Chapter One: The Boy Who Burned the Dock
The sky above Deadbarge was a smear of rust and ash, like the whole world had been scrubbed too hard and left to bleed.
Ships groaned in the heat, their iron bones twisted by decades of bad welds and worse captains. Broken masts jutted like teeth from the water, and oil fires danced on the tide. The floating scrapyard creaked beneath the weight of a thousand dreams already dead.
But Flint Korran wasn't dead. Not yet. He was sprinting across a pipebridge with a grin wide enough to get him killed.
"Hey, rust-suckers!" he shouted behind him. "Tell Brine-Jaw he can kiss my sunburnt ass!"
Three pirate enforcers roared from behind, sabers drawn, boots thundering. Flint didn't look back. He never did when he was smiling like that.
The wind howled in his ears as he dove off the pipe, bounced off a stack of moldy crates, and landed with a roll on a lower platform. Somewhere in the chaos, he heard someone scream, "He took the fruit! The boss is gonna boil our skin!"
Good, Flint thought. Let him.
Tucked in the crook of his arm was a strange object. Not gold. Not a weapon. Just a single, veined fruit—twisted black with crimson ridges, pulsing faintly like it had a heartbeat of its own. It had been locked in a glass case in one of the Brine-Jaw storage vaults. Guarded like a relic.
Which, naturally, meant Flint had to steal it.
He had no idea what it was.
He also didn't care.
He ducked into a rusted-out hull, weaving through dripping corridors and fire-lit shadows. His lungs burned from running. The vault raid had gone smooth until some idiot tripped the alarm crystal. Now half the crew was chasing him, and the other half was probably trying to guess who'd get to eat him first.
That's when he stopped. Just for a second.
The fruit in his hand throbbed.
His stomach growled. His mind flickered with a thought—quick and stupid and very, very Flint.
Looks gross. Might be cursed. Definitely expensive.
He grinned.
"Only one way to know if it's worth stealing."
And he took a bite.
It was like chewing rubber soaked in seawater and battery acid. His throat spasmed, and he gagged—but he swallowed it anyway.
Then came the burn.
His skin began to itch. His bones pulsed like they were filled with steam. His fingers twitched, then stretched. Not figuratively—literally. His right arm snapped forward like it had no bones at all, slamming into a pipe ten feet away with a loud CLANG.
Flint stared at his own hand, still clinging to the pipe.
"...Huh."
The rest of him caught up a second later, slamming into the wall with a yelp.
Outside, the Brine-Jaws had caught up. The leader, a bald ogre of a man named Crogg, snarled as he saw Flint tumble out of the hull.
"You dumb bastard! That fruit was—!"
"Delicious!" Flint cut him off, rubbery limbs wobbling as he tried to stand. "Bit chewy though. You want some?"
Crogg didn't answer. He just charged.
Flint panicked. He raised his hands to block—and one fist flung out like a slingshot, smashing into Crogg's nose with a crack.
Crogg spun and hit the floor like a dropped anchor.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Flint stared down at his arm, which slowly recoiled back like a stretched ribbon.
He blinked. Then burst out laughing.
"I'M A GODDAMN RUBBER MAN!"
The laughter echoed as he fled again, vaulting over fuel drums and swinging from chains like a deranged circus act. Somewhere between the fires and the sirens, it hit him.
He wasn't running anymore.
He was free.
And by the time the sun broke through the smoke-choked clouds, Flint Korran had set half of Deadbarge ablaze, stolen a cursed fruit, humiliated the Brine-Jaws, and discovered he could bounce.
He didn't know it yet, but that was the exact moment the world started to change.
Not because he was brave.
Not because he was strong.
But because Flint Korran was too damn stupid to stop.
END OF CHAPTER ONE