The Coraline Archipelago shimmered like a dream under the morning sun. Ankit stood at the bow of the Red Blade, his twin swords crossed behind his back as the wind combed through his dark hair. The ship sliced cleanly through the sea, headed toward an island unlike any they had seen.
The cliffs sang.
Tall ridges of multicolored stone encircled the isle, and as waves slapped their curved bases, soft, hollow notes echoed outward—like nature's own flute. Even Ankit, usually wary, found his guard faltering under the melodic calm.
Shanks leaned lazily beside him, chewing a mangled piece of sugarcane. "Can you believe it? A place that sings back to the sea."
Ankit's hand brushed the hilt of one blade. "Places that feel too peaceful are the ones you should watch hardest."
Shanks laughed. "I like you, First Mate. You've got a stormy way of relaxing."
They made landfall shortly after.
The locals greeted them with joy and bright feathers. The village itself was carved directly into the cliffs, glowing pink and orange under the sun. Despite their isolation, the people were lively—and deeply respectful of sound. One rule was shared with a kind but firm smile:
"To eat from our tables, you must offer music to the cliffs."
Shanks volunteered immediately, snatching a carved wooden flute from one of the children. He blew confidently into the wrong end.
The villagers laughed politely.
"You're strangling the thing," Ankit muttered from the side.
"I'm giving it soul," Shanks insisted.
Despite the butchery, the performance was accepted. Laughter replaced judgment, and they were welcomed to a feast: grilled coral shark skewers, stewed starfish dumplings, and glowing sea kelp curry served on polished driftwood.
But peace cracked with a rumble.
Stone tiles vibrated beneath their feet. A trail of smoke billowed from a tunnel high up the cliffside, followed by the rhythmic thud of something large descending fast.
A wagon burst from the tunnel, steam pouring from its vents. A giant land-snail dragged it forward, its shell blackened and sizzling. Atop the wagon stood a broad-chested man in a scorched white chef's coat, iron ladles strapped to his arms like war clubs, and a steel wok slung on his back.
"I am Flambeaux—THE SEARING WOK!" he bellowed. "Give me the Soul-Soup Seer's recipe, or I shall render this town to fat and ash!"
He leapt from the wagon, cracking the stone plaza with his landing. Villagers screamed and scattered.
Ankit was already moving.
He landed between the mad chef and the villagers, blades drawn. His stance was low, balanced—knees bent, weight forward on the balls of his feet. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Flambeaux charged like a boulder. The steam pack on his back hissed as it released pressure, propelling him forward in a straight line.
Ankit stayed grounded. He waited.
The ladle came down from high above. Instead of blocking directly, Ankit pivoted to his right and used the flat of his left sword to guide the weapon's path—redirecting the momentum into the ground. A crater opened behind him.
Before the second ladle came, Ankit had already stepped in. His right blade snapped forward, aimed just above the wrist joint. It struck metal—not flesh—but left a dent.
"You've got nerve, little swordman!" Flambeaux barked.
Shanks joined from behind with a low chuckle. "He's more blade than boy. Be careful or you'll lose a finger."
Flambeaux spun wildly. His massive wok detached from his back and was used like a shield. He brought it down toward Ankit's skull.
Ankit didn't flinch. Instead, he dropped low, ducking under the blow and sliding across the stone. He came up behind Flambeaux and slashed with both swords—one aimed at the lower back, the other at the steam tank's latch.
The left strike missed. Flambeaux twisted in time. But the right hit true.
Steam hissed violently from the damaged tank. Flambeaux staggered, then roared, slamming both ladles down in a massive X-shaped blow.
Ankit rolled clear but felt the heat graze his cheek.
Shanks took the opening. He jumped high, kicked Flambeaux in the face mid-rotation, and landed smoothly behind him. "You're sloppy with your footwork," Shanks said. "You let your weight pull you instead of driving it."
"Enough!" Flambeaux yelled. "I'll boil you both into broth!"
He charged again.
This time, Ankit met him head-on. He adjusted his foot placement—right foot slightly forward, knees loose. When the first ladle came, he parried upward and used the movement to spin into a full cross-slash.
His swords arced in an "X," both cutting across Flambeaux's front—not deep enough to kill, but enough to break the outer shell of his apron.
[System Alert: Proficiency +0.4% – Pattern Interruption Achieved]
Ankit didn't stop.
He stepped in and rotated his hips sharply, executing a tight, close-range version of his finishing move.
[Crosswave Cutter – Blade Control Level 1]
Both swords curved inward in a criss-cross slash, focused at the steam tank.
Steel screamed. Sparks flew. The tank burst open.
Steam exploded in a white blast that forced everyone back. When the smoke cleared, Flambeaux lay flat on his back, twitching, his wok split in two at his side. One of his ladles spun like a wheel, then clattered into the plaza gutter.
Shanks scratched his head. "Well, guess dinner's on him."
The villagers emerged from hiding. The elder stepped forward, shaking his head slowly.
"You wield blades with skill," he said to Ankit, "but more importantly—you showed restraint. The cliffs thank you."
Later that evening, the crew sat by their ship, full and content. The elder gifted them a pouch of Boiling Coral Seeds, which instantly generated heat in seawater—perfect for cooking at sea.
Ankit sat quietly, polishing his blades. Shanks flopped down beside him with a bowl of reef eel and sea pepper.
"You move like you've done this before," Shanks said. "But I can tell—you're still learning when to cut… and when not to."
Ankit said nothing, but his hand paused on the hilt of his blade.
He wasn't overpowered. He didn't need to be. Not yet.
The system remained quiet. No new skills unlocked. No level-ups.
But his grip was stronger. His movement, cleaner.
And the next fight?
He would be ready.
End of Chapter 6 – "The Chef of the Singing Cliffs"
Next: Chapter 7 – "A Song for the Dying Moon"