"Phantom Rebirth: The Last White Raven’s Path to the Ultimate Assassin"

The night sky hung heavy with stars, blanketing the world in quiet wonder. The Raven’s Perch stood as a dark silhouette against the moonlit coast, its sails furled, its deck silent. But just beyond its hull, on the jagged cliff that overlooked the sea, a great fire burned. Around it stood Seraphis, Lysara, and their surviving crew — warriors hardened by flame and blood, resting for once in rare peace.

Their laughter echoed against the rocks, mugs of spiced cider and rum passed hand to hand, the scent of smoked meat curling through the air. The campfire crackled and spit embers that danced like fireflies, warming the circle of pirates, mercenaries, and outcasts who now called the Raven’s Perch their stronghold.

Seraphis sat with one knee drawn up, cleaning her dagger, her white eyes reflecting the firelight like ghostly moons. Lysara leaned against a boulder, arms crossed, listening in silence.

“Alright,” Jim announced as he stood, his voice cutting through the easy noise. “Gather 'round, you brine-soaked bastards. I’ve got a tale for your bones tonight.”

“Oh no,” muttered Rilk, a wiry scout with a crooked grin. “Not that tale again.”

“Shut it,” said Jim. “It’s tradition. And besides, I’ve always wanted to try tellin’ it myself. The story of the Kraelgoroth.”

A hush rolled over the fire like a wave. Even the flames seemed to flicker more cautiously.

“You know the curse,” Rilk warned. “They say those who tell the tale draw its gaze. Next time we sail, we’ll be his feast.”

Jim grinned, spreading his hands wide. “Then let him come. I’ll stab him between the eyes. Now listen.”

The circle leaned in, every face lit by the flicker of flame and curiosity.

“The Kraelgoroth,” Jim began, “is no beast of flesh and seafoam. It’s a relic of a time before kingdoms, before gods had names. Born in the Abyssal Hollow — where the ocean’s floor gives way to the world below — it slithers through nightmare and tide alike.”

He paused. The fire cracked.

“They say its body stretches a hundred feet, its scales dark as midnight, shimmering with a light not born of sun or moon, but something... older. A deep, iridescent blue that shifts when you look at it, like it’s not really there. Like it’s part shadow.”

A few of the crew murmured. The air seemed colder, despite the fire.

“Down its spine,” Jim went on, “runs a jagged crest, jagged like broken obsidian, and glowing — glowing with light that pulses, not rhythmically, but like a heartbeat. Angry. Hungry. Some say it pulses in time with your own heart… until it stops.”

Seraphis didn’t speak, but her gaze was fixed on him now.

“The Kraelgoroth’s eyes glow like twin lanterns in the blackest fog — yellow-gold, staring, unblinking. They say if you see those eyes rise from the water, you’ll never see the stars again.”

Lysara finally spoke. “And what makes it so dangerous?”

Jim’s eyes gleamed with firelight. “Tentacles. Long as tree trunks, a dozen or more. They writhe from beneath it like shadows in a storm, snatching ships whole and dragging them into the depths. I heard once of a fleet of five galleons. Not even splinters floated up.”

A grim silence settled over the circle.

“But that’s not all,” Jim continued. “Its crest — those glowing spines — they emit a light that mesmerizes the mind. Like a siren song without sound. Sailors leap into the sea, arms wide, just to be devoured.”

“You’re making it up,” someone muttered.

“I wish I were,” Jim said softly. “And if it doesn’t drag you down, it blinds you. It releases a black ink — not waterborne, but magic-born. Blinds your sight, sours your spells, chokes your lungs. It can disorient a crew in seconds. You’ll kill your own mates trying to strike it.”

Tom, a sturdy deck gunner, shifted uneasily. “And the roar?”

Jim smiled grimly. “Its roar can crack coral and stone. Shake the sea floor itself. Some say it causes whirlpools — not natural ones, but gates. To somewhere worse. Somewhere deep. Some say it’s where the Kraelgoroth comes from, and where it drags its prey.”

A shiver danced down many spines.

“But worst of all,” Jim said, lowering his voice, “are its scales. Blessed or cursed by sea gods, no blade can pierce them. And even if you wound it, it heals — in moments. Limb cut off? Grows back. Flesh burned? Healed. It’s more spirit than beast, more curse than creature.”

A pause. The fire popped.

“And yet…” Jim let the silence hang. “It is still flesh. Still a creature of this world. Which means it can bleed. It has bled.”

Seraphis’s voice was low. “Has it ever been seen?”

“Oh aye,” said Jim. “But never twice by the same person.”

The group went silent again. Someone tossed a log onto the fire. Sparks shot up like tiny stars.

“Some believe it serves ancient sea gods,” Jim went on. “A warden of balance — devouring the weak, preserving the strong. Others think it’s a punishment. A remnant of a forgotten war between the gods, let loose upon the seas.”

“And some,” Lysara added quietly, “say it’s not from this world at all.”

“Aye,” said Jim. “A creature from the world below. From the Hollow.”

Seraphis finally spoke again. “What would you do if you saw it?”

Jim grinned. “I’d scream like a banshee and stab it in the eye.”

Laughter broke the tension, and mugs were raised.

“But truly,” Seraphis said, voice level, “what would you do?”

Jim hesitated. Then said, “I'd pray to whatever gods are listening. Then I’d gather my crew, light a flare, and die like a sailor.”

The fire burned low, its heat dwindling but its light still steady.

“Maybe it’s just a story,” Tom said, trying to ease the mood.

“Maybe,” Jim answered. “But in this world of ours — where sky serpents fly and flame dances to song — I wouldn’t bet against it.”

Rilk shuddered. “I still say tellin’ the tale is bad luck.”

Seraphis stood, stretching. “Let the beast come. If it exists, we’ll face it.”

Lysara smirked. “And if it doesn’t, we’ll drink and fight like we always do.”

As the fire burned low and the moon reached its peak, the tale of the Kraelgoroth lingered in every mind — not just as a warning, but as a challenge.

For in a world where myths could walk, perhaps the sea held one final monster — and perhaps, one day, it would rise.