The Sea King screamed, its howl cutting through the storm like a blade made of grief and rage. Thermite burned across its body in rivers of red and yellow, glowing like molten sunlight even beneath the surface. The chemical fire clung to flesh, devouring it down to muscle and scale. Its tail slammed against the ocean in raw, panicked force—once, twice—creating shockwaves that flattened the nearby waves. Each beat of its agony trembled through the water, the sky, the hull shards drifting in its wake.
Me?
I was airborne.
The thermite grenade had gone off half a second before I hit the water. A miscalculation. The force of the explosion caught me like a hammer to the ribs and launched me through the rain-soaked sky. Wind screamed in my ears. I didn't hear my own bones break. I felt it though—ribs snapping, flesh cooking, tendons peeling away like wet paper.
The thermite had burned straight through the skin on my left side and into the bone. A blast of fire that licked into marrow.
The blood in me moved fast. Bones regrew mid-flight. Muscles followed. Nerves lit back up in sequence, like lights coming on one by one in a hallway. Skin knit last, stretched tight and new over the ruin that had just been rebuilt.
By the time I hit the water—skipping once, then again, each bounce like a car crash—I was whole again.
I didn't have time to feel grateful.
The last skip sent me slamming face-first into a cliff. My body hit rock with the weight of everything I'd carried since landing in this world. My vision blurred. Blood mixed with salt and rain. My skull rang like a cracked bell. But I didn't black out.
Luck?
Maybe.
Something more?
Almost certainly.
My cheek was half-buried in the cliffside mud. The rain kept pouring, mixing with the iron taste in my mouth. I groaned and dug my hands into the rock. Found a crevice. Then another. My fingers locked in like claws.
I started to climb.
One slow pull at a time.
Below me, I could still see the Sea King. It thrashed in pain, coiling through the waves like a burning god. The thermite fire hadn't gone out. It had turned white-hot now, shedding sparks even underwater. I had never seen anything stay lit like that in the ocean. But this wasn't normal thermite. Nothing in this world was normal.
Halfway up the cliff, I paused. Rain plastered my hair to my face. My fingers screamed from holding slick, sharp rock. And then—through the downpour—I heard it.
A swish.
Then another.
My eyes followed the sound. Lightning flashed—just for a second—but long enough.
Fishmen. A group of them. Six, maybe seven. Their dark forms cut effortlessly through the storm-swollen water, rising and dipping in rhythm. Every time they breached the surface, a sharp swish split the air. Like blades slicing silk.
In water, I wouldn't stand a chance. Even burning blood couldn't give me their kind of speed. They moved like thoughts. Like instinct. I stayed low against the cliff, muscles clenched, barely breathing.
They were swimming toward the Sea King—toward the source of the flame.
The fishmen stopped short of the beast. One of them raised a hand. A surge of water coalesced at his palm, then launched forward like a bullet. It struck the flame and hissed. Another fishman followed. More water.
Fishman Karate.
Even in this storm, even against unnatural fire—they were controlling the flow. Turning it. Choking the blaze.
I reached the top of the cliff just as the last of the flame began to shrink. The Sea King was still alive, barely. The light had dimmed in its massive eye, but its body still twitched in reflex. The fishmen circled it like sharks, silent and sure.
I stood slowly. Every nerve was alert now. Every instinct screamed that I was too close, too visible. I raised my hand to shield my eyes from the rain—
And froze.
The press of cold metal found the back of my head.
A gun.
No click. No words. Just pressure. A finger resting on a trigger. The tension between life and death hung in the space of a breath.
I wasn't afraid of dying.
But a gunshot here, now, would be suicide. The fishmen would hear. They'd come. And I wouldn't survive a second encounter—not in this shape, not on land, not with only one thermite bullet left.
A voice broke the silence.
"Anata wa dare desu ka?"
Who are you?
Female. Sharp, deliberate.
"Naze watashitachi no nōjō ni kita no desu ka?"
Why did you come to our farm?
I responded in the clearest word I could offer.
"Shōkin kasegi."
Bounty hunter.
Silence.
The barrel at the back of my skull trembled. Just for a moment. Then pressed harder, almost in defiance.
"Shōkin kasegi wa koko ni kurubekide wanai."
Bounty hunters shouldn't come here.
I didn't catch all of it. Her dialect was thick, fast. The storm didn't help. But I heard the tone. Saw the outline of the fear in her words.
So I gave her the one word that might explain everything.
"Arlong."
That did it.
The gun shook. She stepped back slightly, not lowering the weapon but no longer steady either.
I moved fast.
Turned, catching her off guard. My hand clamped down on the trigger, jamming it before she could react. My other hand caught her wrist as she moved to shout—palm to mouth, gentle but firm.
Her eyes widened.
The lightning cracked behind us, illuminating everything.
And I saw her face.
I knew it instantly.
"Nojiko." I breathed.
Her pupils shrank. Her breath hitched.
Her gaze swept me from head to toe—my soaked clothes, my burned skin, the half-regrown tissue around my arm where the thermite had eaten deep. The blood still drying in streaks down my jaw. The eyes that didn't look the same as when we last met.
"Lovecraft-san…" she whispered.
There was recognition in her voice. But more than that—relief. Fear. Questions she hadn't had time to put into words yet. Her body tensed again, ready to fight, then hesitated.
She was scared. But not of me.
She was scared because she recognized me.
She pulled back her hand slowly, lowering the gun. I let go of her mouth. Neither of us spoke for a long time. The storm covered us like a cloak.
She said nothing more. But she turned, motioned for me to follow.
I looked once more over the cliff. The Sea King was still dying, its fire almost gone. The fishmen were moving now, heading back toward the shoreline in silent formation.
There was no time.
I followed Nojiko down the path.
Into the dark.
Into the plan I hadn't made yet.
But into the fight I was always meant to start.
-------------
The soup was hot. It scalded the roof of my mouth, but I kept eating.
I sat on a wooden chair in Nojiko's kitchen, steam rising from the bowl, drifting upward to vanish into the dim light. Rain still whispered against the roof. My skin was dry now, wrapped in old, faded clothes that smelled like tangerine leaves and ash. My own were ruined—burnt and torn by flame, soaked through with sea and blood. She'd offered the clothes without words. I'd accepted without thanks.
We'd said enough already.
I'd told her everything. Or at least, as much as I could with the limits of my language and the pressure of time. About Nami. About Kaya. About how I'd ended up here, crawling up a cliff with thermite scorched into my ribs.
And to continue the lie of being a bounty hunter, I told her that I came here for Arlong's head.
She listened in silence, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. Her face was unreadable—eyes dark, flickering with something I couldn't name. Not anger. Not sadness. Not fear. Something more complicated. Something I didn't dare interrupt.
She said one thing, though. One warning.
Don't go after Arlong.
The Marines from Branch 16—corrupt, cowardly—were working with him. Any official action would be suicide. He was protected.
I just shook my head. Slowly. Calmly.
The Sea King I'd crippled belonged to them. If they weren't already after me, they would be soon. I was on their list now. There was no going back. Staying even a little longer risked dragging Nojiko into it. But she had insisted. Her house was far from the village, far from Arlong Park. Hidden in the folds of the farm, tucked behind the hills and rows of tangerine trees. I'd be safe—for now.
I didn't argue. Not because I believed it. Because I had one more question to ask.
"Kingyo otoko?"
Gold fishman. The one who helped us. He wasn't like the others. I had no proof, but I felt it—deep in that sixth sense that had never led me wrong.
Her expression darkened. Just slightly. Her lips parted as if to speak, then pressed closed again. She sighed, but said nothing.
That was answer enough.
I gave her a slow nod and looked down at the empty bowl. The soup had soothed something in me—not just hunger. The heat was comfort. The gesture, more so. She didn't owe me anything, in fact I owed her, but she had fed me, clothed me, given me a place to heal.
When I stood, I adjusted the jacket she'd given me. A bit too large in the shoulders. It felt like armor anyway.
I found my gear in the corner—what was left of it. One grenade, four bullets. Somehow. Everything else had burned or been washed away. I holstered the weapons and walked to the door.
Before I left, I turned to Nojiko.
"Watashi wa koko ni imasendeshita."
I was never here.
"Watashi no ato o otte konaide. Arigatō."
Don't follow me. Thank you.
I held her gaze. Not long. Just enough to make sure she understood. She nodded once. I stepped into the rain.
The park was easy to find. It stood above everything else. A grotesque landmark, tall and sprawling, crowned with spikes and banners that flapped in the wind. A twisted monument to dominance.
The storm hadn't let up. Good. It masked my movement, washed away my scent. But it might not be enough. Just in case, I climbed a tree and waited. I stayed there for over an hour, crouched on a thick branch, unmoving. Watching the rain erase my footprints one by one. When I was sure the trail was gone, I moved.
Not toward the park—toward the beach.
I moved from tree to tree, slow and silent. No snapped branches. No broken rhythm. I let the wind carry the sound. When the forest thinned, I jumped—straight into the sea.
The salt water burned the open wounds on my skin. I sank beneath the surface and let the current carry me. I stayed under for as long as I could, then surfaced, then sank again. I did this over and over, until my scent and any trace of Nojiko's home were erased. Only when I was certain did I crawl from the sea.
My legs were heavy. My breath shallow. But my mind was clear.
I walked toward the park.
Each footstep left deep impressions in the sand, quickly softened by rain.
The village sat in the path. I saw torches flickering in the dark, shadows moving beneath them. Fishmen—patrolling. They stood over trembling villagers, questioning them. Faces were pale. Shoulders hunched. Nobody ran. Everyone answered.
I kept to the edges, moving through the tall grass, circling the long way around. The gate to the park was half-open. No guards. Odd. I waited—thirty minutes, maybe more—watching. Listening.
Nothing.
Then I slipped inside.
The courtyard was a mess of mud and cracked stone. In the center, a bonfire burned low, flickering orange and red. Around it, fishmen sat in uneven circles, drinking from wooden barrels, some half-asleep, others slurring words I couldn't understand. Laughter drifted from one side. Shouts from another. Eighteen in total. More than I could take at once. But less than the estimated total number. I believe I knew why.
The others were still out. Searching. Responding to the Sea King's scream.
This was half the force. The half that stayed behind to get drunk.
I knelt behind a stone pillar. Burned blood. My body responded immediately. My heart quickened, and every vein lit up like a map of red lightning. Strength multiplied in my limbs. Speed filled my muscles like current through wire. Time slowed around the edges.
I took out one bullet.
I aimed—not at them, but at the fire.
Then I threw.
It hissed through the air, fast and small. Most didn't notice. A few turned, brows furrowing.
Then it landed.
And then it ignited.
The bullet cracked like a bone under pressure, unleashing a burst of searing thermite into the bonfire. Flame exploded outward, a burst of light and smoke and screaming heat. Sparks rained down like tiny comets.
I ran.
Straight into the chaos.
The two nearest fishmen were still blinking when I hit them. I shoved both into the thermite cloud. They fell, flailing, and began to scream—flesh and scale peeling under the chemical heat.
One turned toward me, roaring, swinging wide. I ducked, drove my foot into his chest, and sent him reeling into the bonfire itself. Flame wrapped around his body like a shroud.
Another came from the side—I turned to meet him—
And then something bit down on my leg.
The pain was instant. Blinding.
Teeth. Massive, curved, and sharp. A jaw locked around my calf and ankle, crushing bone and slicing through meat in one clean motion.
My leg came apart in pieces. I hit the ground, rolled instinctively, pulling free. Blood spurted into the mud, hot and fast.
The fishman who bit me—a tall one with a jagged fin running down his spine—licked his lips. My blood glistened in his teeth.
My leg reformed beneath me, rebuilt by the blood of beasts.
Three bullets left. No gods. No glory. Just blood and me.