The Black Buccaneer - Chapter - 53

The sails of the resurrected Revenant billowed proudly against the salty wind as Captain Hector Barbossa, now back among the living, stood on the quarterdeck with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The mission laid out before him by Jack Sparrow and Tia Dalma was simple in words—go to Singapore and convince Sao Feng, the Pirate Lord of the South China Sea, to join the Brethren Court. In practice, it was anything but.

The harbor of Singapore was no ordinary port. The air was thick with crimson smoke and the scent of ginger, musk, and burning incense. Docks bustled with traders and mercenaries, all under the wary eyes of Sao Feng’s guards. Cannons lined the bay, and Barbossa knew full well that a single misstep would have the Revenant sunk before she could turn about.

Barbossa, accompanied by Ragetti, Pintel, and a small company of handpicked loyalists, disembarked with care. “Stay close and keep yer tongues in yer mouths,” he muttered, eyeing the steel-robed warriors stationed along the walkway. “These folk don’t blink twice before slittin’ throats.”

As they entered the inner compound—a grand structure carved of dark teakwood and guarded by statues of ancient sea serpents—Sao Feng’s lieutenant, Tai Long, greeted them with a narrow glare.

“You bring guns into the Dragon Temple, pirate?” Tai Long sneered.

Barbossa removed his hat and bowed with theatrical grace. “I bring only words, good sir. Words... and invitations.”

They were led past veils of silk and steaming fountains to a vast throne room, where Sao Feng reclined shirtless, steam rising from his body like a dragon in repose. Tattoos of waves and phoenixes wound across his torso. His eyes glittered like obsidian.

“So... the sea’s corpse walks again,” Sao Feng said dryly, glancing at Barbossa.

“Aye,” Barbossa replied, “and this corpse has come with news. The East India Company’s stretchin’ its claws across the seas. Beckett’s got Davy Jones’ heart... an’ he’s usin’ it to hang our kind like rats on a dock. If we don’t unite, we die.”

Sao Feng laughed. “Jack Sparrow should have come himself.”

Barbossa smirked. “Jack’s busy with... other matters. But he’s callin’ the Brethren Court. He needs the Lords. And you—”

“I need nothing,” Sao Feng interrupted. “Except proof that this threat is real.”

Barbossa’s smile faded. He reached into his coat and pulled out a parchment. “This here’s a list o’ every pirate hanged in the Caribbean in the last month. Each marked with the Company’s seal. Including two who sailed under yer own colors near Manila.”

That made Sao Feng pause. He read the parchment with a dark frown.

“I’ll consider it,” he said finally. “But know this, Hector Barbossa—if Jack Sparrow plans to sit in the Court again, he’ll need more than words to earn my trust.”

Barbossa’s grin returned. “Then let’s hope he’s got somethin’ clever up his sleeve.”

With that, the meeting was adjourned. The smoke of Singapore curled high into the sky as Barbossa returned to the Revenant, one step closer to uniting the Pirate Lords—and one step deeper into the storm.


The sun had barely risen over the misty jungle shoreline when Jack Sparrow found himself standing ankle-deep in muddy water, staring into the doorway of a moss-covered ruin half-swallowed by the mangrove trees. Behind him, the Black Pearl bobbed gently in the shallows, anchored just beyond the reach of the creeping roots. He adjusted his coat, flicked a beetle off his sleeve, and muttered, “Remind me again why I agreed to this?”

Tia Dalma’s voice echoed in his memory, sultry and cryptic. “There be a map, Jack, hidden in the ruins of San Zanjel. A map drawn by the blind sailor who once sailed to the Veiled Deep. You bring it to me, and your path shall be clear.”

The Veiled Deep—Jack had heard the name whispered only in curses and nightmares, a place beyond any known sea. But if Tia Dalma wanted this map, it had to be important. And if Jack got it first, perhaps it could be useful leverage against whatever came next.

He stepped through the ruin’s archway, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The air inside was thick and damp, filled with the smell of mildew and old blood. Vines choked the crumbling stone columns, and skeletal remains lay scattered across the cracked floor.

“Right, then,” Jack muttered, lighting a torch. “Haunted ruin, possibly cursed map, maybe a ghost or two—just another Tuesday.”

The ruin’s inner chamber revealed carvings on the walls—symbols of ancient oceanic gods and maps of constellations that no longer existed. At the center was a stone pedestal, and atop it lay a sealed wooden tube. The map.

As Jack reached for it, the air grew cold. A figure materialized from the shadows—skeletal, draped in tattered sailor's garb, with coral and barnacles clinging to its bones.

“You who seek the Veiled Deep,” the specter rasped. “You must prove you are not afraid to lose your way.”

Jack grimaced. “Right. Talking ghosts. Should’ve known.”

The ground rumbled. The walls shifted. A maze began to emerge around him, stone rising and twisting into shifting corridors. Jack glanced at the specter.

“No instructions? Not even a ‘mind the step’?”

“You carry the compass,” the specter said. “Follow what you want most.”

Jack hesitated. That compass was dangerous—it revealed desire, not direction. But he opened it, and the needle spun wildly before fixing on a path.

For the next hour, Jack traversed the twisting maze, facing illusions of old enemies, visions of his own death, and one particularly stubborn crab. But at the center, he emerged before the pedestal once more—this time, the map lay unguarded.

He took it.

The specter nodded. “The path will now open before you... and close behind you.”

The ruin shook. Jack bolted. He barely made it outside before the entrance collapsed in a roar of dust and vines. He stumbled onto the beach, panting.

Holding up the map, Jack grinned. “Right, Miss Dalma. I got your cursed scribble. Let’s hope this buys me something valuable... like staying alive.”

He looked out to sea, whistled for his rowboat, and began the return to the Pearl. The next stop: Tia Dalma’s shack—and whatever twisted deal came next.


The sun was high and blazing over the coast of southern Spain, casting golden light across the tiled roofs of the harbor town. The sea breeze carried the smell of salt and wine, and the chatter of seagulls mixed with the laughter of wealthy traders and sailors. Nestled beyond the busy docks, perched on a rocky cliff above the ocean, was a mansion that seemed out of place—luxurious, fortified, and completely extravagant. This was the private estate of Edward Teach, known to the world as Blackbeard.

Sirius Black, still cloaked in the name of Henry Creed, adjusted the wide-brimmed hat over his head and stepped out of the enchanted carriage that had brought him through the winding Spanish streets. His boots crunched against the white gravel path leading to the arched gates of the estate. He passed marble statues of sirens and sea monsters and fountains flowing with fresh spring water.

“Subtle, aren’t we?” Sirius murmured with a smirk, looking at a towering iron sculpture of a Kraken strangling a galleon. “Must be compensating for something.”

Two guards flanking the main entrance, dressed not in British redcoats or ragged sailor garb but in rich black and crimson uniforms stitched with sea dragon sigils, stopped Sirius with an arm each.

“Name and business?”

“Henry Creed,” he said smoothly, reaching into his coat and pulling out a letter sealed in black wax. “Deliver this to your master. He’ll want to read it.”

One of the guards raised a brow, then took the envelope and stepped inside. Sirius waited, staring out at the garden that overlooked the sea.

Minutes later, the guard returned. “Captain Teach will see you now.”

Sirius was ushered through a palatial courtyard filled with hanging lanterns and exotic fruit trees. Silk-draped lounges surrounded a circular marble fountain where parrots squawked and fluttered.

And then he saw him—Edward Teach. The infamous pirate, Blackbeard, sat beneath a shaded pergola in a wide, cushioned chair. He wore a gold-threaded waistcoat over a silk shirt, and despite the notorious tales of burning fuse cords in his beard, he now looked more like a retired emperor than a sea devil.

“So,” Blackbeard said, stroking his graying beard and eyeing Sirius with a piercing stare. “You’re the one they call Henry Creed. The merchant captain. Angelica spoke of you.”

“She did?” Sirius asked, his voice cool but interested. “That’s good to hear. She never mentioned that her father had the taste of a Spanish duke.”

Blackbeard laughed heartily, waving a hand to offer him wine. “A pirate who lives forever yet dies in hunger and rot—what a waste. I’ve buried enough gold to buy the whole Caribbean. But this—” he raised his goblet and glanced toward the sprawling sea, “—this is how we should live, lad.”

Sirius accepted the wine and sat across from him. “I couldn't agree more. The sea has its place. But what good is gold if it never buys you a warm bed, fresh fruit, or music that doesn’t sound like dying seagulls?”

Blackbeard chuckled again, raising his goblet to toast. “To warm beds and living like kings.”

They drank.

“I’m not here just to admire your estate,” Sirius said after a moment. “I came for Angelica.”

Blackbeard’s smile faded slightly. “She told me about you. Says you’re clever, dangerous, and that you treat her like no man ever has. That worries me.”

Sirius met his gaze, unflinching. “I love her. And she’s not a girl anymore. She’s a warrior in her own right, a captain even.”

Blackbeard studied him in silence, then leaned back. “She’s off on a task. One I gave her. She’s strong, but I wanted to see if she could survive the legacy I’ve left her. You’ll get your reunion, lad. But not just yet.”

Sirius nodded. “Then while we wait, perhaps we can talk about something else. The world’s changing. Lord Beckett is spreading his control like rot. Pirates are being hunted. And your name, Captain Teach, still inspires fear. But I wonder... how much of that fear is still relevant, if you remain here in your fortress.”

Blackbeard’s eyes glinted. “You mean to rouse me, Henry Creed?”

“I mean to offer you a partnership,” Sirius said with a small smile. “Not for pillage. Not for gold. For something far more powerful. The Fountain of Youth.”

“You speak of the Fountain of Youth like it’s something real,” Blackbeard said, leaning forward, his meaty hand wrapped around the stem of a goblet. “Like you’ve seen it with your own eyes.”

Sirius gave a slight smile. “I haven’t. But I’ve studied things. Scrolls that predate the Age of Sail. Legends told in whispers. What I have is not hearsay—it's research.”

He reached into his coat and produced a thick, worn leather-bound journal, tied with a faded strap. He placed it gently on the table between them.

“This contains everything I know about it. Rituals. Ancient markers. The language etched into the ruins of vanished civilizations. It's not complete—but it’s more than anyone else in the Caribbean has.”

As Blackbeard reached out to pull the diary toward him, Sirius thought—If only you knew the truth.
He had long since discovered the secret of eternal life. He didn’t need the Fountain. His blood hadn’t aged in over a century, and his Philosopher’s Stone sat locked in a hidden chamber far beyond the reach of thieves or tyrants. But you don’t give away everything to a man like Blackbeard. Some truths were best left unsaid.

“You’re offering me knowledge,” Blackbeard said, running a thick thumb along the cover of the book. “But I want something else—certainty. Why would a man like you give me this?”

“Because I love your daughter,” Sirius said without hesitation. “And I intend to marry her.”

Blackbeard gave a low growl of a chuckle. “A merchant captain with a romantic heart. How poetic.”

“I’m more than just a merchant, Edward,” Sirius said, his voice steady. “And you know it. You’ve heard my name before.”

Blackbeard’s eyes flicked up sharply. “Henry Creed?”

“No,” Sirius said, leaning forward. “Captain Black Jr.”

The silence was heavy. The only sound was the faint creak of the ship’s rigging in the distance.

“You're telling me,” Blackbeard said slowly, “that you are the son of the man East India Company hunted across three continents... the man who vanished like smoke and took half their fortune with him?”

Sirius gave no answer—just a long, steady gaze.

Blackbeard stared. Then, suddenly, he laughed. A thunderous, bellowing laugh that echoed across the sea. “Well, damn me to the depths. That explains a lot.”

He looked down at the diary again, sobering. “This—this is valuable. But not as much as my daughter’s happiness.”

“She’s not a child, Edward,” Sirius said. “She chose to sail with me. She chose me.”

Blackbeard nodded slowly, rubbing his beard. “And you’re willing to give me this book, all your knowledge of the Fountain, for her hand?”

“Yes.”

He leaned back, the weight of years and blood hanging off his broad shoulders. “You got guts, I’ll give you that. And if even half this book is real, it’s worth more than all the cursed gold rotting in the Isla de Muerta.”

He extended his hand across the table.

Sirius took it without hesitation.

“Then it’s settled,” Blackbeard said. “You marry my daughter. I hunt the Fountain.”

Sirius smiled.

And in the quiet recesses of his mind, he thought: And I pray you never realize what it really costs to live forever.