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Limehouse, the eastern edge of Victorian London, 19th Century.
The damp fog crawling up from the Thames swallowed the flickering gaslight, staining the entire district in a thick, muddy grey. In this slum, where coal smoke mingled with the stench of the sewers, the darkness of night was more than just an absence of light. It was a shroud—a veil designed for people to disappear behind, or to be slaughtered under.
Ritsuka Fujimaru walked with the collar of her oversized, worn-out jacket turned up, feeling the chill of the cobblestones through her thin soles. Beside her, Bartholomew Roberts wore a soot-stained grey longcoat, intentionally tattered in places. Yet, it seemed their careful disguises weren't enough to deceive the predators of these alleys.
"Heh... trying to hide in rags, but you can’t wash off the smell of quality. Especially you, tall drink of water. Your posture gives you away."
From the depths of the fog, a group of 'sweepers' emerged, clutching meat cleavers and rusted iron pipes, circling Ritsuka. The man in the lead leaned in, peering into Bartholomew’s face with a vulgar grin.
"That guide you asked for earlier—your accent was thick. Welsh, wasn't it? ...But for a country boy, you reek of gold. Hand over whatever valuables you’re hiding."
"Or would you rather become an unidentified corpse floating in the Thames?"
One of the men grabbed Ritsuka’s arm with a filth-stained hand, blocking her path. In that heartbeat, she felt the air around Bartholomew shift—from a calm sea to a sudden, violent gale.
"Master, close your eyes for a moment. ...I’m afraid I need to do a bit of cleaning up."
The moment Ritsuka instinctively shut her eyes, the fog was pierced by the dull thud of striking meat and the sharp hiss of something cutting through the air.
There was no chivalrous flair in Bartholomew’s violence, nor any passionate rage. It was a cold, clinical practice—an efficient, business-like removal of 'enemies.'
This time, he hadn't drawn a pistol or a cutlass. Instead, he held a razor-sharp knife that fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. Without a second’s hesitation, he slashed the tendons in the wrist of the man holding Ritsuka. Before a scream could even form, another blade gouged deep into the man’s thigh. As a second thug swung a knife, Bartholomew slipped into his guard with a dancer’s footwork and pressed a cold edge against the man's throat.
When Ritsuka cautiously opened her eyes, two men were already on the ground, groaning in pools of blood. The last man was dangling in the air, hoisted up by his collar. Bartholomew was idly tracing the tip of his blood-slicked knife just millimeters from the man’s eyeball.
"Now, which of us is going to be the unidentified corpse in the Thames? ...I wouldn't mind tearing you apart limb from limb, but unfortunately, I have company I’d rather not show such things to. Thank God for your luck and choose: die quickly, or talk."
After the man tearfully sobbed out the location of their hideout, Bartholomew tossed him aside like trash and brought the hilt of his knife down hard against the man's temple, snuffing out his consciousness.
"Aww... Mom, he did all of them."
Jack the Ripper, the silver-haired girl, poked her head out from the fog, pouting. Having been scouting ahead, she looked dissatisfied that her role of 'disassembling' the prey had been stolen.
"Dissecting is our job. ...Mister is a cheater."
"My apologies, Jack. But they were disturbing my 'Order' a bit too much,"
Bartholomew replied coldly.
Heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed from behind.
"Oi, oi, what the hell is this mess?! I haul ass over here 'cause I heard there was some suspicious shit near the Master, and I find this!"
Edward Teach appeared, his voice low and grating. Behind him, Francis Drake walked up, holstering her pistol with an annoyed expression. Blackbeard took one look at the carnage on the cobblestones and the spreading blood, then glared at Bartholomew.
"...Tch. Same as ever, Bartho. This 'Rule' of yours... at the end of the day, this is all it is, huh? You dress it up in fancy words, but your feet are planted on a mountain of corpses. No matter how pretty your clothes are, you can’t hide the stink of your violence."
Blackbeard jerked a thumb at Drake, who was snorting beside him, and spat on the ground in disgust.
"Rules, aesthetics... you're all a pain in the ass. Hey, old hag, even your messy, loud-mouthed plundering looks better than this creepy execution show."
"Who are you calling 'messy,' you low-life dimwit? ...Though, I’ll agree that Bartholomew’s methods are nothing but a hopeless brand of private execution. If it were me, I’d choose a more stylish way to threaten someone."
Bartholomew didn't even bat an eye at Drake’s scathing remark. He simply wiped the blood from his knife with a cloth and let out a self-deprecating chuckle.
"I won't deny it, you two. Order and Law were my aesthetics. But the foundation of that aesthetic was pure violence. Do you want to know what happened to those who broke the rules—who brought women aboard, or cheated their comrades out of their share?"
"I know. I read about it in the library."
The voice that cut in was quiet. He turned slowly, his deep eyes—like the Thames at night—meeting Ritsuka’s unreadable expression.
"I am a man who chose the life of a pirate to live 'merrily.' I won't make excuses now and say I had no choice but to survive. My life was one of boarding and plundering. Whether I comforted myself with tea and music, or never missed a hymn on the Sabbath, the place I’m falling to is still Hell."
It was an incredibly dry confession, yet for him, it was a moment of absolute sincerity.
Giving the order to withdraw, Bartholomew began to walk toward the fog-shrouded pier, accompanying Ritsuka. The backs of the other pirates faded into the mist, leaving only the sound of their two pairs of footsteps echoing on the stones.
"Still, Bartholomew. You went a bit overboard."
Ritsuka murmured to the back walking ahead of her. Her voice wasn't accusatory; it was low and flat, merely stating a fact. Bartholomew stopped and turned, a slight shrug of his shoulders.
"Oh? Half-measures are the worst of all, you know. If you show clumsy mercy, it only causes trouble later."
He flashed his usual smile, as if shaking off the lingering scent of blood.
"Half-hearted compassion gives them the delusion that there's a 'next time.' That is the seed of disorder. To make them understand completely with a single act of violence is the most efficient path—and in a sense, the most merciful. ...Don't you agree, Master?"
"Well, maybe you're right."
Ritsuka looked at the hem of his tattered coat and gave him a slightly ironic smile.
"Now then, Master. Regardless, I put you through a frightening ordeal this time. ...And on top of that, I made you wear such a tasteless coat."
Bartholomew’s tone had returned to its usual polite lilt. However, there was no trace of regret or apology for using Ritsuka as bait. He had utilized his Master without hesitation to achieve his goal with maximum efficiency, and he had succeeded. It was a display of raw, functional beauty—a bond called 'trust' stripped to its barest form.
"...Well, it’s nothing new. Besides, I knew you would protect me without fail."
For a moment, his eyes widened as if he had been caught off guard. Ritsuka’s words—expecting neither an apology nor a humble excuse—slipped straight into the cracks of his 'Rule.' He curled his lips into a satisfied, almost amused smile.
"Indeed. You must be exactly that way. You do not drown in sentiment; you weigh utility and trust with a steady hand. You truly are the finest Master, worthy of the best seat on my ship. Now, let’s move to our next base. Watch your step."
Bartholomew tucked his knife away into the cleanest fold of his coat, the blade now stripped of every trace of red. Behind them, the groans of the men he had broken faded, dissolving into the heavy mist. He did not look back—not even once. To him, the matter was settled; the debris had been cleared.
He offered a calm, effortless smile.
"How quiet. Order must be maintained, after all."