Under the immense pressure of the abyss, amidst spiraling columns of sand and stone, the battlefield churned with raw force.
Zharroth—towering, monstrous, his head that of a great hammerhead shark, his body armored in reef-hardened muscle—moved like a sovereign of the deep. The water bent around him. He belonged to it. His gills flared with every breath, his massive arms gripping the barnacled lance as though it were an extension of himself.
He lunged, water tearing in his wake, and thrust his weapon like a siege bolt. The lance blazed through the current, a blur of power—but Temoshí pivoted aside, his movement tight and deliberate, the spear grazing just past his chest. He didn't flinch.
Zharroth grinned, a row of jagged teeth shining in the dark. His tail coiled behind him, slamming the ocean floor to propel him forward again, faster. He knew this realm. Every inch of water, every drift of current—it was his domain.
Temoshí was at a disadvantage. He couldn't burn. He couldn't ignite. No flame survived here.
But he fought.
He raised an arm and caught Zharroth's next blow—a crushing horizontal sweep of the lance. The impact cracked the water with a thunderous boom, reverberating outward in violent pulses. Bones strained. Muscles screamed. But Temoshí held his ground.
Then he moved.
Twisting around the shaft, he closed the gap between them and struck with a savage uppercut to Zharroth's chin. His hand met armored scales and carved a pressure shock up through the beast's head. Zharroth reeled—briefly—before answering with a spinning backhand that caught Temoshí across the ribs. Blood clouded the water.
Still, he didn't fall.
Temoshí's body tumbled through the waves, but he twisted mid-flow, using the water's drag to stabilize. His feet struck a rock wall, and he kicked off—surging back like a torpedo. Both fists forward, he rammed into Zharroth's gut. The force bent the ocean again. But the titan snarled and caught him mid-blow, one hand gripping his torso like a bear trap.
"You don't belong in the depths," Zharroth growled, voice deep and bone-rattling. "You're drowning with your eyes open."
Temoshí didn't answer. He grit his teeth, muscles tightening—and slammed both elbows into Zharroth's forearms, freeing himself with sheer force.
Zharroth's presence loomed like a god of the deep. Each movement churned the currents, every shift of his massive body dragging pressure with it. He was relentless, a nightmare sculpted from muscle, coral, and bone—built to dominate the sea.
Temoshí rushed in again, body twisting through the water with trained agility. But Zharroth anticipated it. With a single thrust of his lance's hilt, he slammed it straight into Temoshí's stomach, folding him in half. Bubbles of blood escaped his mouth as he was thrown back like a ragdoll. His back crashed into a jagged reef wall, cracking it inwards, the stone shuddering with the force.
Before he could regain breath, Zharroth was already there.
The beast spun with terrifying speed, and his massive tail whipped sideways—slamming across Temoshí's chest and sending him spiraling through a whirlpool of shattered rock and sand. His shoulder struck the sea floor, snapping out of place. Pain erupted through his nerves, but he gritted his teeth, dragging himself upright again.
Zharroth gave him no room.
With one hand, the titan grabbed a boulder of coral and hurled it like a cannonball. Temoshí raised both arms and took it head-on—it shattered on contact, but the impact sent shockwaves through his bones, ripping open fresh wounds on his forearms and splitting skin across his face.
Still… he stood.
Zharroth surged forward again, lance retracted. This time, he didn't use the weapon.
A devastating right hook collided with Temoshí's jaw—forcing his head to the side as blood spilled from his mouth. A left followed, this one angled to his ribs. He felt bones give way, the crack dulled only by the weightless water. Another uppercut lifted him several meters, and Zharroth followed, grabbing his leg mid-drift.
With a roar, he slammed Temoshí downward—straight into the seabed.
Stone exploded beneath the impact. A crater formed. The ocean shook.
Temoshí lay there, breath shallow, eyes blinking through the red haze. Every muscle screamed. His body throbbed with bruises, cuts, and fractured bones. His vision flickered between clarity and blur, the silhouette of Zharroth growing larger again as the shark-beast descended like a falling mountain.
And yet—Temoshí's fingers curled. He pressed his hand against the broken seabed and pushed himself up once more.
Zharroth hovered above Temoshí like a dark titan, his jagged teeth gleaming through the murk. His voice rumbled through the depths, warped and thunderous like a god passing judgment.
"Do you see it now? You're out of your element, human. This ocean—my ocean—is your grave. Crawl if you wish, bleed if you must… but in the end, accept it. You belong in chains, not in battle. Die as the rest of your kind will—powerless and forgotten."
He raised his lance again, the blade humming with resonance as it gathered pressure from the currents around it, forming a swirling spiral of lethal force. With one swift motion, he thrust downward—
—but Temoshí moved.
A blur in the water, broken but not beaten.
He twisted just enough to avoid the strike, the lance grazing his shoulder and tearing through flesh, but not pinning him. Blood spilled in coils around him, but his eyes never left Zharroth's. He gritted his teeth, planted his feet against the seabed, and launched forward again with a sudden surge of strength.
Zharroth turned with mild surprise—just in time for a crushing knee to slam into his armored gut.
The blow echoed like thunder beneath the waves.
Zharroth staggered back, if only slightly. His eyes narrowed. This wasn't over.
Stitch, impaled and nearly motionless, floated in the cold, dark waters. The blood leaking from her body clouded around her, mixing with the saltwater, but through the pain, there was a faint spark of determination still burning inside her. Her breath was shallow, slow, but every rasp reminded her of what she still had to fight for.
"…Chiaki… that idiot. She jumped in front of me… didn't even think twice. Guarded me, that would've ended me. She should've let me rot, but… she didn't…"
Her fingers twitched weakly as she thought of her. Chiaki—brave, reckless, the kind of person who would sacrifice everything without a second thought. The image of her face, bloodied but steadfast, kept Stitch grounded in the storm of her mind.
"…Temoshí never said much. Didn't have to. Just gave me a place… gave me the sea. Looked at me like I was worth somethig. No chains. No orders. Just… freedom."
The weight of her past and present collided in a painful rush. Temoshí, who never treated her like a burden, never looked down on her. He gave her a chance. He gave all of them a chance.
"…Shanya… she stood between me and death. Ssomethig, crying, fighting. For me. Knew I wasn't a monster… like she actually meant it…"
The memory of Shanya's unwavering support hit her hardest. A friend. No, more than a friend—someone who had risked everything for her, who believed in her when she couldn't even believe in herself.
"…Mendy's gone. That voice, that curse… finally quiet. For the first time… I can hear myself think."
The curse. The pain that had followed her for so long. The voice that twisted her mind, controlling her every action. But now, Mendy was gone. The chains had broken.
"I'm not just some broken thing. Not a puppet. Not a freak. I'm a fighter… I'm their crewmate. We promised."
With each breath, she was waking up to herself again, not the monster they saw, but the person she'd always wanted to be. She wasn't some ghost drifting in the depths—she was alive. And she would fight, no matter what.
"I owe them all… and I won't let it end like this."
Her hand twitched again, her fingers curling around the sharp blade of Razor's saw that had pierced her chest. The pain was unimaginable, but it was also a reminder. A reminder that she was still here. Still breathing, still alive. And that was enough.
"I still got blood in me… I still got strength in these damn arms…"
Her pulse pounded through her body, a primal call to move, to survive, to rise from the depths of the ocean, even if she had to drag herself back up.
"…and I'll tear the ocean apart before I let it take me."
With a final growl of determination, Stitch gritted her teeth, her fingers tightening around the blade in her chest. It hurt, but it was also the last thing standing between her and victory. The battle wasn't over.
"I won't be weak… not again…" Stitch muttered, her voice coarse and trembling. Her hands, stained with blood and shaking from pain, grasped the hilt of the blade embedded in her stomach. Every nerve screamed as she began to pull it free, the jagged metal tearing deeper into her flesh with each agonizing inch. "I'll… keep fighting. I won't rely on anyone else. Not anymore..."
As the steel groaned under her grip, something began to stir within her—an old power, once cursed, once feared. Mendy's presence was long gone, but the remnants of what she had left behind—the raw, chaotic energy—still slumbered in Stitch's veins. And now, she remembered.
Ophelia's words echoed in her fractured mind: "That power doesn't belong to Mendy. It belongs to you."
"If this power… really is mine…" she whispered, her breath shuddering with pain and resolve, "Then I need it now. I have to unleash it."
Dark wisps of purple and black energy began to seep from the wound, crawling along the blade as she dragged it slowly out of her body. The water around her began to ripple, the pressure shifting as that ominous power gathered, responding to her will.
She inhaled. Exhaled. Steadily. Again and again. Despite the gaping wound, despite the blood spurting from her stomach in red clouds, the agony was beginning to dull—overshadowed by something else. Something deeper. Fiercer.
With a final growl, she ripped the blade free, unleashing a wave of corrupted energy that surged from the gash like a storm awakened.
"I'm not done… not yet."
To be continued...