Zharroth understood well the superiority Voreans held beneath the waves—an overwhelming advantage that tipped the battlefield squarely in their favor. He cast a sharp glance toward Fioren, the only one among them who hesitated, who showed no intent to strike. It was a hesitation he couldn't afford.
"You stand idle, Fioren?" Zharroth's voice was a low, commanding growl, deep and resonant like pressure in the ocean's depths. "You brought them into our domain, and now you falter? Was it to witness their suffering—or to aid us in wiping them out?"
Fioren's hands trembled, her chest tight with panic as the waters around her pulsed with the violence of war. Torn between blood and conscience, she stood protectively near the wounded Temoshí, unable to raise her weapon.
"Enough, Zharroth! You're going too far!" she cried, voice cracking with frustration. "They didn't come to destroy us—they came to help! Why can't you see that? Why are you so obsessed with revenge that you'd doom us all? You were supposed to lead us—not drag us into this blind hatred!"
Zharroth's gaze darkened, his gills flaring as his jaw clenched. "Do you really think your sentiment can save us now?" he growled, eyes like sharpened obsidian. "The surface world forced us into the shadows, crushed our numbers, erased our cities. And you plead for mercy? These intruders are nothing more than echoes of the same cruelty that nearly drove us to extinction. Letting them live is not survival—it's surrender. If we must kill to endure, then so be it. That is the burden of leadership."
"I will not tolerate this display of human sympathy," Zharroth declared coldly, his voice slicing through the ocean's hum like a sharpened blade. "First they came as invaders, weapons drawn, trampling over our sanctuaries. Now, a new group descends, veiled in promises of peace—only to bring the same disease that has long plagued this world. They speak of alliance, but it is nothing more than a softer form of conquest."
He raised his lance and leveled it directly at Fioren's heart, his eyes devoid of hesitation.
"If you continue to stand in our way, if you still shield them with your body and your name—then you are no longer one of us. I'll give you one chance, Fioren. Join your people… or share their fate."
Fioren's breath hitched, trembling in place. But before she could answer, Zharroth advanced a step, voice deepening, resonating like a tide crashing against the pillars of an ancient city.
"You ask me why I fight. You ask why I cannot forgive. Let me ask you this, Fioren: Where were they when our coral homes were ripped from the sea floor by drills and dredges? When our young suffocated in poisoned currents, our elders slaughtered in marine labs, dissected like beasts? When our songs were silenced by sonar pulses—did any of them weep for us?"
He paused, lowering his lance only slightly, his expression unreadable.
"They look upon us as curiosities, relics of myth. And when they find us, they do not offer friendship—they take samples. They bring nets. Their mercy is laced with profit. And now, now that they've seen our power, they return with olive branches—but behind every smile is the same machine of war. A world where our existence is tolerated only if we bow, only if we serve."
His tone grew softer, yet colder. Deadlier.
"We are not the aggressors. We are the aftermath. The children of drowned cities and bleeding reefs. Humanity does not change because it's noble—it changes when it is forced to. And we… we must be that force."
He extended his hand to Fioren now, lance still held in the other.
"So choose, Fioren. Will you walk as one of us again, with blood that sings for justice? Or will you die clinging to the fantasy that they will ever love what they do not understand?"
Silence followed. Heavy. Crushing.
And Fioren, her hands still shaking, looked into the eyes of her people—then into the bloodied waters around them. The truth she had long denied now wrapped around her like cold chains.
Fioren stood frozen, her chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes wide as if reality had just cracked open before her. Zharroth's words rang in her ears like a war drum beneath the surface, pounding against every belief she had clung to since bringing Temoshí and the others into the depths. Her hands trembled—was it guilt, or clarity finally taking root?
Slowly, painfully, she turned to Temoshí.
His body, though powerful, was weakened—restrained by the unfamiliar weight of the ocean and the damage he'd endured. He looked up at her, blood tracing delicate threads across his skin, yet his eyes were not pleading. They were steady. Disappointed, but not begging.
"I…" Fioren's voice faltered, her throat tight. "I never wanted it to come to this. I truly believed—just for a moment—that peace was possible. That maybe… someone like you could help us change."
Temoshí remained silent, the ocean between them feeling deeper than before.
"But I was wrong," she whispered, guilt flashing across her expression. "Zharroth's right. We've waited too long, suffered too much, and hoped for too little in return. I can't keep pretending. I'm sorry."
She hesitated, every step away from him a betrayal that weighed down her body like anchors around her limbs. Turning fully to face him, she bowed her head—not in mockery, but in mourning.
"Forgive me, Temoshí… this is the only way I know to protect them now."
And with that, Fioren stepped away from his side, walking toward the Voreans, her silhouette darkening as she moved deeper into their ranks—no longer a bridge between two worlds, but a soldier rejoining her people.
Zharroth gave a small nod, solemn and satisfied.
The ocean around them felt colder.
Temoshí rose to his feet, posture composed yet exuding a quiet intensity. He could feel it—his crew's pain echoing through the currents, their struggles rippling across the battlefield like silent screams.
"So this is how it plays out," he said, voice low and sharp. "First, you mess with Chiaki's heart. Then you lure us down here with talk of your underwater city—asking for our help, making us believe we could make a difference. And what do we get in return? You lead us straight into a trap. You knew the danger, you knew we were out of our element, and still, you let your people descend on mine like wolves."
His tone hardened, each word edged with the weight of restrained fury.
"And now? You have the nerve to walk away—handing my friends over to your people like some offering?"
Temoshí's fists clenched at his sides, the heat behind his eyes threatening to boil the sea around him. "I've held my tongue. I've tried to believe in your cause. But enough is enough."
His gaze locked on Fioren with cold finality.
"You're a real pain in the ass, Fioren!"
Fioren stood frozen, her back to Temoshí as his words struck deeper than any blade. She didn't dare turn around—not yet. Her hands trembled slightly, guilt gnawing at her chest like a parasite. She had chosen her people, yes… but at what cost?
Every word Temoshí hurled at her was true. She had brought them here under false hope, knowing full well what awaited them. She had wanted to believe she could protect both sides, bridge the impossible divide. But now? Now all she had done was push the dagger into the hearts of those who trusted her.
Her voice wavered as she finally whispered, "I never wanted this…"
Slowly, she turned to face him, eyes glistening with regret. "Temoshí… I'm sorry. I thought… maybe I could change something. Maybe I could stop the war. But I was wrong. I can't undo this. I can't fix what I've done."
She backed away slowly, as if each step was tearing a piece of her soul away, until she stood by Zharroth's side once more. Her eyes never left Temoshí's.
Zharroth stepped forward, his massive form towering beside her. Yet his voice, for once, held a rare softness.
"You made the right choice, Fioren," he said with solemn sincerity. "It took strength to see past sentiment. Loyalty to your kin is not weakness—it is honor. You've done what few could. And for that, I am grateful."
He placed a hand over his chest, bowing his head respectfully to her. "With you at our side, our people have a future worth fighting for."
But Fioren felt no victory in his words. Only the heavy silence of a heart torn in two.
Fioren took a hesitant step forward, her voice laced with desperation, eyes pleading with the one person she hoped would still listen. "Temoshí… please," she said softly, her breath catching in her throat. "Don't make this worse. You've seen what they're capable of down here. This battle… it won't end in your favor. Just surrender. Let it go. I'll make sure they spare you. Let me end this before more of your crew suffers—before you suffer."
But Temoshí said nothing at first.
He slowly reached up and adjusted his hood, the shadow falling over his face as he lowered his gaze. His fists clenched, trembling from the storm building within. Gritting his teeth, his jaw locked, voice thick with restrained wrath.
"…You really think I'll kneel?" he muttered, the calm in his tone undercut by a sharp, rising intensity. "You think just because I'm in your world, surrounded by your kind, I'm going to crawl and beg for mercy?"
He raised his head, just slightly—enough for the light to catch the edges of his scowl, though his eyes remained hidden in shadow.
"Fine," he growled. "I might be at the bottom of your ocean, where you're all at your strongest… but I'm not backing down."
His cloak shifted with the weight of his rising fury. "Not without a damn fight."
Fioren's breath caught in her chest as she looked into the shadow cast over Temoshí's face. The conviction in his voice, the way he stood tall despite the pressure closing in from all sides—it made her heart break.
Her lips trembled. "Temoshí… why won't you just walk away…" she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of guilt.
She clutched her hands to her chest, nails digging into her palms.
Her shoulders shook. Tears welled up in her eyes, then spilled freely down her cheeks, floating in the water around her like fragments of her guilt. "I didn't want this…" she whispered again, weaker this time. "I just wanted peace. I wanted to believe you could help. But now… now your crew doesn't even stand a chance."
She covered her face, unable to meet his eyes, ashamed beyond words. "I should have never brought you here. I should've fought harder to stop them. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
But her tears could not stop the path she had set them on. And before her stood the one man still unbroken, even at the edge of ruin.
Temoshí remained still, unshaken. The subtle sway of the ocean's current tugged at his clothes, but he did not flinch, did not lower his hood. His face stayed hidden beneath its shadow, a mask of restraint concealing the fury boiling beneath. Whatever thoughts passed through his mind were his alone to bear.
In silence, he stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until he stood directly before the towering figure of Zharroth. The Vorean leader gazed down at him with cold, unblinking eyes, the weight of command pressing from every inch of his being.
"This is where your journey ends, pirate," Zharroth declared, his voice like the deep rumble of shifting tectonic plates. He raised his spear slightly, not in haste, but as a symbol of judgment. "Allow me to reintroduce myself—Zharroth, Warden of the Deep, Commander of the Tides, Sovereign of the Voreans. I am the guardian of our kind and the final blade against the world that sought to erase us."
He took a step closer, his voice growing sharper with every word. "Your presence here was never fate, nor destiny. It was a mistake. Your arrival only rekindled old fires, reminded us of pain buried beneath coral and time. You speak of help, of peace, but the blood of my ancestors still stains the waves—slaughtered by hands just like yours."
Zharroth's gaze darkened, his tone falling to a near whisper, as lethal as any blade. "So I give you no mercy. No salvation. You are human. And for that alone… your existence ends now."
The ocean seemed to hold its breath in that moment, as if awaiting the clash of two forces too vast to be contained beneath the waves.
Zharroth's eyes narrowed into slits as he raised his massive coral-forged lance, its sharpened edge glowing faintly with the power of the deep. With both hands gripped tight around the haft, he roared—not in anger, but in divine judgment—and brought the weapon down in a savage arc aimed straight for Temoshí's skull.
The water howled around the motion, spiraling in a vortex from the sheer momentum of the strike.
Temoshí, still unmoving, finally reacted.
With a sharp breath, he lifted his right arm, and in an instant, a metallic gleam surged across his skin. His forearm hardened, transfigured into reinforced steel through his forbidden technique. The transformation was swift—silent—and then the impact struck.
The lance met steel in a titanic clash, the sound muted only slightly by the surrounding ocean, but the force it unleashed rippled like an underwater quake. Waves of pressure burst from the collision, violently distorting the water in every direction. The seabed quivered, coral shattered, and even distant combatants stopped momentarily as a deep resonance rang out across the battlefield.
Temoshí slid back only a few feet, feet digging into the sea floor, his reinforced arm vibrating from the sheer force of the blow—but he didn't yield.
Behind his hood, hidden eyes narrowed with unspoken resolve.
"Even if this is your domain, no matter how deep I have to sink... I won't let you lay a hand on my crew!"
To be continued...