Fear, the knife that carves a man down to his bones. It doesn't shape him into sothing new. It strips away the excess, the lies, the masks, until all that's left is the truth of what he is. And that truth hidden behind it all is rarely sothing beautiful. Civilization, morality, honor- Luxuries, I say luxuries afforded to those who have never felt the true weight of fear. Strip them away, all that remains is instinct, raw and unfiltered.
So n bare their teeth, snapping like wounded animals, mistaking rage for strength, clinging to violence as if it will make them untouchable. Other crumble, their spines folding like paper, revealing their bravado was nothing but a ruse, a performance based on borrowed courage, a performance ant for the calr waters.
But fear doesn't just break n- it reveals them. So will find steel beneath their skin, an unshaken will they never knew existed. So will laugh in the face of it, not because they are fearless, but because they have made peace with the inevitable.
And when fear peeled layer by layer, it found sothing it could not drown. Sothing it could not crush beneath the weight of the abyss. It found . Not the man I was before, not the man the world had beaten into shape, but the thing left behind after the ocean had tried to devour . A thing too rational to be sane, too insane to be broken. A thing that had stared into the gaping maw of the deep and laughed.
I had already been there. I had already felt the water close over my head, had already sunk into the void where light did not reach. And I had clawed my way back.
So I let fear wrap its jagged teeth around my throat, let it pull close, let it whisper its truths in my ear. And then, I sank my teeth right back into it. Because fear was just another Leviathan, just another beast trying to drag under. And I did not drown. I did not sink. I fought.
I t fear like I had t every monster before it—with bare hands and bared teeth, with reckless defiance and a grin that did not break. I twisted it, shaped it into sothing I could use. Fear did not own and neither did I. But I made it my weapon. My shield. My fire.
And in the end, I did what I hope I always did.
I defied it.
Now, I had to defy my morality. Not question it, not debate it—just tear it apart with my bare hands. There was no space for hesitation, no ti to ponder right and wrong. The mont that harpoon sank into my flesh, the mont they decided I was prey, the choice was made for . I would have to kill. No rationalizations, no "this and that" about whether they deserved it. I had to take human lives, even if they were scum, even if the world would be better off without them. I had to kill just to survive.
How fucking stupid.
A modern man—soone who once lived under laws, surrounded by the illusion of civility, fueled by morality and legality. That was the world I knew. A world where killing was a cri, where consequences existed beyond survival, where right and wrong were dictated by ink on paper. But that world was gone, ripped away the mont I was thrown into the waters. And the waters played by different rules. No, not rules—laws. Immutable, unyielding laws of the fittest.
I don't know if the faces of the n I kill will haunt . Maybe a week ago, I would have said yes. I would have feared the weight of their ghosts pressing down on my conscience, their lifeless eyes staring back at in the dark. But now? Now, I almost hope they do. At least then, I won't be alone. At least then, I'll have company in this abyss.
Besides, they had already decided the ga we were playing. They had brandished their weapons at , grinning like wolves, waiting for the mont I faltered, waiting to carve up like a fresh catch. The mont you pull a gun, a sword, a harpoon, you accept the consequence of battle. The mont you choose to kill, you must be prepared to be killed. That's not morality. That's not so philosophical debate about ethics. That's just reality.
I can't follow the laws of the world I ca from, but I can follow the law of the waters. And in these waters, hesitation is just another word for death.
With every tug of the rope, I was drawn closer, my raft scraping against the hull of the ship as I ca in. I could see their faces now—wrinkled, battered, chiseled from salt and hardship.
The hardest of the hard, sailors seasoned by storms, by blood, by whatever hell they'd endured. Their skin was coarse, their eyes sharp, their bodies worn like tools that'd been overused. And yet, the more I approached, they fell silent. Not in fear, no, but wary. Their eyes sized up, their words falling low, whispers floating on the air like a wave away.
They stood along the deck, gazing down, waiting. Others stood bracing themselves on the railing, others off to the side, arms crossed, mouths moving in quiet whispers. A spectacle. Sothing to break the drudgery of their relentless sailing across the seas.
I let them see it.
And I smiled.
The whispers grew to a roar.
The voices shifted to chanting, each one jostling against the others, creating a wave of uncertainty. A man elbowed his way forward, prominent in the crowd. His boots thudded on the wooden deck, his form cutting through the crowded n like a blade. He held a gun. No sense of hesitation, no theatrics, rely raw, steely efficiency.
He brought it up.
And shot .
Once. Twice. A third ti. A fourth.
The first bullet hit my chest, the force taking the air from my lungs, agony ripping through like a burning brand of white fire. The second hit a heartbeat later, sinking deep, shaking my ribs as if they were just kindling. The third and fourth hit my arm, my body wrenching from the impact, my fingers spasm-ing, my eyes flashing with a nauseating jolt of red.
The world staggered. My lungs gasped. The rope holding up constricted as my body plumted.
But I didn't fall.
And I didn't stop smiling.
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I know too much monologue but bear with . It will take a little more ti to reach the fight scene. And a day ago the interaction was so much different than what I have written now. But if you look at the MC it kinda makes sense that he is acting like this. First he ca alive from god knows what horrors and all that. he was broken so many ti that its not even funny anymore. So, seeing that he is eting human scums.
He will use them as punching bag as I had already said. But if you have read the previous Chapter. You will know its not easy. It never is.
Though in my view, I like this MC tactic. using fear as a weapon. Being scarecrow. Maybe if I do this fight scene justice. I will make it his go to fighting way.
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