It’d been a while since Marisol had a dream.

  … Black.

  Again.

  She was on an endless, stormy sea of cold, churning oil. A black storm raged around her, screaming wind tearing at her clothes and stinging her cheeks with frigid rain. Her muscles burned with every push as her glaives sliced across the viscous surface, leaving ripples of gleaming darkness behind her, but she couldn’t stop. Not here. Not now.

  I’m being chased.

  By what?

  By who?

  She glanced over her shoulder, and her heart lurched at the sight of the Whirlpool City crumbling in the distance. She wasn’t skating towards it this time. She was skating away from it. The lighthouses of the legendary city, once proud and defiant on the horizon of her dreams, collapsed like brittle sandcastles under the crushing weight of a thousand monstrous crustaceans. Giant pincers snapped through stone and steel with terrifying ease—and then there was the giant remipede.

  The enormous creature coiled around the island like a serpent, its segmented body tightening, crushing the city in its grip. Spires shattered like dry bones, and the streets buckled under the pressure. Her stomach twisted at the sight.

  It was her fault.

  Her fault that the city fell. Her fault that any soldiers died to Eurypteria. She’d been the deciding vote, the one who said run instead of fight. The blood staining the oily water was on her hands.

  She shook her head, her legs moving faster, skating harder as if she could outrun the guilt clawing at her.

  The storm intensified, bolts of lightning illuminating the carnage behind her. The screams of the dying echoed in her ears, mingling with the thunder. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest tightening as she forced herself to look forward, away from the destruction.

  But the sound that came next was impossible to ignore.

  A low, guttural bellow, deep enough to shake the oily sea itself.

  Her body stiffened, and she risked another glance back.

  There they were.

  Kalakos. The Remipede God’s massive head breached the surface like a leviathan from the depths, milky-white eyes locked onto her. Riding atop the remipede was Rhizocapala, and following after the two of them was a tidal wave, a monstrous surge of black-shelled crustaceans—all claws and legs and snapping mandibles—all screaming at her in an unholy cacophony.

  Rhizocapala’s laugh cut through the air, sharp and mocking.

  “Run, little bug!” he screeched, his voice a cruel, cheery melody. “That’s all you’re ever good for! Running! Run from their gods!”

  The wave was gaining on her.

  Faster!

  I have to go faster!

  She leaned forward, her body cutting through the wind like an arrow, her glaives a blur against the oily surface. Her heart thundered in her chest, every beat a desperate plea to keep moving, but… it wasn’t enough.

  She wasn’t tripping on anything. She wasn’t losing her balance. She was skating perfectly fine but for one small detail: she simply wasn’t fast enough.

  Kalakos’s massive form loomed closer, her segmented body undulating with terrifying grace. Rhizocapala’s laughter grew louder, more manic, and the Barnacle God pointed a taunting finger gun in her direction.

  She could feel the heat of Kalakos’s breath on her back, the Remipede God’s mouth opening wide behind her.

  Faster!

  Her speed wasn’t enough. No matter how hard she pushed, how fast she moved, the gods were faster. The wave of black-shelled crustaceans was faster.

  And then it hit her.

  Kalakos’s jaws slammed down on her, teeth snapping shut with a deafening crunch, and as she felt herself being swallowed into a void of cold and silen—

  Marisol snapped upright with a gasp, her lungs burning as if she’d been holding her breath.

  Her heart hammered against her ribs, her skin clammy with sweat that soaked through her shirt. She clutched at her chest, trying to steady her breathing, her eyes darting around the room.

  It wasn’t black water. It wasn’t a storm. It wasn’t a god’s mouth closing around her.

  It was a hut.

  The walls were made of woven mangrove leaves, a small wood fire burning in the hearth behind her. The air was warm, carrying the scent of salt and earth. She was lying on a soft thatch bed, her satchel in one corner of the room, her mind in the other—she was still alive, but she hadn’t quite come to terms with that yet.

  It took her a few more seconds to register the nightmare she just had.

  Just another nightmare.

  … We’re getting those kinds of dreams again, eh?

  [You bear unnecessary weight on your shoulders. I would advise you to relax and—]

  The sound of soft footsteps behind her broke the stillness of the hut. She blinked, shaking off the remnants of her nightmare as the woven thatch door creaked open. Her sharp gaze snapped to the entry, her fingers instinctively curling as if to pop out her apiclaws in self-defence.

  But a cluster of small figures waddled in, baskets in hand, their tiny forms swaying under the weight of their loads. Children. Their heads were adorned with crab shells, smoothed and worn into makeshift helmets, giving them an almost comical appearance.

  Before she could gather herself, one of the boys spotted her sitting upright. His basket tumbled to the ground, forgotten, as he dashed toward her.

  “Marisol!” he said, his voice high-pitched and cracking.

  He slammed into her, wrapping his small arms tightly around her. The Archive’s voice buzzed faintly in her mind, translating the child’s broken speech into something clear.

  [I sent the audio records of their tongue to a certain professor in a far eastern academy a few months ago, who has since deciphered their tongue and added it to the database of translatable tongues,] the Archive explained. [In short, you can now communicate with him. No need for… strange gestures.]

  It took her a heartbeat to process, but then recognition bloomed in her chest like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

  “... Kuku,” she whispered, her arms instinctively coming around the boy.

  He buried his crab helmet against her, and she held him close, a bright, genuine smile stretching across her face. “You’re safe,” she murmured. Then her eyes flicked up, scanning the other children who had paused in the doorway, their crab-helmeted heads tilting as they watched.

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  The children shuffled forward hesitantly, their baskets held close. One by one, they removed their helmets, revealing small faces marked with dirt and wide, curious eyes. Marisol beamed at them, her smile never faltering as warmth flooded her chest.

  “You’re all safe.”

  Kuku finally pulled away, looking up at her with his silly protruded eye stalks so earnestly it nearly made her laugh out loud. “What… you doing here?” he asked, his words halting but clear, the Archive filling in the gaps where his vocabulary faltered. “I thought you went to Whirlpool City? Why back here?”

  Marisol blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Her mission. She’d been so lost in the moment—so swept up in the sight of their faces—she’d almost forgotten why she’d come here in the first place.

  “I…” She straightened, her mind snapping into focus. “Can you gather everyone on the island, Kuku? I need to speak to all of you.”

  Two hours later, Marisol stood in the largest hut in the mangrove forest right next to the black sand beach. It was the village chief’s quarters. She glanced around the relatively cramped circular space, her eyes taking in the polished wooden floor and the carefully maintained walls.

  Kuku stood across the large round table in the centre of the hut, adorned in what she could only describe as ceremonial regalia. Pearls dangled from his neck, shiny rocks clinked against his chest, and he wore an air of authority that made Marisol’s lips twitch in amusement. So you’re the village chief now, huh? She didn’t say it, but the title seemed to fit him. He was the only one still wearing his crab helmet, after all.

  The other children of the island crowded around the room, thirty-two of them in total. Their eyes flicked nervously to her, then to each other, whispers passing between them as they waited for her to begin.

  So she exhaled softly, glancing out the thatch window to the side. The storm outside was relentless. Heavy rain and fierce winds made it hard to even tell it was daytime, though the Archive had assured her it was most definitely in the middle of the day, and not the middle of the night.

  It’s already the next morning, isn’t it?

  How long have I been away from the fleet for?

  [Seven days and thirteen hours.]

  Just a bit over a week, then.

  She adjusted the satchel slung over her shoulder and reached inside, pulling out a bundle of rolled maps.

  The whispers in the room died as the children watched her unroll the papers. She laid them carefully across the massive round table, piecing them together with the Archive’s help until a single, sprawling map of the Deepwater Legion Front was revealed.

  She straightened, her gaze sweeping over the group before tapping a particular spot on the map. Their current location.

  “... This is what’s happening.”

  Then she explained everything—what happened after they sent her away to fight the Mutant-Class skeleton shrimp, her months in the Whirlpool City, the fall of the Whirlpool City, and the Deepwater Legion Front’s current state of affairs. Most notably, she told them about the fleet of Whitewhale-pulled warships advancing towards the eastern coastline with terrifying speed, which made their faces grow tense.

  Marisol hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Basically, we need your help.” She pointed to a marked spot on the map, north of their current location. “My boss, the Harbour Imperatrix, wanted me to ask you if you could… communicate with the giant horseshoe crab. Ask it to swim north and intercept the fleet. If the giant horseshoe crab is willing, all of us will hop onto this island, and the Whitewhales will drag us to the east while we blow up the warships behind us to slow down Kalakos and Rhizocapala’s pursuit.”

  With that, she glanced at Kuku, brows furrowing.

  “Can you… do that for us?”

  Kuku lifted his crab helmet slightly to show her a wide grin. He nodded enthusiastically, and the other children followed suit almost immediately after, their nervousness replaced by bright, eager energy.

  “Come!” Kuku exclaimed, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the door.

  The rain hit her face like needles as Marisol followed the children into the mangrove village square. The storm showed no signs of letting up, but the kids didn’t seem to mind. She did, though. She started vibrating her hydrospines to repel the rain as Kuku let go of her, and she watched in awe as the thirty-two children gathered in a circle around the village square, holding hands.

  Their voices rose in unison as they began to chant. Their stomps shook the earth beneath their feet, and their crab-like side-to-side dance had a rhythmic, almost hypnotic quality. She watched and she listened from behind. They pleaded in a tongue she didn’t recognise—that even the Archive couldn’t translate—and when the very ground shifted, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up straight.

  It happened without warning.

  A slow but undeniable movement of the island that threw her balance. She staggered a little, catching herself just in time.

  The Archive’s voice hummed in her mind.

  [Drift course adjusted. The island is now heading north.]

  Her breath caught as the realisation hit her.

  The children couldn’t even hear the Archive’s confirmation, but they suddenly erupted into cheers, their hands clapping and their laughter ringing out despite the storm.

  Marisol watched them a small smile, a strange mix of pride and disbelief washing over her.

  … They’ve got a bunch more tricks up their sleeves, huh?

  [Indeed. I have no idea how they developed such a good relationship with their giant horseshoe crab that it would just move at their beck and call, but presumably, the giant horseshoe crab has also been thinking about evacuating from this storm.]

  It feels it can’t stay around here for much longer?

  [It knows it cannot stay around here much longer.]

  [Now, at its current speed, it will intercept the fleet in around six days. I have already sent a message to Victor Morina. For the time being, you can rest on this island and chew on your points.]

  Marisol nodded, her resolve hardening.

  Good. She patted the satchel at her side, feeling the weight of the bug meat inside. I’ve got plenty to eat.

  [And plenty more to protect.]

  [Do not be mistaken just because you have found momentary reprieve—your goal now is to defend the giant horseshoe crab until it intercepts the fleet.]

  Is there going to be trouble?

  The Archive didn’t respond immediately.

  Instead, she followed its gaze on her shoulder and looked northwards, into the colossal forest. She didn’t exactly have a high vantage point to see past the edges of the island, but if the Archive wasn’t inclined to say there wasn’t going to be any trouble…

  Alright.

  Just gotta defend the island for six days.

  A flicker of lightning ripped the sky apart, and the devastation across the storm-ravaged sea became stark under the flash of light.

  I am… human?

  I am… not?

  He was full. He didn’t want to eat anymore. He stood balanced atop a jagged half of a sinking warship, his two glaive-like legs rooted into the splintered wood. Rain slashed down in furious sheets, drenching his humanoid frame and glinting off the razor edges of his legs.

  What… was I doing?

  In his clawed hands, he held the upper torso of a ‘human’ soldier, blood still dripping from the shredded waist. He tilted his head, studying the human's lifeless face with faint curiosity—two unseeing eyes, slack-jawed terror. Useless. Dead. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the corpse into the frothing sea below, where the churning waters swallowed it whole.

  The storm continued howling around him, the wind carrying the groans of a dying fleet. He turned, surveying the chaos with a strange, hollow satisfaction. They were two dozen broken warships, all shattered and burning, their remnants scattered like driftwood. Masts jutted from the water at odd angles, sails torn to ribbons. Men screamed and drowned, their weapons useless against him and his brood. Weaklings, all of them.

  No match for his brood.

  Across the wreckage, ten more Mutant-Class water striders stood atop the ruins, motionless as statues, their predatory gazes fixed on the destruction. Their sleek, elongated bodies gleamed like wet obsidian in the storm's light, and their glaive-legs mirrored his own, sharp enough to split steel. They were silent—always silent—watching to ensure no survivors lingered.

  Sixth fleet.

  From Whirlpool. To Harbour.

  All dead.

  His mandibles clicked, a low, almost purring sound. The thrill of battle had waned. The humans had posed no challenge, their screams and blood no longer stirring his hunger. For twenty years, he and his brood had lurked beneath the waves, sharpening their glaives, waiting for the moment to emerge—and now? This? He exhaled through his spiracle slits, a rasping sound of disappointment.

  Weak.

  All weak.

  No fun.

  He crouched low, his glaives slicing into the ship's deck for balance as the waves heaved. His compound eyes scanned the wreckage again, hoping for something—anything—that might spark his interest. A survivor with fight left, perhaps? A hidden weapon? But there was nothing. Just the stench of burning wood, the tang of blood, and the endless, screaming wind.

  Then, there was a sudden pulse. Faint but unmistakable.

  His head snapped southward.

  His brood froze as well, their heads swiveling in eerie unison.

  They felt it too—a shift in the storm's rhythm, a tremor in the waters beneath. Something massive was moving in the distance. Its aura radiated like ripples through their shared consciousness.

  He cocked his head, his mandibles parting slightly in a grin. He didn't need words for this feeling. It was raw, primal, and electric. A single thought pulsed through him, sharp and clear as lightning:

  Challenger.

  The brood stirred, their glaives tapping against the wreckage with faint, rhythmic clicks. They felt his anticipation, his hunger for something greater than the feeble prey they'd slaughtered. Whatever was out there, it was strong. Powerful. Worthy.

  He straightened, his body taut with energy, and called forth his Swarmblood Art. His glaives sparked to life. Arcs of lightning crackling along their serrated edges.

  Then he leapt, a blur of motion against the tempest, and his glaives barely kissed the water's surface before he started skimming forward, impossibly fast.

  His brood followed, and they were a phalanx of death slicing through the waves.

  Chapters remaining: 15

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