hard and the wind is favorable."

Damon nodded, tapping his fingers lightly against the desk. "Then you have exactly that long to prove your usefulness."

He gestured toward the wheel outside.

"Turn the ship. Now."

The captain hesitated for half a second too long.

Damon extended his hand, the ice dagger still in his grip elongating unnaturally, stretching into a razor-thin spear of frozen moonlight.

The captain’s eyes flicked down to it.

Then he hurriedly bolted from his chair, practically tripping over himself to reach the door to give the order.

Damon exhaled gently, his breath misting in the frigid air as his thoughts focused on his next steps.

He had only one hour and thirty minutes to fulfill the Universe Will’s bullshit objectives, and he would squeeze out every second of it.