My punch connected with the fishman's eyelid—hard, direct. But it bounced off, no deeper than a bruise. The impact made him stumble back, his eyes blinking fast, bloodshot from firelight and drink. He growled through thick lips, the bone under his skin barely dented.
Not enough.
I'd tried to pierce his skull. Meant to drive my fingers into it and rip something vital. Failed. His eyelid was too thick.
Then the others lunged.
I rolled, narrowly avoiding a clawed hand that aimed for my throat. But they were fast. Faster than me. In water, they moved like demons. On land, they were slower—but still quicker than my rebuilt muscles. Blood or not, I couldn't outpace them.
The first tore a chunk from my side.
The second bit into my shoulder and spat the skin. The third didn't bother spitting. He swallowed. I watched him chew. Smiling.
They were mocking me.
My flesh became their meal. They didn't just want to kill me. They wanted to consume me. They wanted me to fear them.
But I was still standing.
The blood roared. Faster than ever. Patches of skin regrew. Torn muscle twitched back into place. Even my nerves stopped screaming after a few seconds. Each injury added something. A violent momentum. I used it.
I found my footing and charged.
One fishman was slow to react. I rammed my shoulder into his gut, lifted him off the ground, and drove him backward—straight into the thermite fire.
He hit with a splash of white-hot sparks. The air filled with the sound of burning flesh. He shrieked, high and long, as the fire crawled into his gills, his mouth, his eyes.
Another fishman tackled me from the side, slamming me hard to the ground. I rolled over stone and dirt, the back of my skull hitting something sharp.
Before I could move, his jaws found me.
My head.
They didn't aim to knock me out. His teeth closed around my face and bit down. I felt the top half of my skull crush inward. Something popped. My vision went dark in one eye. Blood and bone spattered the ground.
But I was still conscious.
Barely.
My hand moved. Shaking. Burning.
I lifted it just high enough for him to see.
Between my fingers: a thermite bullet. Pin already gone. Seconds ticking.
Then it burst.
Light and heat erupted between us, a raw blast that disintegrated both our hands. Fire climbed into our eyes and mouths. The fishman let go, screeching as the fire burrowed into his skull. My face—already shattered—burned again. The thermite sought every crevice, every hollow, tried to claim my brain.
But the blood didn't let it.
My regeneration kicked in with terrifying force. My face rebuilt itself as fast as it burned. Skin regrew while flames tried to eat it. My skull stitched together as fire gnawed at the seams.
I stood.
The fire clung to me like a lover. Thermite wrapped around my arms, crawled down my chest. My flesh hissed, blistered, healed, hissed again.
I walked through it.
Unstoppable.
Around me, the fishmen screamed—panic replacing pride. The flames weren't natural. The healing wasn't natural. Neither was I.
One screamed something in their tongue. Others backed away.
I smiled.
Then giggled.
Not out of madness. Not yet. It was joy—raw, sharp joy. The sound of their pain was beautiful. Not because I liked suffering. But because it meant something. It meant they were afraid.
The ones who wanted me to feel afraid. They were now afraid.
And I liked the taste of fear in the air.
I stepped forward, dragging a half-dead fishman with me. His body was charred,still burning, limbs twitching from burned nerves. I gripped him by the leg like a sack of meat and pulled him out of the fire. His body smoked. One of his arms was gone. His jaw hung open, tongue twitching.
I tossed him at their feet.
The corpse landed with a thud, burning, unmoving.
The others stepped back.
I could smell it now—the fear. Sweat, salt, the acrid bite of control slipping. Their arrogance had been burned off. All that remained was instinct.
Guns were drawn.
Guns. The irony wasn't lost on me.
Fishmen—once lords of the sea—now held rusting pistols in trembling hands. Firearms made for surface world cowards. Symbols of desperation.
They fired.
I walked forward.
Each shot punched into me—chest, arm, shoulder. Blood flew. I grunted. Kept moving. I reached up and pulled the bullets out, one by one, tossing them away like dirt.
They had nothing left but lead.
I ran. Fast.
Straight toward the nearest fishman.
He tried to fire again. I was already on him.
I grabbed him by the throat, shoved him into the burning corpse. His legs kicked, but it was too late. Flames licked at his face, then his chest. He screamed. I silenced him—my hand pressing the back of his head into the fire until his voice died.
The others moved again.
Too slow.
I ducked low, rolled beneath a swinging fist, and came up in the center of the group.
Now.
I pressed the bullet in my hand.
The thermite exploded around me in a sphere of fire and agony. The cloud ignited instantly, roaring into life like a sun being born. Fishmen scattered—some trying to dive, others covering their faces.
Too late.
The fire touched everything.
Even me.
The pain was indescribable. It stripped away flesh, cooked my blood, seared bone. But the regeneration worked faster. My body adapted. The blood adjusted to the heat.
I walked forward—again.
Wrapped in hellfire.
I was their punishment wrapped in hellfire.
They screamed as they burned. Some flopped on the ground. Others tried to crawl away.
I kept moving. Step by step.
Toward another group, untouched. Yet.
They saw me coming.
And they ran.
Some dropped their weapons. Others screamed to each other—orders, maybe. Prayers.
To them, I wasn't a man.
I was something else.
Something that survived fire.
Walked through bullets.
Grew flesh where none should exist.
They screamed at the sight of me. Their voices cracked. Some fell in the mud as they tried to retreat. Their eyes were wide with horror.
I walked toward them—not running now. Just walking. Calm. Measured.
I wanted them to see me. I wanted them to feel the heat still clinging to my skin, smell the smoke rising from my body, see the blood still dripping from half-healed wounds.
They needed to understand.
That death had come. And it looked like me.
One fishman tried to shoot again. His hand shook so much he missed by a full meter.
I reached him.
And didn't bother to kill him.
Not yet.
I just stared into his eyes, my face half-burned, half-regrown. My mouth stretched in a slow, quiet smile.
He dropped the gun.
And ran.
And I let him.
I was never meant to win by strength.
I was here to break their spirit.
One scream at a time.
-------
The fishman ran, limping into the dark with panic in his bones. His feet kicked through the mud, leaving deep, frantic prints behind. I raised the rifle to my shoulder, inhaled, and pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out, sharp and precise. His leg jerked as the bullet tore through the meat of his thigh. He screamed and fell, rolling once before trying to crawl.
I reloaded, calm and steady. Pulled the bolt back. Chambered another round.
Fired.
The second shot slammed into his back—center mass. He choked and spasmed on the ground, but still moved, dragging himself through the muck, desperation fueling every twitch.
I loaded the third round.
This time I didn't rush. I lined up the sights on the back of his head.
One breath in.
One out.
I squeezed the trigger.
The bullet split through the base of his skull, and he finally stopped moving. Limbs went slack. Head pressed to the ground. Dead.
Just like that, another one fell into silence.
Around me, the air still shimmered with heat. The thermite flames hadn't died down. If anything, they'd grown brighter—angrier. The courtyard danced with firelight, flickering against the warped metal structures and crumbling stone walls of Arlong Park. It felt like standing in a furnace, the smoke churning in thick, suffocating waves.
Of the eighteen that had once sat here drinking and laughing, only four remained.
Two writhed near the edge of the fire, their skin peeling from their bones as thermite consumed them from the legs up. Their screams were weak now—worn down to hoarse gasps. The pain had outlasted their strength. They were already gone. Just waiting for their bodies to catch up.
The other two didn't move.
They stood near the wall, wide-eyed, paralyzed by what they'd just seen. One held a shattered bottle. The other hadn't even managed to lift his weapon.
I walked toward them.
Slow. Measured. My boots crushed broken glass and empty shells. I didn't bother loading another round. I didn't need to. Fear was doing more damage than bullets could.
I reached the closest one and grabbed his head in my hand—massive, scaled, clammy. He flinched. Like he'd already accepted what was coming.
I punched.
His skull was thick—thicker than I expected. The first blow made my wrist snap with a sickening crack. The second blow left me numb. My knuckles were ruined, flesh torn open.
But the blood inside me worked fast. Bones reformed. Skin sealed. Pain faded.
I kept punching. Until what was left wasn't worth a name.
It wasn't about killing him quickly. It was about making a point.
I felt a dent under my knuckles on the sixth blow. A soft spot forming, like a melon starting to split. I smiled.
The seventh punch left blood on his face. The eighth made his eye twitch. On the ninth, he collapsed, barely conscious.
Then the tenth broke him.
A wet crack. Something inside gave way. Brain and blood leaked together in a small, controlled spray. He sagged in my grip.
I let go and turned.
A bullet tore through my skull.
It came from the other survivor—the last fishman left standing. He held a small pistol, shaking in his hands. His face was twisted into something halfway between rage and pure horror.
The shot had gone clean through my temple. I saw the world twist sideways. My legs staggered, but didn't fall.
Instead, I looked at him.
Just one glance.
That was all it took.
He froze. The gun slipped from his hands and hit the ground with a weak clink.
I reached up slowly, fingers brushing the hole in my head. The bullet was still there—lodged inside. I pressed in, found it with my fingertips, and pulled.
It slid out slick with blood, the copper casing deformed slightly from impact. I held it up between my fingers, then let it fall to the dirt.
The hole in my head began to close.
The skin reformed.
The blood pulled itself back into my veins.
The fishman's mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out.
I didn't speak.
The blood rebuilt the body. The soul? That part stayed cracked.
I just turned back to the fishman on the ground and resumed punching—slow, mechanical, relentless. Even with half his head gone, I kept going until my hand was slick with what was left of his mind.
And then I dug my fingers deep into the back of his skull.
Found leverage.
Pulled.
The skull came loose with a sickening crunch. I stared into the glistening pink of exposed brain tissue.
And then I bit down.
It was bitter. Warm. The texture made my stomach twist, but I chewed anyway. Didn't swallow. Let it stain my taste bud.
Then I walked toward the last fishman.
He tried to crawl away.
I leaned down, spit the brain matter into his face. It splattered across his eyes and snout. He whimpered and shook, too terrified to speak.
I didn't speak. I just stared. His hand trembled. His bladder let go. He knew he'd already died.
I picked up the bullet he'd used on me. Loaded it into the same gun. His gun.
And I shot him with it.
He fell, eyes still open.
Dead.
I looked around.
The courtyard was now a battlefield. Thermite flames hissed and cracked, bathing everything in a white-yellow glow. Smoke churned low, hugging the ground. Black streaks of scorched earth painted a ring around me. The smell was unbearable—burnt flesh, blood, fire, wet wood.
I walked to a chair—once used by the fishmen to drink and laugh. Sat down. Picked up the half-full bottle of whatever they'd been drinking. Something bitter and strong. The glass was cracked, but it held.
Beside the fire, fish still roasted on skewers. Their skin bubbled, blackened. I pulled one off and bit into it.
It was overcooked, dry. Didn't matter.
I'd killed almost half the crew. Eighteen fishmen.
But not Arlong.
He wasn't here. None of these had his bearing. None of them carried the calm menace I remembered. None of them knew Fishman Karate. They were muscle, not leaders.
This had been a soft target. Drunk and lazy.
The rest? The scouts? They wouldn't be the same.
By now they'd seen the fire.
They'd seen the smoke—hell, you could see it from the ocean. A white beacon in the stormy dark.
They were coming.
I grabbed a pair of rifles from the pile beside the gate. Loaded thermite bullets into both. I knew regular rounds wouldn't be enough. Not against fishmen who could move, who could think. The ones I killed were too slow, too dulled by drink.
The blood in me was slowing now. The regeneration—still strong—but not infinite. Each wound healed took more out of me. I was still functioning, but I could feel the difference. Even my punch earlier hadn't broken an eyelid.
I chewed another bite of fish and watched the gate.
I was ready.
This was going to be their surprise.
I adjusted my aim, rifle resting steady on the edge of the chair. The firelight flickered across the weapon, my hands, my half-healed skin. I smiled.
The silence cracked like glass. Something was coming and it was coming fast.
I got struck from behind.
Hard. Cold. Precise.
A stream of water—dense as stone—hit me square in the back and launched me forward, toppling the chair. I slammed face-first into the dirt, rolling once, rifle knocked from my grip.
I groaned and turned.
And cursed myself.
The rear of the park—forgotten in the chaos—was wide open to the water.
Of course it was.
It was a park once, meant to be grand, sprawling, beautiful. One side had been left open to the sea. A perfect entry point. One I hadn't defended.
Three shadows rose from the water. Bigger. Cleaner. Sober.
I aimed and I fired.