Stitch's hair drifted weightlessly in the ocean's current, its strands weaving through the water like threads of silk. But as the surge of dark energy pulsed through her veins, something began to shift. Her heartbeat thudded louder, stronger—like a war drum echoing through the depths, calling forth a part of herself she had long buried.
That power—no longer foreign, no longer a curse—was awakening. And it was hers.
A vivid glow bled into her hair, starting at the roots and spreading outward, turning each strand into waves of deep magenta. The transformation was fluid yet fierce, as though her very essence was being rewritten by the force coursing through her.
Around her limbs, tendrils of phantom-like energy spiraled and danced—coils of violet and shadow that moved with an unnatural grace, flickering like ghostly flames in the water. They wrapped around her arms and legs, pulsing in rhythm with her heart, resonating with her fury and resolve.
"I can do this..." Stitch murmured, her voice low and unwavering. "These powers... they're mine. I know it now." Her words carried the calm confidence of someone who had stopped running from herself. With a grimace, she wrapped her fingers tightly around the blade impaling her and yanked it free, the steel leaving her flesh with a squelch. Her knees hit the seafloor, hair now a vivid magenta that floated like a living veil in the water's sway.
Reaching behind her, Stitch drew her primary needle from the casket strapped to her back—the longest of them all, forged for close-quarters combat. Purple, flame-like energy licked along its surface, not fire, but the flickering essence of the underworld itself.
"I may not be one of them yet," she said, her voice growing stronger, firmer, "but I know what I have to do. Just one thing matters now—proving that I'm worthy. That I belong."
The long needle floated in front of her wound, controlled by gossamer-thin threads barely visible to the eye. In a blur of movement, it zipped back and forth, stitching the torn flesh with uncanny precision. Then, as the final thread looped and tied itself, the dark flames kissed the sealed wound—cauterizing, strengthening, ending the bleeding.
Then it struck her—her eyes flared a bright blue for a fleeting moment.
Inspection.
Like an unseen veil pulled back, the ocean revealed its secrets. Stitch saw it all: Razor clashing with Phoebe in the near distance, every movement, every position, the flow of the battle laid bare before her.
And then came the clarity—the focus. Her eyes narrowed as she straightened her posture. One hand held her needle behind her, her arm pulled taut, her torso lowered forward. The magenta strands of her hair streamed behind like silk banners, and the phantom energy coiling around her limbs began to pulse.
With one breath in, Stitch steadied her aim. One breath out—and she let it fly.
Her hand whipped forward, a sharp snap cutting through the water as the long needle surged from her grip. It didn't shoot straight—it danced. Like a predator in pursuit, the needle curved and twisted, weaving through shattered debris, spiraling past jagged coral, and slipping through the narrowest spaces like a thread pulled by fate itself.
The underworld flame cloaking it trailed behind in a violet blaze, burning through the currents without resistance.
Razor didn't notice at first—her focus still locked on Phoebe. But as the vibrations shifted, as something wrong sliced through the water, she turned, instinct pulling her head over her shoulder.
Too late.
The needle struck between her shoulder blades with surgical precision. No burst of blood, no scream—just the violent halt of motion. The moment the needle hit, Razor's eyes widened as her body instantly went cold. A ghostly numbness swept across her limbs, stealing her movement like a shadow stealing light.
She collapsed, her form drifting backward in slow motion, arms limp, legs unresponsive. Her jaw slackened, her senses fading into fog. Whatever energy she once wielded… had been severed in an instant.
From the distance, Stitch's eyes narrowed, her grip tightening with purpose as she rose to her feet.
"Thread the soul," she whispered.
Zharroth remained steadfast, his massive, shark-like form unwavering even as the tides began to shift. One by one, his comrades fell, but his blood-red eyes stayed locked onto Temoshí, who floated across from him, bruised and bloodied, chest rising and falling from the punishment he'd endured. Yet, he didn't falter. Not once.
Zharroth's voice rumbled through the water, deep and grave like an ocean trench. "No matter. Sacrifices must be made… for the rise of the Voreans is inevitable."
He raised his lance once more, the water pulsing with the sheer weight of his power.
"We are the true children of the abyss—the forgotten race cast aside by the surface world. You humans stole the sun and left us to rot beneath your shadows. But we remember. Oh, we remember the taste of your cruelty. And now…"
His arms spread wide as if embracing the sea itself.
"The tide has turned. The ocean is ours once more. Your blood will be the ink that rewrites the order of this world. Starting with you."
He snapped the lance back into his grip and narrowed his eyes at Temoshí.
"Sink, land-dweller. Drown with your false hopes and broken body. I will bring your skull to the altar myself."
Then, the unexpected began to unfold.
The stillness of the deep was shattered—subtly, at first. The ripples in the water began to pulse unnaturally, resonating not just as waves, but as vibrations—deep, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat, echoing through the ocean's flesh. The sea stirred, disturbed by an unknown presence. Pressure thickened. The currents warped. It was as if the ocean itself had sensed something... awakening.
From that resonance, a tremor sparked—and then it came.
A blur.
No, a bolt. A streak of concentrated force cloaked in radiant blue aura exploded through the depths like a living meteor. Temoshí's body had vanished from where it once floated, leaving behind only a spiral of displaced water. He didn't swim. He didn't dash. He ignited. A burst of unrelenting velocity—power fused with purpose, a movement so refined it pierced the very resistance of the ocean.
His energy carved a tunnel of raw propulsion behind him, a rupture in the currents, funneling his force into a single, devastating path.
Then—
Impact.
The sole of Temoshí's foot collided with Zharroth's abdomen like the crash of tectonic plates. It wasn't a kick. It was an underwater quake. The strike didn't push Zharroth back—it folded him. A blinding shockwave tore through the water, igniting five distinct pulses of expanding force that twisted the sea around them into violent spirals. The concentrated blow, amplified by the ocean's own weight, burst forward like a sonic boom in liquid form.
Zharroth's eyes widened—not from pain, but from shock. His reinforced breastplate cracked at the point of contact, splintering with a brittle screech as a piece of it shattered clean off, spiraling away in slow motion. A second later, the pain arrived, delayed by the speed of the strike, and it hit him like a collapsing mountain.
He was launched.
His towering form, a beast built for dominance in his own domain, was now spinning uncontrollably, limbs flailing as he was hurled through the water like a ragdoll. The ocean roared in the wake of Temoshí's kick, currents scattering and crashing like avalanches around his trajectory. The water trembled from the aftershock, flocks of marine life scattered, and the sea floor below cracked with the passing quake.
The echo of that strike didn't fade. It rang through the abyss like a bell tolling a divine punishment—loud, thunderous, and absolute.
Temoshí remained in position, leg still outstretched, his hair flowing upward, aura burning bright. For a moment, the ocean itself stood still, as if stunned by what had just transpired.
Temoshí descended slowly, the force of his last attack draining from his limbs, his body weighed down not just by exhaustion but by the toll of countless battles. His breaths were strained, chest rising and falling as the memories of each clash surfaced—Stitch's haunting phantoms, the brutal dance with the Royal Guards, Desmond's chaos—all of it carved into his muscles, into his resolve.
And yet, his eyes remained forward. There was still one name that rang louder than the rest.
Hollow.
The true threat. The one still lurking above all of them.
But then, the looming shadow ahead stirred.
Zharroth's massive frame lifted from the ocean floor, slow but certain. His cracked armor glinted faintly in the dim light, fractured at the core—yet his spirit had not splintered. The monstrous shark-headed warrior rose like an ancient predator roused from slumber, but something had changed. His fury was no longer wild.
His eyes, narrowed yet aware, locked onto Temoshí.
And then, without malice, he spoke.
"Can we stop this fighting now?" Zharroth's voice was deeper now, slower, as if drained of its primal bite. "We've gone too far already. There's no reason for us to keep killing each other out of spite... out of exhaustion."
Temoshí didn't flinch. His answer had already been made with the force of his foot, and now with the weight of his words.
Then—soft at first, but growing—voices began to echo from around the trench. The Vorean citizens, those who had stayed hidden, passive, watching the clash with wide eyes, began to drift forward. Some swam nearer, others floated in quiet circles. One among them, an elder with gill-framed cheeks and pale silver fins, moved up.
"Zharroth..." the elder said, voice carrying a tremor of truth, "maybe it's time we listen. These people... they didn't come to slaughter us. They defended themselves. They could have destroyed more of us—but they didn't. They held back."
Another Vorean—young, lean, scars across his arms—added, "We struck first. We forced them to fight. But still, they left room for peace. Isn't that what you always taught us? To protect our kind, not sacrifice them?"
One by one, more joined in.
"They fought with honor."
"They had reason. So did we. But it doesn't mean we have to keep bleeding."
"Zharroth, think of the future. Not the past."
The waters grew still again, not in tension—but in transition. A shift. The battlefield now felt more like a courtroom, one where silence would decide the next war... or the first peace.
All eyes returned to Zharroth, waiting for the judgment of a warrior who once led with his rage.
Temoshí masked the searing pain coursing through his body behind a calm, detached expression, standing tall despite the fatigue threatening to break his frame. His gaze was steady, his voice unwavering—measured, as if to prove he still had strength left not to strike, but to make peace.
"You really should listen to them," he said, eyes locked on Zharroth's. "We didn't come here to conquer. "
Before another word could be uttered, a flash of motion cut through the water—Fioren surged forward, placing herself between the two warriors. Her arms outstretched, she turned halfway to Zharroth, her eyes brimming with desperate insistence.
"Zharroth, please," she begged, her voice strong despite the weight of emotion behind it. "Let it end here. They've suffered enough... we all have. We can't keep chasing vengeance every time we see someone who reminds us of the past. Humanity didn't kill our people—hatred did."
For a moment, silence stretched across the ocean like a current no one dared to fight against. Zharroth stood firm, his body towering and torn, the deep cracks in his armor a testament to the battle's brutality. Yet beneath the grim steel and jagged teeth, his expression shifted—barely, but meaningfully. The fury in his eyes began to dull, giving way to something heavier: clarity.
He exhaled deeply, a low rumble from his gill-lined throat.
"You've spoken with heart... all of you." His voice, though still booming, had lost its combative edge. "And I hear it now. I see it in your wounds, in your restraint. You fought because you had no choice."
Zharroth turned his head slightly, glancing at the fallen forms of Nayliin and Razor, both unconscious yet still breathing. His posture softened.
"Come," he finally said, casting his gaze over the fighters—Temoshí, Fioren, and the others. "There is a sanctuary not far from here. A cavern beneath the ruins, shielded from the ocean's cold. It's where we bring our wounded. Nayliin and Razor will be taken there... and so will you."
He turned away, slowly beginning to swim toward the distant trench edge. "You'll be treated. Rested. No more blood needs to fall here today."
To be continued...