Hitchu was a child of the stormy seas.
No one knew exactly where he came from. Some said the waves had cast him out from a sunken Japanese merchant ship, others claimed Hell itself had spat him out because even the devils couldn’t stand him. One thing was certain: wherever Hitchu appeared, blood and gold flowed together.
The pirates called him the “Red-Eyed Devil,” but when he spoke at all, he only ever said this about himself:
“I am Hitchu. And my sword has no name. It hasn’t earned one yet.”
The image you see now is how he would have looked that night, if anyone had been brave enough to paint him.
He stood on the deck of the Black Wave, under moonlight, while the sea raged around them. The wind tugged at the red and blue ribbons tied to his straw hat, and his red scarf fluttered as if it were burning around his neck. He gripped his sword with both hands — the blade already stained red from the latest battle, but he didn’t care at all. His eyes glowed like embers in the darkness, and the red scar running across his face seemed to pulse with rage.
The ship’s captain, a fat, bearded Dutchman who until then believed he was the most fearsome man in the Caribbean, now held his pistol with trembling hands.
“This is your last chance, boy! Hand over the ship, and maybe I’ll let you live!”
Hitchu didn’t answer right away. He only smiled slowly, very slowly. It was the kind of smile that made even the hardest pirates step back.
“I don’t hand over anything,” he said quietly, almost in a whisper, yet everyone heard him over the howling wind. “But you… you’re going to hand me your head right now.”
One single flash.
The sword sliced through the air as if the darkness itself had been split in two. The captain’s pistol still fired, but the bullet whistled harmlessly past Hitchu’s hat. In the next moment, the Dutchman’s head was already rolling across the deck, while his body stood for another second, as if it refused to believe what had happened.
Hitchu wiped the blade on his cloak and slid it back into its sheath. The surviving crew dropped to their knees before him.
“From now on, this is my ship,” he said softly. “Anyone who doesn’t want to sail with me can jump into the sea. Those who stay… will either die with me or grow rich with me. Choose.”
No one jumped.
From that night onward, the Black Wave was no longer commanded by the Dutchman. Instead, it was led by a quiet, red-eyed boy who never took off his straw hat, never showed his full face, and always had a small skull hanging from his belt — the old captain’s, now serving as a buckle.
On the seas, they whispered: if you see a ship on the horizon with a tall figure in a huge straw hat standing on deck, and his eyes glowing red in the darkness… then it’s already too late to pray.
Because Hitchu shows no mercy.
He only collects.
Gold. Blood. And stories that no one will ever dare to write down.
@tatsu_nyc
English
