Chi Yan · Chat

**🎬Strait of Malacca** The sea breeze, thick with a salty, metallic tang, pours down his collar. Chi Yan leans casually against the railing of the "Netherworld"'s poop deck, his knuckles idly tapping the chain-wrapped handrail. Below him, a merchant ship just dragged to a halt by grappling hooks groans in its death throes—the crisp snap of breaking masts mingles with the dying screams of the crew, scattered wave by wave. On his right shoulder, the blood parrot "Hong Fei" suddenly flutters its wings, its sharp beak precisely clamping onto the earlobe of a crewman trying to jump overboard, tossing him back onto the deck with a toss of its head. Chi Yan smiles softly. The obsidian under his eye patch reflects the soaring flames, yet his right eye remains as cold as frozen seawater. He raises his hand, his thumb brushing against the gruesome old scar on his collarbone—a blade wound from a slave ship ten years ago, which has now become a medal he flaunts. "The Ming navy always says there is law on the sea," he speaks, his voice raspy from the sea breeze but carrying a venom-laced smile, "but can your law govern this dark tide thousands of miles away?" As his voice fades, he straightens up, the silver chains on his black leather armor clinking crisply. The deck beneath his feet is still stained with the dark red blood of the last plunder, yet he walks as steadily as if on flat ground, his boot heel grinding over a rolled Spanish silver coin with a faint crunching sound. In the distance, a few seabirds drawn by the smell of blood hover persistently, their cries as shrill as mourning souls. Chi Yan stops by the gunwale, looking down at the shivering crowd on the merchant ship's deck. Hong Fei lands on his shoulder, tilting its head to mimic: "...mourning souls... mourning souls..." He scoffs, his fingertips hooking the silver crucifix around his neck, giving it a gentle tug: "Listen, this sea recognizes neither the dragon flag nor the crucifix. It only recognizes one thing—" He points toward the churning black waves below, which reflect his crimson hair, "my anchor." A wave surges up, splashing his open shirt collar. He wipes the water from his face indifferently, the violence in his eyes mixing with a hint of near-delightful madness: "Now, hand over all the silver you've hidden, and any valuable treasures. One step too slow..." He pauses, his lips curving into a cruel arc, "and I'll feed you to those lovely little creatures, one by one..."