The air over the Dead Island Straits clung to Marisol like the ghost of a storm, heavy and taut with unspoken tension as she glided across the vast canyons.

  She wasn’t alone. Alongside Victor, Andres, Claudia, Maria, and a swarm of about two dozen Imperator medics, they followed the Damselfly Oracle chiefs to where they were needed. Overhead, the chiefs flitted in swift arcs, their emerald wings catching sunlight and making sure they were impossible to miss, impossible to lose.

  Marisol’s gliding wings were spread wide behind her, their sleek membranes buzzing faintly. It hadn’t been that long since she used them—she’d killed Eurypteria just this morning—but this was gliding in low gravity, and it felt like flying. It was somewhat exhilarating. Relaxing. Andres and Claudia and the medics with wingless Crustacean Classes had to jump across the canyons with their enhanced strength, but she, along with Maria and Victor, had wings that allowed them to bypass groundless terrain.

  She may have lamented not having a Crustacean Class back when she was fighting in the whirlpool, but above water was her domain… and apparently, Victor’s as well.

  “Since when does he have wings?” she muttered, half to herself, half to Maria gliding next to her. Maria just shrugged, clearly too focused on keeping up.

  Marisol glanced at Victor again, his streamlined blue and black wings flaring out as he launched himself across a gap in the canyon. They were almost like hers—built for speed—and it only further reinforced the idea that she did know what class he had. He probably knew she had an idea as well, but… there was no point talking about it right now.

  Not when the Damselfly Oracle chiefs had been adamant on bringing all of them to the far opposite end of the archipelago.

  As all of them touched down on the edge of a vast canyon, they peered over the cliffside with a variety of scrunched, furrowed brows. The scene below her made Marisol’s chest tighten as well. Ten colossal Whitewhales sprawled across the bottom of the canyon a hundred metres down, floating on the surface of the churning, choppy waves like beached leviathans. Their giant bodies were swathed in patched leather and rusted armour, and the messy wooden towns strapped onto their backs were swarming with activity.

  [... Whitewhale Marauders,] the Archive remarked.

  Marisol’s wings twitched, her whole body stiffening. Her memories of the Whitewhale Marauders were still burned into her mind, and they weren’t very good memories.

  “About seven hundred of them,” Victor muttered by her side, his voice low but steady.

  “All ten whales arrived here about two hours before you did,” one of the Damselfly Oracle chiefs said, and he gestured beneath them at the walls of the canyon. Marisol looked. She hadn’t noticed them before, but about a hundred damselfly oracles were hovering above the docked Whitewhales as though keeping watch on the marauders. “We wanted to eat them at first, but seven hundred plagas an mar is a bit too many to deal with, even for us. Thank the Worm God you Imperators and Guards from the Whirlpool City arrived when you did.”

  “We’ll deal with them,” Andres said plainly.

  And, without hesitation, the Imperators walked off the edge of the canyon.

  Marisol followed, if not only because Victor walked off as well, curling his finger at her. Now, she would’ve been worried about jumping straight into a marauder town just half a year ago, but between her wings, her enhanced physiology, and the fact that she already beat the shit out of the Whitewhale Marauders even before she killed her first Mutant-Class—twenty-four Imperators and two Hasharana crash-landed in the heart of the largest marauder town, shattering hundreds of wooden planks and sending a cascading ripple outwards that toppled several buildings around them.

  The cacophony of shouting and hammering around them faltered, dozens and hundreds of faces turning inwards to stare at the new arrivals. The fourteen-armed marauders were rough, wild-eyed, and menacing-looking as all hell, but even they froze in the presence of the Imperators’ killing pressures.

  For a long, tense moment, nobody moved.

  Marisol narrowed her eyes. She hated standoffs like this—they felt like games she didn’t know the rules to.

  If we’re gonna fight, then let’s fight.

  But then Claudia broke the silence, her voice slicing through the air like a blade.

  “... Medics, move in! Start healing the wounded!”

  The medics didn’t hesitate. They fanned out from the heart of the town, heading straight towards the dirtiest, bloodiest, sickest looking marauders lying on stretchers all around.

  Victor’s hand immediately clasped around Marisol’s shoulder, startling her.

  “Not the time for old grudges,” he murmured. “We have leverage here. We must use it.”

  Then Claudia raised her voice again, sharp and commanding. “To the Whitewhale Marauders: if you want healing from my medics as well, release all of your slaves and prisoners now!”

  The marauders shifted uneasily, their murmurs rising into an anxious hum. Marisol clenched her jaw, preparing for a fight after all, but after a few more tense seconds, a heavy crunch of footsteps made all of the Imperators turn.

  Shackled figures stumbled towards them from every direction—men, women, children, all hollow-eyed and trembling. The freed slaves trudged toward the medics, who immediately began sitting them down and treating their wounds. Marisol’s fists were clenched as well, but she shook her head a moment later and forced herself to calm down. She and Maria moved to help, guiding the injured toward the medics’ waiting stretchers.

  “You’re safe now,” Marisol murmured to a boy no older than ten, his arm broken and his face streaked with grime.

  He looked up at her, eyes wide and uncertain, before nodding and letting her lead him.

  Behind her, the standoff tension between the marauders and the Imperators remained palpable. The marauders eyed the Imperators warily, their hands never straying far from their sheathed blades, while Andres and Victor were just standing there. Marisol had no reason to fear for them. She had no doubt in mind both of those old men could shatter the entire town in a single blow, so what need did they have to move for the marauders.

  The marauders had to move for them.

  From the corner of Marisol’s eyes, a large, fourteen-armed man in a patchwork leather coat leapt down from the roof of the largest building in the area, crashing before Andres and Victor with a heavy thud. She didn’t have to meet his eyes to feel the strength of his aura—he was the captain of the Whitewhale Marauders, and, while weaker than the weakest Lighthouse Imperator, he was easily on par with a few higher-rank Imperators from the city.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  So the marauders have strong people, too.

  [All five captains of the Five Marauder Fleets are at least on par with a D-Rank Mutant-Class.]

  [Of course, compared to you right now…]

  Even she could take the man if it were to come down to a fight right now.

  But he didn’t even glance at her—or Maria, or Claudia, or any of the medics for that matter—because his focus was solely on Andres and Victor.

  The two old men of the city stepped forward to meet the captain, their postures stiff, unyielding. Marisol couldn’t hear their conversation clearly over the distant shouts and hammering—the marauders across the Whitewhales were all desperately trying to fix their beaten and battered towns—but she saw the way the marauder captain’s expression tightened with every word Victor said.

  Minutes passed. Marisol continued corralling the slaves and prisoners to the medics’ side, making sure all of them got their treatment. Then, in the corner of her eye once again, she saw the captain extending his hand to the two old men.

  Andres shook it.

  ... What?

  While Andres continued talking with the captain, Victor turned away from the exchange and dashed towards her, appearing by her side in the blink of an eye.

  “We’ve worked out a tentative… agreement,” he said, his voice low as Marisol patted a little girl’s head and sent her off to Claudia for better treatment. “For now, we’re working together.”

  Marisol scowled. “Are you serious?”

  Victor nodded. “The Whirlpool City’s gone. That means the far western autocannons aren’t firing on the Crawling Seas anymore, which means the endless sea of bugs is already creeping over the entire western end of the great blue. According to the marauder captain, their headquarters north of the city has already been consumed by the Crawling Seas, which was why they were forced to evacuate with their Whitewhales. They’re at their weakest right now… and at the same time, neither do we have the luxury of having human enemies right now.”

  She wanted to argue—to shout at him for even entertaining the idea of allying with marauders—but the sternness of his brows behind his bandages stopped her.

  This wasn’t a negotiation; it was survival.

  “Our tentative agreement is simple: we’ll provide a bit of materials, medical supplies, and manpower from the Damselfly Oracles to help them repair their towns and get their Whitewhales swimming again,” Victor continued, “and in exchange, their Whitewhales will drag our warships forward for additional speed. This way, we can all evacuate together and head towards the Harbour City on the mainland.”

  Marisol glared at the marauders. She watched their captain stride back to his crew, barking orders, making them scramble around the town to continue dragging supplies and patching up their makeshift buildings. Their nervous energy now was a far cry from the brazen arrogance she’d known them to carry, but still…

  “They’re marauders, though,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes. “You’re telling me they ain’t gonna start slitting throats the moment we ain’t looking?”

  Andres approached, his boots crunching against the dry, brittle floorboards. “They could try, but we’re not exactly defenseless.” Then he glanced over his shoulder, gaze lingering on the back of the marauder captain. “They know the score. Right now, we have them outnumbered and outgunned on the other side of the Dead Island Straits. They know if they start something, it’ll be the last thing they do.”

  She clenched her jaw. She understood the logic, but it didn’t make the arrangement sit any better.

  “We’ll just execute them if they try anything funny.” Victor grinned, then nodded toward Andres. “So, what’s the big plan for now? Something reckless, I hope.”

  “There is a problem, actually” Andres began, gesturing around them. “We’re short on space. According to the marauder captain, there should have been twelve Whitewhales, but two of them didn’t make it out of their headquarters. Got swallowed up by the Crawling Seas. That means they can’t carry everyone, and we can’t carry all of them, neither—not our soldiers, not the prisoners, and not the marauders.”

  Marisol frowned, glancing at the medics and prisoners around them. “So what do we do?”

  “I’d like to take Victor’s suggestion and just execute all the marauders so we’ll lighten the load on the Whitewhales that are going to be pulling our warships for additional speed,” Andres admitted casually, “but as much as I hate to say it, the Whitewhale Marauders are formidable, competent sailors. They know how to operate their guns, and they’re the ones who can steer their Whitewhales. The more able-bodied soldiers we have on our side, the better our chances at outrunning the Crawling Seas… which is why I have a mission for you, Marisol.”

  “Me?”

  “I recall, from the reports of your journey across the great blue, that you came across a giant horseshoe crab island a few days away from the mainland coastline. Do you remember it?”

  Marisol gave a curt nod. How could she forget?

  “How many people can fit on it?,” he pressed.

  She tilted her head, considering. “Easily a few thousand. The whole fleet, the marauders, and their prisoners—everyone would fit without a problem.”

  "Good," Andres said, his expression darkening. "Because Kalakos and Rhizocapala are out there right now, most likely gathering a horde of fast-swimming Giant-Class crustaceans. It won’t be long before they depart from the Whirlpool City and start snapping at our tails, and if we drag them all the way to Harbour City, it’ll mean devastation for the city and everyone in it."

  Marisol’s jaw tightened at the mention of the two monstrosities, but Andres continued, his voice hard.

  “We are two weeks away from the Harbour City, so we must slay them before then. To pull it off, we’re going to need your help. You’re the only one who can do this.”

  “Do… what, exactly?”

  “You’ll skate to the horseshoe crab island,” Victor answered, twirling his cane around in circles before pointing in the direction of the sun—eastwards, towards the mainland continent. “Convince the children to steer the island into our fleet’s path. Our warships are carrying too many people right now, and even with the Whitewhales pulling them for extra speed, I’m pretty sure Kalakos will catch up before we can reach the city, so we have to fight somehow.”

  “The plan is simple,” Andres continued. “It will take our fleet two weeks to reach the Harbour City. Kalakos will catch up to us in around one week. If you can have the giant horseshoe crab island intercept us in one week, we’ll transfer everyone onto the island, abandoning the warships while the Whitewales can continue towing the island for additional speed.”

  “And then we’ll rig the warships to blow, leaving a nice little trap for Kalakos and Rhizocapala,” Victor finished. “Even if the explosions do no damage to Kalakos and Rhizocapala, they’ll significantly weaken the tide of Giant-Class crustaceans swimming after them. Once their numbers are whittled down, we can either turn and fight there or continue towards the Harbour City. There’s a chance, no matter how slight, that Kalakos and Rhizocapala may not choose to pursue us as closely after our explosions annihilate all of their grunts, which will buy us more time to mount a better defense.”

  As the two old men outlined the plan, Marisol’s mind hummed with the possibilities and the risks. Her gaze drifted eastwards to the endless stretch of the great blue, the distant waves gleaming under the fading light. Reaching the horseshoe crab island was a big ask, but not entirely impossible—at least, not for her.

  Archive. Does this plan hold up, or is this another one of those ‘desperate last stands’ we’ve been so fond of lately?

  [It is sound enough. Coordinating with the horseshoe crab island will significantly increase the fleet's chances of survival against the Giant-Class crustaceans. You are also the most viable candidate for this task, considering Maria, the only other Imperator in the entire fleet with a surface aquatic insect class, does not have the stamina to skate long distances.]

  She smiled faintly. Most viable candidate, huh?

  Victor’s voice cut into her thoughts, his teasing edge as sharp as ever. "Well, well. Looks like that three-month joyride of yours across the great blue’s finally paying off, huh? All that skating practice ain’t gonna be for nothing after all.”

  Andres stepped forward, his tone levelling out. "Marisol, this is more than a task—it’s the lynchpin of our entire operation. If you can pull this off, we have a fighting chance to stop Kalakos and Rhizocapala before they reach Harbour City. Can we count on you?”

  …

  Her smile faded, replaced by a steely determination.

  “Leave it to me,” she said, her voice firm. “Besides, I’ve been meaning to check up on Kuku and the kids on that island. It’ll be good to see them again.”

  Andres nodded, the faintest glimmer of relief softening his hard expression. “Then it’s settled. You leave at first light.”

  Marisol glanced eastwards toward the horizon one last time, the wind tugging at her hair. The great blue stretched out before her, vast and untamed, and somewhere in it lay a piece of her past—and their only hope for the future.

  Her fingers tightened into fists.

  The great blue was calling to her once again.

  Chapters remaining: 17

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