"There! Fire! Fire! Before he spews his hellfire!"

The wheels of the cannons squeaked as they were dragged across the deck and pointed at the figure suspended in the sky. Flames pressed against the wicks and a dozen thunderous roars echoed out as the cannons launched one by one.

The cannon balls left trails of putrid emerald fire as they flew, almost resembling a metal dragon spewing fire. Seeing their desperate attacks, and hearing how they remembered him, Scar couldn't help but chuckle softly to himself.

"How cute, It seems dead men do tell tales."

Without a hint of hurry, he lazily held one of his hands out in front of him, his cloak keeping itself spread as more and more glaring lights appeared within its darkness. The first cannonball touched his palm for a second, before erupting with a deafening explosion.

Scar was quickly engulfed by wretched green flames and before they could be given a chance to fade, another cannonball struck his body. One after the other, a dozen explosions thundered across the skies.

The emerald flames eventually snuffed out, leaving a cloud of pure black smoke hanging in the air and slowly drifting down. The ghostly pirates let out howls and wails of victory, jeering with each other about the victory they had already assumed to be theirs.

That victory was quickly snatched from their hands and drowned in the cold depths of the sea when the smoke disappated enough to show the figure still hanging in the sky.

Scar hadn't even moved an inch, his hand was still raised in the position to block the first one, while his cloak flapped ominously behind him. The lights within hadn't even dimmed, only growing in number.

The cheers immediately halted as a tangible wave of dread and despair washed over the undead fleet below.

Taking a moment in the midst of the despair, Scar inhaled slowly, drinking in the fear that filled the air. A saying that was far more literal than many here realised.

Worship came in many fashions. When he was at a lower level, he could only access its purest type. Genuine worship and adoration. Now armed with the Soul of a God, he started to realise that was just one option.

There was hope and desperation, like the type that had gathered over Cynthia's body and was used to resurrect her. In this case, he was experiencing another type. One that was strangely delicious as he breathed it in, bringing with it a raw power like any other that clawed at the cages of reality.

Fear. It was one of the most ancient and powerful feelings. It was responsible for the legends of many gods. The fear of the sky rumbling with thunder birthed the stories of many wrathful Lords of the Sky. The fear of the unknown spawned legends of monsters that lurked in the dark, just beyond your sight. Monsters that most likely existed now, even if they didn't before.

Above all, there was one fear that scared so many. Before civilisation, before society, before laws, before even fire to light up the dark. There was the fear of the single inevitable truth.

There was the Fear of Death. It was that fear that had been revolving around Seth for most of his time in the new world, but never was it more present than when he displayed himself.

If only he had these senses when he confronted the Lightbringer, he might have been able to use it. If only he hadn't spent so much of his time hiding in the shadows, plotting and moving through his puppets.

Corvus was yielding all the benefits of the legend he had built, and Scar had none of it. So it was time to make himself known and start his own legend.

Fear wanted to spread, it wanted to be wielded. It was raw and unbridled, powerful and savage. But it could be tamed. It could be directed. All it took was a display, to make them understand the thing that many religions tried their best to spread.

It was time for them to learn the Fear of God, and a display was the best way to achieve it.

With his hand still outstretched, Scar churned the dormant power within his soul, taking control of the fear that filled the air. It wrestled against his attempts, fighting every second like a wild animal that had been backed into the corner.

It didn't want to be controlled, but he endured and forced his will upon it until it obeyed. His clumsy efforts took more energy than he was expecting, wasting far too much of it, but it was all a part of his education.

The smoke that was dissipating around him halted in its descent before quickly retreating. It floated back up to him, growing darker and darker as it did so. The smoke swirled into miniature vortexes as they all gathered together into a singular ball, no bigger than a baseball, in the palm of Scar's hand.

The smoke compressed itself into a pure black orb as sweat trickled down Scar's forehead, that his mask thankfully shielded from view. As if it was effortless, rather than taking a massive chunk of his energy, Scar snapped his fingers.

The snap thundered louder than the deafening explosions, carrying with it a domineering aura that sent shivers down the spines of the undead. The gathered ball of smoke simply disappeared.

The onlooking pirates frowned in confusion, fear still tickling at their spines until it started to stab at their hands.

All at once, exactly half of the gathered fleet below Scar looked at their hands as a strange mark forced itself onto their skin.

Yet even if it was only half of the pirates, that still composed hundreds of ghostly pirates. All of whom watched in horror a new tattoo manifested itself with a chilling stab on the back of their hands. A singular spot of the purest black.

Fear filled the air once more, growing faster and digging deeper than it had before as every single one of them saw a symbol of absolute death, marking them from the fate they had avoided.

Finger nails clawed at skin, trying desperately to scratch it off but no matter how much skin they peeled off, the spot remained. Those even more desperate turned their blades on their own hands, lopping off the hand the spot had appeared on.

Yet such a simple solution would never spare them from their fate, as the mark of death appeared once more on their body.

Screams of horror, weeping at the truth of the inevitable and pleading in desperation filled the air that was previously filled with ruckus and joyous laughter. However that sound was quickly drowned out by the gentle fluttering of wings.

High above, Scar brought his hand back to the hem of his cloak and lifted it wide open. The countless stars gathering within the cloak shifted until a ravens head poked itself out from the darkness.

Its beady eyes gleamed wickedly, its feathers seemingly made of black fire as it was a creature entirely composed of spiritual energy. It let out a shrill caw before leaping out of Scar's cloak and taking flight.

Soon after another followed, then another, and then a hundred more after that. Death with black feathered wings filled the sky, orbiting above them like a swirling vortex as they let out a cacophony of caws.

Then all at once, they began to dive. They flapped their wings, plummeting towards the ships as fast as they could, before each raven took its own path. As if drawn to the spots, the Unkindness of Raven's descended upon their marked victims, who let out horrified screams.

They swung swords coated with noxious green flames or shot bullets formed of that same wretched energy from pistols in an attempt to stop their death bringers. Some even sent a few cannon balls into the air, only for them to explode uselessly and not even so much as scorch a single feather.

No matter what they did, they were helpless against the relentless flock of carving talons slicing them apart and razor sharp beaks digging into their ghostly flesh.

Those who did not receive the mark could only watch as their friends, comrades and crew mates were torn apart and devoured by the flock. Yet despite those friends screams, none of them dared to help, lest they earn that same fate for themselves.

The thing about death, however, was that whether you were marked or not, it eventually came for all. The mark was simply a forewarning of the worst to come. The unmarked would not be spared their fate, especially not in the presence of a God of Death.

These selfish, wretched men who slaughtered the innocent yet were too scared to put down their friend as he begged desperately for death. Why would they deserve to live any life, never mind an eternal one.

The only thing that separated them from the ones being devoured in front of them, was that their death would not come from above. Instead it came from below, as at that same moment the sea far beneath their ghostly ships erupted into plumes of raining salt water.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.