Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Chapter 218 "Skeleton King" Mor Bone Whistle

On the fourth day, the faint light of dawn barely pierced through the gloomy sea fog over Skull Island.

The pirates, who had waited all night by the jagged rocks and decaying dock, had long since lost their patience. Their initial wariness and tension had now turned into savage mockery and unrestrained laughter.

"Ha! Iron Islands bastards!" A pirate missing a front tooth spat, making a vulgar gesture towards the hazy western sea. "All you do is hide under my skirt and brag! Didn't we agree on a three-day limit?"

Another burly man with a scarred face slammed his fist on the wooden railing, groaning as if the rotten wood was about to break: "Damn it! We fed the mosquitoes all night for nothing, not even a ghost in sight! What a load of crap Euron the Sea-Crowned King," I'd say "Coward Euron!"

A wave of profanity and mocking laughter spread through the crowd, as if they had already won the standoff. The tense atmosphere completely relaxed, and some people even began to pack up their crossbows, intending to go back to their huts to catch up on sleep.

Amidst the clamor and mockery, a guard on the shore with good eyesight squinted.

The morning mist flowed across the sea like an eerie gray veil, and behind that veil, a blurry outline was slowly emerging, drifting unhurriedly toward the dock with the tide.

"What...what is that?" he muttered, instinctively tightening his grip on the spear.

It was not the massive warship that had been expected, but a very simple raft, seemingly made of a few rotten logs tied together, without any sails or oars. It seemed to be pushed by the hand of the dead, silently breaking through the fog.

A sense of foreboding gripped the guard. He held his breath, staring intently. The raft drew closer, close enough for him to see that what it carried was not cargo at all. It was two twisted, stiff corpses. Even more chilling was that the necks of these two corpses were completely empty.

The head is gone.

Dark bloodstains soaked through their tattered clothes, appearing an ominous purplish-black in the pale light. Their postures spoke of the pain and fear they endured before death.

The guard's face drained of all color instantly; his previous arrogance and mockery were utterly crushed by chilling fear. He whirled around and scrambled towards the camp, his voice distorted and torn by extreme terror: "They're here! They're here!"

Head! Head's gone! On the ship—only the body remains on the ship!!

In the grey light of dawn, the two headless corpses were dragged ashore and roughly thrown onto the wet planks of the dock. The pirates gathered around, their whispers filled with barely concealed fear.

The leader of Skull Island, "Skull King" Mor Bonewhistle, pushed through the crowd. His rough hand rested on the hilt of his scimitar, and his gloomy gaze swept over the corpses. At first, he was suspicious, but then his pupils suddenly contracted.

He recognized the marks.

One of the corpses was enormous beyond human size, with a twisted and deformed spine protruding like a ship's mast. Even without its head, its mountain-like physique and the familiar battle scars on its skin revealed its identity—aside from Thor Bonecrusher of Bloodsail Horn, there was no other giant like it on the entire Stone Steps Archipelago.

His gaze abruptly shifted to another corpse. That body was relatively thin, and the distinctive, gaping scar on its throat was horrifying. On its exposed chest was a frenzied, dancing deep-sea octopus tattoo—this was Dag from Snaketooth Island, the throat-splitting tattoo.

A chilling coldness instantly crept up Mor Bonewhistle's spine. Thor Bonebreaker's power and Dag Throat Cleaver's cunning—they were both notorious criminals in this sea, but now they were both silent, lifeless remains, tossed back at his feet like trash.

The meaning behind this "gift" is self-evident.

Bloodsail Cape and Serpent's Tooth Island — could they already be —

Moor Bone Whistle abruptly raised his head, the last trace of color draining from his face.

Fear and rage clashed in his eyes, culminating in a deafening roar that shattered the morning silence of Skull Island: "Quick! Send ships immediately! To Bloodsail Cape! To Serpent Fang Island! Find out what the hell is going on there!"

The midday sun blazed down, baking the Skull Island pier to a scorching heat. Even the sea breeze carried a salty, acrid smell. The fast ships sent to the east and west finally returned one after the other.

The returning scouts were deathly pale, like corpses bloated from being submerged in seawater. They didn't even wait for the gangplank to be stable before stumbling and rushing to Mor Bone Whistle, their lips trembling and almost incoherent.

"The leader is dead—everyone is dead!"

When they saw Bloodsail Cape and Snake Tooth Island in the distance, they thought it was a mirage deceiving their eyes. At the highest point of the two islands, where flags used to be hung, stood a huge and ferocious "crown"—a mound of countless heads stacked on top of each other, their empty eye sockets all gazing out to sea, exuding an aura of death and terror under the blazing sun.

The seagulls circled and screeched, yet dared not land, for they were all afraid of the overwhelming aura of death.

The distance was eerily silent; there was no sign of any human activity, no smoke from cooking fires, no bugles, only a suffocating stillness.

They lingered at sea for a long time before finally mustering their remaining courage to steer their small boat shakily to shore. The island reeked of a heavy, nauseating stench of blood and decay, mingled with sea salt.

Inside and outside the fortress, on the streets and in the houses, there was no one.

There were no signs of fighting, no guards, no women, nothing alive. Only large patches of blackened, dried blood splattered on the walls and floor, silently testifying to the scale of the massacre that had taken place here.

They searched every corner, calling out familiar names, but only the howling wind and the echoing waves crashing on the shore answered them.

All the corpses had clearly been cleaned up and thrown into the sea to feed the fish. These two once-prosperous pirate lairs had been completely transformed into a vast graveyard, with only the mournful sound of the sea breeze remaining, in just one night.

The midday sun scorched the dock, and the air was filled with a salty mixture of fear and the smell of the sea.

"Skeleton King" Mor Bonewhistle's gaze, like a poisoned blade, was fixed on the face of his subordinate, who lay limp and incoherent. The pirate was still immersed in the terrifying sight of the two dead islands, trembling violently, the sound of his teeth chattering clearly audible.

"Leader—they—they all—"

Before he could finish speaking...

A cold arc of light flashed by! Moor Bone Whistle's scimitar was drawn, slashed down, and sheathed again, the movements so fast that only a blur remained.

The head, still trying to speak, had been severed from the neck, its face frozen in utter terror, and rolled onto the scorching wooden board with a dull thud. Hot blood gushed from the headless cavity, splattering the surrounding pirates.

Moor Bonewhistle didn't even glance at the corpse, only scoffing, his voice hoarse and cruel: "What's the panic? You wet your pants over such a trivial matter, your bones are softer than a woman's! With such a coward, what kind of pirate are you?" He suddenly raised his foot, his heavy boot slamming into the headless corpse's chest, sending it tumbling off the dock into the murky sea, leaving only a rapidly spreading ring of crimson. "Go back to your mother's womb and learn a thing or two!"

All around was deathly silent; even the sound of the waves seemed to have been cut off by this sudden violence.

All the pirates stood frozen in place, not daring to breathe, and dared not wipe the bloodstains from their faces.

Moor Bonewhistle slowly turned around, his gaze sweeping over his trembling subordinates. The fury on his face gradually faded, replaced by a chilling, twisted smile. He laughed instead of being angry, a hooting sound like that of a night owl emanating from his throat.

"If they came charging straight at us, I might be a little afraid, after all, they outnumber us and are all seasoned naval warriors." He sneered, beginning his analysis like an old wolf that had caught a whiff of opportunity, "But now? They've launched a series of attacks on Bloodsail Cape and Serpent Fang Island. Even if they win, how many of our men will be left alive? Won't our swords be dulled? Won't we suffer heavy losses?"

His voice suddenly rose, tinged with a cruel excitement: "More importantly! They've put the noose around their own necks! They think slaughtering two islands will scare us? Fools! They're slapping Marin in the face! They've ripped the sky out!"

He seemed to foresee the end, grinning maliciously as he issued the order: "Go, immediately dispatch the fastest ship, at top speed, to report everything that happened here to our King—the Pirate King Bloodhand, Marin!"

"Let them be arrogant! Once King Marin's army arrives, we'll attack from both sides, and those Iron Islands bastards will be sitting ducks!" He clenched his fist, his knuckles cracking, his eyes burning with a fierce confidence in victory. "Then, it won't be us who are afraid, but us who will capture them one by one, skin them alive, and hang them on the masts to dry into jerky! Our chances of winning this battle will be even greater!"

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