The Devil Sea did not let the dead sink.
That was the first thing Aron noticed.
The bodies they pushed overboard didn't disappear beneath the black water the way he expected. They drifted instead—faces down, limbs slack, clothes ballooning gently as if the sea were cradling them. The water didn't churn. It didn't foam. It simply held them, suspended like offerings it hadn't decided to accept yet.
The sea was quiet about it.
That was worse.
Aron gripped the rail until his fingers hurt, staring as the last body floated away—if drifting in a slow, circular pattern could be called away. The corpse turned slightly, as if nudged by an unseen hand, and for half a second Aron thought it was looking at him.
He swallowed and forced himself to look down at the deck instead.
No one watched for long.
Jaden took control the way gravity did—without asking permission.
"Pairs," he said, voice carrying without shouting. "No one works alone. Strip anything useful first. Weapons, bags, boots. If you hesitate, ask for help. If you freeze—say it out loud."
Some people nodded immediately. Others stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language.
Aron recognized the look.
Shock wasn't loud like panic. It didn't scream or cry or thrash. Shock sat heavy in the chest and made people stupid. Made them forget how to move.
He forced himself to move anyway.
The deck was a wreck of splintered planks and black ichor drying in sticky streaks. Pale blue residue marked where Swordfish had dissolved into light, leaving only scorched wood and a faint crackling hum that made Aron's teeth itch. The air smelled of salt, iron, and something faintly sweet beneath it all—like rotting fruit left too long in the sun.
It turned his stomach.
He crouched beside a body near the mast.
A man in his forties. Greying hair. One shoe missing. A wedding ring still snug on his finger.
Aron hesitated.
His father's voice surfaced unbidden, calm and practical as ever.
If you take from someone who can't say no, you say thank you out loud.
Aron swallowed.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, then corrected himself. "Thank you."
He checked the pockets.
A phone—dead, screen shattered. A wallet with photos tucked inside. A half-empty packet of mints.
He left the wallet.
He took the belt knife.
The moment his fingers closed around the handle, something twisted in his gut.
Not nausea.
Not fear.
Hunger.
Sharp and sudden, like he'd skipped meals for days and only just noticed.
Aron froze, breath shallow.
The feeling faded almost as quickly as it came, leaving behind a faint warmth that lingered in his palms.
"…Shock," he muttered to himself, though he wasn't sure he believed it.
Nearby, voices rose.
"I told you, I didn't mean to push him!"
A woman stood rigid near the railing, arms wrapped around herself. Her clothes were soaked through, plastered to her skin. Her eyes were red-rimmed, unfocused. Across from her, a younger man—maybe eighteen—shook with fury, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.
"You shoved him!" he shouted. "He slipped because of you!"
"I was trying to grab the rope—!"
"That's enough," Jaden said.
He stepped between them without touching either, broad frame blocking sightlines, posture relaxed but immovable. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't glare. He simply stood there.
"Name," he said to the boy.
"Marcus."
"You saw him go overboard?"
"Yes!"
Jaden turned to the woman. "And you?"
She nodded frantically. "I—I slipped, and he grabbed me, and—"
Jaden exhaled slowly, like a man counting backwards in his head.
"Here's what's going to happen," he said. "You're both going to sit. Right there." He pointed to opposite sides of the mast. "You're going to sit. You're going to breathe. And no one is accusing anyone of murder unless they want to test how fast I throw them into that sea myself."
Silence slammed down hard.
The boy's jaw clenched. His eyes burned with unshed tears.
But he sat.
The woman followed, shoulders shaking.
Jaden turned away without another word.
Aron watched him go, something tight loosening in his chest. Jaden didn't look heroic. He didn't look inspirational.
He looked tired.
Like someone who'd done this before. Somewhere worse.
A voice drifted over from behind Aron.
"Well," Jester said mildly, "on the bright side, at least we've established that homicide is still socially frowned upon."
Aron winced.
Several survivors shot Jester glares. One woman actually laughed—short and sharp, immediately clapping a hand over her mouth like she was ashamed of it.
Jester noticed.
"Oh don't," he said, waving dismissively. "If you don't laugh now, you'll do it later at a deeply inappropriate moment. Like during your own death scene."
"Can you not?" someone snapped.
Jester blinked, genuinely surprised. "Not… exist? Talk? Breathe? Please be specific."
"That's not funny!" the man insisted. "People just died!"
"Yes," Jester agreed. "Tragically. Horribly. Very inconsiderate of them."
Aron expected him to escalate. To push. To sharpen the joke into something cruel.
Instead, Jester shrugged.
"Look," he said, tone almost apologetic. "I'm not trying to be heartless. This is just how my mouth works when my brain is screaming."
That… took the edge off.
Not comfort.
But release.
Jester wandered off, muttering to himself. "Note to self: workshop material needs adjustment. Audience sensitivity at an all-time high."
Aron almost smiled.
Almost.
---
Introductions happened slowly, awkwardly, like people were afraid names might make things real.
They gathered near the center of the deck once the immediate work was done. Jaden didn't call them over. He just stood there, hands on his hips, gaze steady—and somehow people drifted closer.
Fourteen of them remained.
Fourteen, down from… Aron wasn't sure. Fifty? More?
A woman in a torn blazer spoke first. "We should know who's here. In case…" She trailed off. "…in case."
Jaden nodded. "Good idea."
He gestured. "Name. Anything relevant."
"Mira," she said. "Accounting. I don't fight."
"No one here is a fighter," Jester said helpfully. "Yet."
She glared at him.
He held up his hands. "See? Yet. Optimism."
A heavyset man with grease-stained hands went next. "Ronald. Mechanic. Boats, cars, engines. That thing"—he jerked his chin toward the ship—"doesn't make sense, but I can maybe keep it from falling apart."
Jaden's shoulders eased a fraction. "Good."
A young woman with sharp eyes hugged a laptop bag to her chest. "Linh. Computer science. Don't ask me how any of this works."
Jester leaned toward Aron. "Ah yes. The sacred art of Computer Science. Historically very useful against monsters."
Aron snorted before he could stop himself.
Jester's eyes lit up. "Oh good. You have a sense of humor. We'll be friends."
"I didn't agree to that," Aron muttered.
"A shame," Jester said. "I already named our sitcom."
A tall man with a bandage around his head stepped forward. "Victor. Former EMT."
"Stay near me," Jaden said.
Victor hesitated. "I don't take orders from—"
"Then stay near the people who will get hurt," Jaden replied calmly.
Victor closed his mouth. Then nodded.
When it came to Jester, he sighed theatrically.
"Jester," he said. "Skills include: poor timing, excellent looting, and a deep, personal resentment toward this entire situation."
"And fighting?" someone asked.
Jester tilted his head. "Let's call it… improvisational problem-solving."
Eyes turned to Aron.
His mouth went dry.
"Aron," he said. "Student. I—" He hesitated. A flash of his younger brother stealing fries off his plate. His mother laughing. His father pretending not to notice. "I survived the boy scouts."
No one laughed.
No one argued.
Something shifted.
Jester squinted at him. "Wow. You really know how to sell yourself."
Aron shot him a look.
Jester smiled innocently.
---
Tension didn't explode.
It fermented.
It crept in through whispers and glances, through the way some people avoided Aron's eyes while others stared too long at the knife on his belt.
"Why does he get one?" someone hissed.
Aron pretended not to hear.
Jaden heard everything.
"We're not distributing power," he said. "We're distributing survival. If you can't use it, you don't get it."
"And who decides that?" Marcus snapped.
Jaden met his gaze. "I do."
Silence.
A low hum rolled through the deck.
Everyone froze.
The black water ahead had changed.
It pulsed.
Slow. Rhythmic.
Like breathing.
Aron's stomach clenched.
> [Environmental Pressure Increasing]
[Predator Density: Moderate → High]
Jester squinted at the horizon. "You know, I'm starting to think this place doesn't want us here."
"No kidding," Linh muttered.
Ronald swallowed. "The ship's drifting."
"Can you slow it?" Jaden asked.
Ronald shook his head. "No rudder control. Whatever's pulling us—it's not current. It's… something else."
Aron stepped closer to the rail.
The Feeding Grounds weren't marked by landmarks but by absence. Sound died there. Wind flattened. Even moonlight seemed reluctant to touch it.
A smell reached him.
Sweet.
Rotten.
His mouth watered.
Jester noticed. "You okay?"
Aron nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Just… hungry."
Jester snorted. "Buddy, if that's hunger, wait till dinner."
A ripple spread across the water.
Something moved beneath.
"Listen to me," Jaden said. "No one panics. No one runs. If you hear me shout—"
The scream from below deck didn't stop.
It warped.
It stretched too long, too wet, like something was pulling sound apart and chewing on it.
Then the hull shuddered.
Not a crash.
A drag.
Wood groaned as something scraped along the ship's underside, slow and deliberate, like a fingernail testing where the skin was thinnest.
> [Warning: Predatory Attention Detected]
People stumbled as the deck lurched. Someone fell hard and didn't get back up right away.
Victor was already moving. "Below deck! Something's—"
The words died as another impact rang out, closer this time.
Jester braced himself against the mast, squinting.
"You know," he said conversationally, "I'd like to formally lodge a complaint about the lack of foreplay. We just met."
"Jester—!" someone shouted.
"I'm coping," he replied. "Poorly, but consistently."
Jaden drew his sword in one smooth motion. The blade caught the dim light and held it, refusing to reflect the sea.
"Everyone stay back," he ordered. "Aron—don't move."
Aron nodded.
He meant to obey.
Then the water beside the ship folded.
Not splashed.
Folded—like a curtain pulled aside.
The creature rose halfway out of the sea, and Aron's brain rejected it on instinct.
It wasn't large enough to be a Leviathan. Too thick, too deliberate. Its hide was slick and black-green, eyes opening along its length one by one, each pupil dilating independently as they locked onto the deck.
Its mouth unfolded sideways.
Not snapping.
Considering.
It didn't roar.
It inhaled.
And the smell hit Aron like a punch—brine, rot, and something warm underneath. Something alive.
His stomach clenched.
Hard.
Hunger slammed into him with enough force to make his knees buckle.
This wasn't like before.
This wasn't a twinge.
It was need.
Aron tasted copper on his tongue and realized his mouth was watering.
"Oh," Jester murmured. "That's new. I don't like that."
The creature moved.
Not toward Jaden.
Toward the cluster of survivors huddled near the mast.
Jaden stepped in its path, sword raised.
The creature ignored him.
It slid around him, body flexing unnaturally, eyes tracking softer targets.
Aron didn't think.
He moved.
The belt knife was already in his hand when he lunged forward. He slashed at the creature's flank—too shallow, barely a cut—
But the blade bit.
The wound didn't close.
It peeled.
Blood welled, thick and dark, and the smell intensified.
The creature shrieked—not in pain, but in loss—and recoiled violently, half-sliding back into the water.
Warmth flooded Aron's chest.
The hunger vanished.
Replaced by relief so sharp it made his vision blur.
"Oh," he breathed.
That felt—
Good.
Too good.
The creature didn't flee.
It circled.
Testing.
Waiting.
Aron's hand shook.
He wanted to cut again.
Not to protect anyone.
Just to feel full.
> [Soul Item Detected: Aerial Fang]
[Condition Met: Imminent Threat]
[Activate?]
The notification pulsed faintly in the corner of his vision.
Aerial Fang.
The item he'd gotten earlier—quietly, without fanfare. He hadn't understood it then. Just a thin, jagged shard that felt lighter than air when he held it, like it wanted to move.
Jaden shouted, "Aron—fall back!"
The creature surged forward.
Aron made a choice.
"Yes," he whispered.
The world shifted.
The air around him tightened, pressure snapping into place like a drawn bowstring. The shard in his grip dissolved—not into light, but into motion.
Wind screamed.
A blade of compressed air tore free from Aron's hand, shrieking as it curved through the space between him and the creature.
Aerial Fang didn't cut like steel.
It sheared.
The invisible arc carved through the creature's hide, ripping flesh open in a clean, merciless line. Blood sprayed outward, suspended for a heartbeat before gravity remembered itself.
The creature howled.
This time, it was pain.
The backlash hit Aron a second later.
His lungs burned.
His knees slammed into the deck.
Hunger roared back—worse than before.
His vision tunneled.
"Oh," Jester said faintly. "Okay. That one was actually impressive."
The creature thrashed, body slamming into the hull once more before it finally retreated, sinking beneath the surface in a froth of dark water.
Silence fell.
Heavy.
Broken only by the sound of Aron retching dryly over the side of the ship.
He didn't throw up.
There was nothing left in him to give.
Jaden was at his side instantly, gripping his shoulder.
"You disobeyed me," he said quietly.
Aron nodded, still gasping. "Yes."
"You saved them."
Aron nodded again.
Jaden's grip tightened—then loosened.
He said nothing more.
Jester crouched nearby, peering at Aron with unsettling intensity.
"…So," he said slowly, "is it just me, or did you look happy for a second there?"
Aron didn't answer.
Because the worst part?
Jester was right.
> [Soul Saturation: 12%]
[Warning: Prolonged Starvation Causes Degradation]
Aron stared at the sea.
The Devil Sea rippled softly.
Watching.
And somewhere deep inside him, something stretched—awake now, alert, already learning how to ask for more.