I am a pirate, born in Nassau. Of course, I was not born a pirate. My father was a shipbuilder, and my mother a farmer. At twelve, I lost them to a gang of treacherous pirates—their disloyalty and cruelty rewrote my fate. I once dreamed of joining the navy to hunt those pirates across the seas, but destiny laughed. Though born in Nassau to humble folk, I became a spiller of pirate blood.

All because I was born in Nassau.

I turned to thievery, trading stolen coins for rum at Anne's tavern. Pirate gold is tainted, yet I told myself: Let this money aid a poor soul like me.

The day I met him remains etched in memory. His frame loomed larger than Blackbeard's legend. As my fingers brushed his coin pouch, cold steel kissed my throat. Twin cutlasses gleamed at his waist, their blades whispering menace.

"Lad, is this trifling coin worth your life?" He lowered his hood, revealing eyes sharp as flint. "You’ve pirate grit. Fancy crewing the Jackdaw with me?"

His attire defied convention. Instead of a captain’s tricorn, he concealed the upper half of his face beneath a hooded cloak. His golden beard swayed, yet his hair was meticulously combed. His garb—a hybrid of leather armor and flowing robes—clung to a chest rigged with four pistols. Wrists thick as ship ropes hinted at brutal strength.

"I’m Edward," he drawled, "Not Edward Teach. Edward Kenway. From today, I’m your captain."

Here was my chance for vengeance. I’d sail with him, track down those traitorous pirates.

Captain Kenway shattered every pirate trope. He disdained gold, dividing plunder equally among the crew. His obsession lay with maps, not loot. More terrifying than any buccaneer, he felled British sailors with a single punch—a crimson ballet of violence. Yet he spared no ship: navy, merchant, or bounty hunter. Unlike others, his gaze forever drifted eastward.

He spoke of "wealth beyond mortal spending." First Mate Adéwalé whispered it was the Observatory—Kenway’s white whale since setting sail.

One sweltering dawn at Cape Guarico, Caribbean sun baking the Jackdaw’s deck, Adéwalé roared: "Hoist sails!" But Kenway was absent. We sailed half a year, crisscrossing the Caribbean. I dueled legendary captains, plundered treasures, spun tales to tavern wenches, and finally slit the throats of those treacherous pirates. Yet Kenway remained a ghost.

Then, on another scorching day, he reappeared at Anne’s tavern. From the deck, I watched him stride ashore with Anne. Adéwalé embraced him, their words lost to the wind save one cryptic phrase: "Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."

Adéwalé departed; Anne became first mate. Our raids continued, but Kenway’s eyes now held a strange light. The Observatory no longer gleamed with gold, but something... else.

Revenge was mine, yet his obsession consumed me.

We returned to Cape Guarico, salt-heavy air clinging like a premonition. This time, Kenway emerged bloodied, treasureless, yet radiant. "Homeward! Ale for all!"

At the bleakest feast, Anne sang as Kenway toasted empty chairs—honoring fallen captains. He wept and laughed, a mad paradox.

A sailor sprinted from the docks, whispering news that froze time. Rum crashed. Wind died. Anne’s song choked.

Kenway stripped his pistols, shed cutlasses and vambraces, and strode shoreward. We found him kneeling before a child, wildflowers in hand. For the first time, the invincible captain knelt—finally revealing what lay eastward: redemption.

The Jackdaw faded into legend. Edward Kenway? Gone.

But I remain proud: I sailed with the ghost of the Caribbean.