Darkness was quickly approaching as the sun had mostly dipped below the horizon. On the wide deck of the Great Horned Shark Pirate Ship, bodies, either decapitated or pierced through the heart, lay sprawled haphazardly. Wang Zhifan stood among these gradually cooling corpses, holding a blood-dripping cutlass, his gaze calmly fixed on the four figures standing on the other side of the deck.
Perhaps intimidated by the terrifying aura of the young man before them, the four robust figures who had just arrived on deck did not dare to attack him impulsively. Their eyes were locked onto him, and even the dapper young man in a tuxedo who initially played a black flute with both hands quickly ceased his performance upon realizing that his sonic attacks were ineffective against the cutlass-wielding youth standing ahead.
After a second or two of silent standoff, the man at the back of the group, looking like a captain, was the first to speak:
