With every heartbeat pounding against his bruised ribs, Caelum pushed one final bag through the jagged breach carved into the maw's outer shell. The shimmering pearls within shimmered faintly in the moonlight above, now out of danger.
But the maw was far from emptied. He turned back, lungs heaving with pain, saltwater stinging every cut on his skin. There were still more—bags nestled in the darkness, sirens' souls suspended in silence, waiting. He dove again into the abyss.
He hadn't descended far when the water shifted. The calm grew stiller than death, a silence so profound it crushed the bones. The water itself felt thicker, colder. And then he saw it: coiled between the ridges of ancient coral, veiled in kelp and silt, was a beast born of myth and dread.
Its eyes were molten silver. Its body was long and serpentine, armored with scales as old as the sea's first breath. The Maw Seraph—a beast left behind by a traitor of the Gods. It had waited, untouched for centuries. And now it awoke.
Caelum didn't run. He couldn't. The creature lunged with a shriek that split the depths, and he met it head-on, his sword flashing through the blue gloom. The battle raged like a storm. Water churned red. The beast thrashed and struck, its tail cracking coral, its teeth raking against his shoulder. Caelum barely dodged its strike, spinning with an arc of steel that bit into its neck.
The struggle lasted long, too long. Every second cost him air, cost him blood. But in the end, the Maw Seraph sank into the depths, lifeless.
Caelum floated in silence for a moment, vision hazy. He had won—but at a cost.