129 AC, Narrow Sea, The Stepstones.
On an unknown barren island, the salty sea breeze mixed with the scent of gravel and sea salt blew day and night, slapping against Loga's unusually young face and leaving a few coarse marks.
He gripped a polished longsword tightly in his hand, and his body was barely covered by half a suit of chainmail—a trophy he had scavenged a few days ago from the wreckage of a looted Braavosi merchant ship.
The longsword's edge was somewhat nicked, and the remaining half-suit of chainmail was tattered, but it at least provided him with a meager sense of security.
The rolling waves were reflected in the nicks of the longsword. On the distant horizon, three longships flying the red sun banner of Dorne were slowly approaching.
The sides of the ships were crowded with Dornishmen armed with spears and scimitars. Their shouts were like the roars of wild beasts, piercing the whistling sea breeze and intertwining with the thunderous sound of waves crashing against the reefs, making one's eardrums ache.
"Kill these Dornishmen! Show them what we're made of!"
In front of Loga, a Pirate Leader with a face full of scarred flesh raised his heavy axe and let out a crazed roar.
"Take them down!"
Swept up in the middle of this restless crowd of pirates, Loga felt as if his ears were about to be deafened. But he did not panic; instead, his gaze was deathly locked onto the Dornishmen who were landing.
It had been half a month since he transmigrated to these damned Stepstones. From his initial panic to later being forced to join a pirate gang, he had long since witnessed the cruelty of this place.
The Stepstones consisted of dozens of rocky islands of varying sizes. The land was so barren that only drought-resistant thorns and low shrubs grew, and resources were so scarce that even fresh water had to be stored from rainfall.
This was a vital sea lane connecting the continent of Westeros with the eastern continent, and thus it had become a gathering place for pirates, smugglers, and all sorts of outlaws.
The Dornish had always coveted control over this sea region, frequently launching attacks on pirate camps on the islands in an attempt to incorporate them into their territory.
In the ten or so days since transmigrating, Loga had followed the camp's Pirate Leader to repel over a dozen Dornish attacks, both large and small.
And today, he had a premonition that everything would come to a conclusion.
"Kill!"
A deafening shout rang out as the first dozen Dornishmen to land rushed to the base of the stone reef. They brandished their sharpened blades and spears, engaging in the first wave of combat with the charging pirates.
Loga was naturally among them. His gaze locked onto a tall Dornishman; the opponent met his eyes, bared his teeth in a sinister grin, and proactively lunged forward with a swing of his blade.
The uniquely shaped scimitar slashed toward Loga at extreme speed, as if to cleave him in two. However, in the next instant, Loga's body suddenly leaned, narrowly dodging the fatal blow.
The Dornishman hadn't expected the seemingly thin Loga to be so agile. He grew annoyed and swung his blade again.
This time, Loga ducked, the blade barely grazing his scalp as he dodged. Simultaneously, the longsword he had spent days polishing plunged into the opponent's chest.
"Pfft—"
The Dornishman's eyes widened. He clearly hadn't expected to be skewered through the heart by this young pirate.
The moment he spat blood, Loga kicked him to the ground, pulled out his longsword, and turned toward other enemies.
In just a few moments, several Dornishmen blocking his path fell one after another under Loga's sword.
This scene not only struck fear into the hearts of the enemies but also caused the surrounding pirates to cast fervent looks his way.
"Loga!"
A young pirate not much older than Loga, after exerting himself to stab an enemy to death, quickly moved to Loga's side: "You fellow, you've been practicing your swordplay whenever you're free lately. I didn't expect you to improve so much!"
Loga recognized him as his familiar companion, Fermon. He simply nodded and cautioned him to "be careful" before swinging his sword to pierce the throat of a Dornishman who was trying to sneak up on Fermon from behind.
Seeing Loga save him once again, Fermon, a young pirate who already worshipped martial prowess, became even more impressed. He took a few breaths and immediately followed in Loga's footsteps:
"I heard the leader say that he requested reinforcements from Bloodstone Island. People from the Third Daughter Kingdom might come to help us!"
"Third Daughter Kingdom?"
Hearing this name that was familiar from his previous life, Loga was stunned for a moment, then shook his head: "Our leader has nothing of value besides this bit of territory and these men. Why would the people of the Third Daughter Kingdom risk offending the Kingdom of Dorne to save him?"
As if to confirm Loga's words, the Pirate Leader fighting at the very front frequently looked toward the other side of the island. Seeing that reinforcements were nowhere to be seen, his eyes gradually became anxious:
"Those damned Three Bitches really didn't keep their word! May the sea swallow them sooner or later!"
Just as he was venting his resentment, the Dornish leader stepped onto the slippery rocks and charged toward the Pirate Leader.
The two clashed, the sparks from the axe blade and scimitar colliding splashing onto the reef with a piercing sound.
However, in less than the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea, the Pirate Leader's strength began to fail, and he was struck in the arm by the Dornish leader's blade. He screamed and stumbled to the ground.
"Not good!"
Seeing this, the pirates all held their breath. If the leader died, they would lose this battle completely!
Just as the Dornish leader was grinning and about to follow up his attack, Loga flashed out from the side, his longsword precisely parrying the scimitar aimed at the Pirate Leader: "Your opponent is me!"
"Just you?"
The Dornish leader looked at Loga's tattered equipment, his face full of disdain as he swung his blade once more.
The scimitar cut through the air with a whistling wind. The force of the strike kicked up gravel and blood from the ground, which stung as it hit his face.
Loga felt a strength far exceeding that of his previous opponents. Not daring to take it head-on, he could only retreat quickly, using the protrusions on the stone reef to constantly dodge.
"Why are you hiding? Coward!" the Dornish leader roared, his offensive becoming increasingly fierce. But his foot slipped on the wet rock, and his body stumbled as he was about to fall.
"Now's the chance!"
Loga's eyes flashed, and he swung his longsword without hesitation. The brightly polished blade slid through a gap in the opponent's armor, piercing through the fabric and straight into the flesh.
"Ah—!"
With a shrill scream, the Dornish leader, clad in full armor, crashed to the ground.
Loga removed the man's iron helm and swung his sword to sever the head. Then, holding the bloody head aloft, he roared at the Dornishmen scattered around:
"Your leader is dead! Remember, the one who killed him is me, Loga!"
The Dornishmen were already on the verge of exhaustion, and seeing their leader dead, their morale instantly collapsed. They left behind a few corpses, seized a ship, and fled the island in a panic.
The remaining pirates looked at Loga standing on the stone reef, holding the enemy's head and panting slightly, and let out thunderous cheers one after another:
"Loga! It was Loga who led us to victory!"
"Loga the Throat-Cutter! Loga the Throat-Cutter!"
The most enthusiastic reaction came from Loga's acquaintance, Fermon. He knelt on the ground in excitement and took it upon himself to bestow the title of "The Throat-Cutter" upon Loga, his shouts quickly spreading across the entire reef.
The pirates thronged around Loga. Some tossed their weapons into the air, while others patted his shoulders. His tattered chainmail made a clattering sound as they touched it.
Loga looked down at the still-dripping head in his hand, then looked at the cheering pirates around him, feeling the sea breeze carrying the smell of blood as it hit his face.
He knew that from this moment on, his name would leave its first mark among the reefs and waves of The Stepstones.
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