The world tilted and jostled beneath Marisol like a broken cart on a rocky road. Every step her stretcher-bearers took sent another spike of pain through her already battered body.

  … Ow.

  What’s… going on?

  For the second time today, her thoughts snarled at the sluggish pace, the crawl of the world around her. Her hearing was muffled. Her senses were dulled. She blinked hard, trying to clear the haze clouding her vision, but the swirling gray sky above refused to settle. Her head felt like it’d been split open, and her veins still tingled with the ghost of lightning she’d pushed too far.

  She was lying on her back. On a stretcher. Medics were carrying her down the sloped streets of the city at breakneck speed. Dozens of Guards and Imperators ran alongside her, escorting her down the city.

  I’m… alive?

  Her fingers twitched weakly at her sides. Each attempt to move sent another scream of protest through her nerves, but she forced her hands to curl slightly as she lifted her head and looked down slowly. The skin on her arms where her water boatmen bandages didn’t cover was a mess—blackened, cracked, and glowing faintly, like a burned-out husk of a once-brilliant fire.

  She’d overused Storm Glaives. Even with her crystalline underchitin, her high toughness level, and months of training learning how to control her output of lightning, she’d overcharged her veins with her final blow on Eurypteria. The death of the Water Scorpion God was worth any damage any human could ever sustain, of course—she didn’t think she’d made the wrong decision at all—but she’d also be lying if she said she weren’t sad to see her pretty skin reduced to… this.

  So much for ‘grace’ and ‘elegance’.

  The bitter thought flickered through her mind, but she shoved it aside. Vanity was the last thing she cared about right now. She tilted her head slightly again, craning her neck despite the agony shooting down her spine. She needed to see. Needed to look around her.

  Reina.

  Her heart jumped when she caught sight of her friend being carried on a stretcher nearby. The Lighthouse Imperator’s pale face was slack, her usually sharp eyes closed, her body limp. Her uniform looked like it’d been chewed on by a giant beast—probably because it’d been hit by something even worse than that—and blood streaked her bruised skin all over. There was even a gaping stomach wound her hands were clamped over, but the medics carrying her stretcher were swishing their shrimp antennae over her as they ran, ensuring she wouldn’t bleed out until they could get some bandages over her waist.

  Reina was still breathing—so was Aidan, Bruno, and the dozen other Imperators and Guards being carried down on stretchers even further behind them—and that was all that mattered to Marisol right now.

  You did it, Reina.

  You won..

  You killed… an Insect God.

  Then the Archive’s voice flickered to life in her head.

  [Full evacuation of the Whirlpool City is in progress. Destination: the southern harbour district.]

  [Please do not move around too much and fall off your stretcher.]

  … Evacuation?

  Shouts around her began to filter in, muffled at first, then louder, sharper, more frantic. Orders barked, boots pounding on stone, the low rumble of panic bubbling under the surface. She turned her head slightly again, wincing and looking around even as the motion tugged at her raw muscles.

  The sloped streets of the Whirlpool City stretched out below, a labyrinth of stone, snow, and water now clogged with the chaos of evacuation. In the distance, Kalakos’ colossal wormhole still twisted and warbled like an open wound in reality. Its glowing edges threatened to collapse inwards and release the god trapped within. The sight of that thing still standing made her stomach churn, not just from fear, but from anger as well.

  They’d fought so hard—bled so much—and now the city was slipping through their fingers.

  The Archive’s words hit her like a punch to the gut.

  Evacuation?

  Her vision swam again as her brain tried to process it again. No. That couldn’t be right. The Whirlpool City wasn’t just a random place. It was the bastion of the Deepwater Legion Front. It was the legendary city of the great blue. Humanity had held onto it for the better part of three decades, built into it something dazzling, something unbreakable—or so she’d thought.

  Because now they were running, and nobody seemed like they had any intention of slowing down.

  Her stretcher bumped over uneven ground, and she hissed in pain, her charred skin pulling uncomfortably against her bandages. She forced her eyes to focus as the Archive said something again, overlaying above her face a live map of the city.

  Markers blinked across the map, showing the positions of everyone still alive, and indeed, all of them converging on the southern harbour like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

  Marisol’s fists clenched weakly.

  No.

  No, no, no.

  The word pounded in her chest, each beat of her heart a refusal. They couldn’t just leave. Not like this. She wanted to shout—to tell the stretcher-bearers to turn around, to find Victor, Andres, anyone, and demand an explanation—but her throat felt like sandpaper, and every word she tried to force out caught and died in her chest.

  Then the smell of saltwater started hitting her nose like a slap, sharp and briny, cutting through the haze of smoke and blood. The crashing of waves grew louder in her ringing ears, mingling with the sounds of shouting soldiers.

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  Her stretcher tilted slightly as their group descended toward the harbour at the very bottom of the city. Marisol forced herself to look around with clenched teeth. A dozen warships bobbed on the choppy waters, and hundreds of Guards and Imperators were already swarming the messy docks. Supplies were being hauled aboard, the injured were being carried to safety, and orders were being barked left and right. Standing atop a stack of crates directing most of the evacuation efforts was a familiar man: Captain Enrique. The Harbour Guard captain she’d met back inside the giant remipede.

  For a second, all she could think about was how relieved she was to know he was still alive. She hadn’t had contact with him in more than half a year, after all.

  You’re alive.

  And… they’re here, too.

  As the medics let go of Marisol’s stretcher on a wooden pallet beside one of the larger docked warships, her gaze continued darting around, finding familiar faces left and right. Victor stood under Enrique’s stack of crates, helping coordinate the evacuation. Nearby, Andres, Maria, and Claudia were also hauling crates of supplies onto the ships, tossing entire carriages’ worth of wares on board with each throw.

  The moment Maria spotted Marisol and Reina, her eyes screamed louder than any voice could.

  She reached Reina’s stretcher with a frantic pace, her shoulders heaving as she knelt beside the battered frame. Reina was completely out cold, though, so her hand simply moved to Reina’s forehead, brushing damp, blood-matted hair back from her friend’s pale face.

  Her eyes said ‘good job’ as she continued stroking Reina’s forehead. Claudia stepped closer as well, exchanging quiet information with the medics before her gaze darted between Marisol and Reina.

  Claudia stopped next to Marisol, worry etched into every sharp line of her face.

  “What about Hugo?” she demanded. “Where is he?”

  Marisol’s chest tightened.

  She didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Her gaze dropped to the side, avoiding Claudia’s eyes.

  The silence said everything.

  Eventually, Claudia exhaled shakily, her lips pressing into a thin line as she forced herself to nod.

  “... Alright,” she said finally, her voice steadier than it had any right to be as she glanced around, waving at the medics to move them again. “Get the two of them onto the warship! Now!”

  The soldiers around them moved quickly, lifting both of their stretchers and starting towards the plank leading up to Captain Enrique’s flagship. Marisol didn’t need to look. She could hear the other ships starting to leave. She heard the creak of wood, the snaps of sails catching wind, the distant splashes of oars hitting the water.

  Marisol opened her mouth in an attempt to speak, to ask what they were planning on doing now, but a sharp whistle in the air cut her off.

  Her heart lurched as she looked up. She knew that sound. She craned her neck, her body screaming in protest—just in time to see a volley of enormous bone spikes hurtling toward the docks from the sky.

  Barnacle spines.

  “Brace for impact!” someone shouted.

  The Imperators around them sprang into action. Fifty cannons across the warships immediately swivelled and fired upward, their thunderous roars shaking the air as they intercepted some of the incoming spines. Others crashed into the cobbled streets and wooden piers, shattering into deadly shards and sending debris flying in every direction.

  Marisol’s stretcher-bearers swerved, narrowly avoiding a chunk of wood that’d been blown sky-high. Half the warships were immediately pierced and damaged. Not destroyed, thankfully, but a second volley would definitely put them out of commission.

  “Ignore Rhizocapala! He’s still in the far northern district! He won’t dare engage all of us in melee, so long-range bombardment is all he’s going to do!” Andres bellowed from far away, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Move! Everyone, get to your ships!”

  The medics carrying Marisol broke into a run, her stretcher bouncing with every step. Both her and Reina were quickly hoisted onto the quarterdeck of Captain Enrique’s flagship just as the ship’s anchors were raised. Guards scrambled to their positions, hauling ropes and securing cargo as the sails unfurled. Andres, Victor, Claudia, and Maria all hopped on as well, straight from the pier to the upper deck.

  As Marisol was laid down on two crates pushed together next to the helm, Enrique’s booming voice rang out over the din. “Ready the oars! Get us moving now!”

  The warship lurched forward, the sails catching a sharp gust of wind. Several Pistol Shrimp Class Imperators stationed near the stern fired shockwaves into the water to propel the ship even faster. Marisol almost rolled off her stretcher, and for a moment, the sensation of wind gliding past her skin sent a flicker of familiarity through her pain-addled mind. It wasn’t the kind of speed she loved—the kind she controlled—but it was the kind they needed in order to get away from Rhizocapala’s long-range barrage.

  And as their final warship cut through the choppy waters, leaving the burning docks behind, Marisol forced herself to sit upright, her muscles trembling with the effort.

  She wasn’t the only one staring back.

  Across the fleet of a dozen warships, hundreds of bloody faces turned towards the city they were leaving behind. The place they’d called home for decades. The place they’d fought for, bled for, died for.

  Now, it was crumbling.

  In the distance, the colossal, thousand-meter-long remipede erupted from the last wormhole on the island, and the Remipede God’s emergence was loud. Violent. Its barbed legs slammed into the ground, shattering stone and sending shockwaves rippling through the earth. Buildings crumbled beneath its monstrous weight, entire streets vanishing into the abyss as its thrashing head and tail carved through the city.

  The destruction was absolute. Marisol’s hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she watched the remipede’s rampage. The city was nothing more than paper against the sheer strength and size of Kalakos, and then came the spines. High above, Rhizocapala’s giant barnacles launched hundreds and thousands of spines skyways, and each spine shot towards the sun—hanging for a heartbeat before beginning their shrill descent.

  They rained destruction across the island, tearing through stone and steel as if they were nothing. Towers toppled, flames erupted, and the city Marisol had barely begun to know was annihilated piece by piece.

  She couldn’t look away.

  Nobody could.

  And what hurt most for her—what twisted the knife—was the realisation that she wouldn’t be able to get to the whirlpool anymore.

  She wouldn’t be able to get down to Depth Nine.

  She wouldn’t be able to get her vial of healing seawater.

  Her mind raced, panic clawing at her chest. She’d been so close. So damn close. If they’d just defeated Rhizocapala and Eurypteria down in Depth Five, they could’ve maybe fought off Kalakos right there and then, and it’d be smooth sailing all the way down to Depth Nine.

  So what now?

  What could she possibly do now?

  “... You cannot run!” Kalakos bellowed. The distant roar of the Remipede God tore through everyone’s spiraling thoughts, and it was a sound so vast, so consuming, that it seemed to press against the very fabric of the world. “You cannot escape! I will pursue you to the very ends of the Deepwater Legion Front, and you will fall before the Swarm!”

  Marisol’s breath hitched. The words hung in the air, a promise of doom that seemed to freeze the entire fleet in place. Soldiers stopped what they were doing, their eyes wide as they turned toward Kalakos, whose gargantuan body was wrapped around the volcano like a coiling serpent. Even Andres standing next to Enrique by the helm seemed momentarily shaken, his shoulders stiff as he stared at the Remipede God.

  But not for long.

  “Focus!” Andres shouted, his voice cutting through the oppressive weight of Kalakos’ declaration. He turned sharply, his gaze snapping to the crew. “We’re not out of danger yet! Man the cannons! Hasten the oars! We’re putting our all into running away for the time being!”

  The urgency in his tone snapped the soldiers back into motion. Marisol glanced around, her eyes darting to the other ships in the fleet. The first volley of Rhizocapala's spines had damaged the fleet, after all, and the warships were hardly sailing at top speed. Their movements were sluggish in the water.

  “Captain,” Victor said, turning to Enrique with both hands on his cane. “Is there a place we can stop by for repairs?”

  Enrique didn’t hesitate. “The Dead Island Straits,” he said steadily. “It’s the closest place we can manage. Hold on tight, Hasharana. We’ve gotta get as far as we can before those evil gods leave the island.”

  Chapters remaining: 20

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