The Mutant-Class crab crashed into the street with an ear-splitting crack, its monstrous body denting the cracked pavement, but it didn’t fall like any normal giant bug would. Dust and bits of shattered stone sprayed outward as it snapped its claws at Marisol’s neck, trying to kill her even as Victor chucked it down at breakneck speed.

  Marisol’s eyes widened, and she immediately pushed back, skating on instinct. The sharp whine of her glaives scraping the ground punctuated her pulse hammering like a drumbeat in her ears.

  “... The hell is this, old man?” she shouted, snapping her gaze to the roof where he’d stood moments before. Anger and confusion burned in her chest, but the roof was already empty.

  He wasn’t there.

  Of course he wasn’t there.

  She narrowed her eyes and looked around quickly. The abandoned district was… well, abandoned. Dead. Silent except for the crab’s menacingly grinding mandibles as it clawed onto its feet, its pale white shell absorbing and distorting moonlight into fractured patterns across its human-like body. It had two legs, six arms sprouting from its back, and two relatively normal-sized claws where its human hands should be. It wasn’t that much bigger than her, either. Standing at only two metres tall, it was by no means more menacing than the Imperator siblings with their massive shockwave-producing pistol shrimp claws—but its appearance was deceiving. It didn’t paint the full picture.

  Its aura was something else.

  Its killing pressure was something else.

  It’s gotta be D-Rank, at least. She grimaced, biting her lip and trying to stop herself from quivering. Its aura ain’t no joke, and if it had the reaction time to try to snap at my neck even when it was being flung down by the old man, it may even be bordering on C-Rank.

  [It is a C-Rank Mutant-Class ghost crab,] the Archive affirmed. [Displaying identification information now—]

  But the Archive did no such thing. It had no time. The Mutant lunged in, one of its claws carving through the air like a blade, and Marisol’s body moved before her mind caught up. Her legs pushed her back into a sharp dash. Its claw slammed into the ground in front of her as she skated in circles around it, her breaths sharp and uneven.

  It’s fast, alright!

  But let’s see if you can keep up with this!

  She drew in a deep, heavy breath. Her body heated up. Her blood crackled faintly, bubbling in her veins. Pinkish-blue lightning crackled across her glaives as she activated her Swarmblood Art, boosting her speed, boosting her power—she’d try to kill the crab in a single hit.

  The Archive buzzed in her mind. [Caution. It is a C-Rank Mutant-Class ghost crab, and you are only C-Rank Mutant-Class. At equivalent grades, a full-speed head-on charge is inadvisable.]

  She didn’t hear anything. Her focus was steady, her eyes were burning with energy. The abandoned district blurred at the edges of her vision as the crab turned around slowly, trying to track her speed, its legs clattering as if attempting to reposition. But there was nowhere for it to run. With a sharp turn, she skated inwards. Sparks flew as she twisted, pivoted, and launched into the War Jump, the air crackling with static from her glaives as she kicked out at its chest.

  Right before contact, though, the crab disappeared.

  Vanished into thin air.

  Marisol blinked. Her momentum carried her through empty air, her glaives slicing cleanly through nothing, and she screeched to a halt with her knees buckling slightly from the force.

  … What?

  Where’d it go?

  Her senses shuddered. Her danger instincts flared. The wind current to her left shifted just slightly out of place, and she caught a shimmer of movement.

  She barely twisted out of the way as the crab reappeared behind, its claw snapping at her head with lethal intent. The killing pressure alone was enough to sting her skin, make her mind race.

  It’s using a Swarmblood Art.

  What is it?

  Her pulse spiked as she watched the crab vanish into thin air again, its translucent carapace fading seamlessly into the night. The stillness that followed was suffocating, her breathing loud in her ears as she scanned the ruins for any sign of movement.

  Her senses told her nothing. Her danger instincts were flaring. The currents were every bit as slow and cool and gentle as they were—right up until they weren’t. The crab struck again, materialising just long enough to swipe at her from behind before vanishing once more. She managed to dodge by a hair’s breadth again, but as she skated deeper and deeper into the abandoned district to put more distance between them, she gritted her teeth, frustration building.

  The bug was toying with her.

  Before it could reappear again, she activated spraying discharge, expelling a burst of air around her. A thin mist of ash billowed outward, swirling in the moonlight as it spread across the street, the buildings, and smothered her in a bubble of smog. Her eyes darted through the haze, searching for even the faintest outline of a moving crab, because even if it was invisible, there was no way it wouldn’t push the mist out of the way just to get close to her.

  For a moment, she thought she saw a ripple—a faint distortion in the mist—but when she reacted first and kicked, she hit nothing. The ripple disappeared as quickly as it came.

  … It’s moving incredibly slowly when it’s invisible, she realised. It’s only moving fast when it’s not invisible to throw me off with its alternating speed.

  Her frustration deepened, mingling with the ache in her limbs and the sharp sting of her earlier wounds. She was tired, and it was starting to show. When the crab reappeared again, this time directly in front of her, she threw herself to the side. The motion was so abrupt it sent her skidding across the pavement. Her glaives carved twin gouges into the ground as she scrambled back, her heart pounding in her chest.

  I can’t… keep this up.

  The crab vanished again, and she didn’t wait to see where it’d reappear. Instead, she turned and bolted, skating across the street, round a corner, and then leapt through a large window with her arms bracing her face. Glass shards sliced at her skin as she tumbled inside, but she ignored the pain, rolling to absorb the impact before sliding to a halt behind a thick stone pillar.

  She’d jumped herself into an abandoned warehouse, it seemed. Stacks of dusty crates and rotten wooden pallets surrounded her on all sounds, and were it not for the giant holes in the ceiling letting moonlight pour in, she’d be completely blind in the musty old place. None of the gas lamps were on.

  Her chest heaved as she pressed her back against the pillar, deactivating Charge Glaives so she wouldn’t make any light and draw attention.

  Fear clawed at her heart, raw and visceral.

  Sweat clung to her brow, mixing with the grime and blood from earlier skirmishes. Every breath came with a sharp twinge of pain. Claudia had healed most of her more serious wounds, but in the Lighthouse Imperator’s own words, she didn’t have an inexhaustible supply of healing blood. She didn’t heal most of Marisol’s smaller cuts, tears, and scrapes. That was fine with Marisol, because she could just bandage them like everyone else, but… all this running and jumping around was making her old wounds open again, dyeing her bandages a wet, sickly rouge.

  And she didn’t know how to get the crab to show itself.

  She had no idea what to do as she listened to the Mutant punching through building after building outside, following her scent.

  “... Tired already?”

  Her eyes snapped wide open, and her apiclaws shot out instinctively, but the voice was familiar—and it was the last voice she wanted to hear right now.

  She turned her head slowly to see the alop sitting casually atop a stack of crates a few strides away. His legs swung back and forth, his cane resting across his lap, and… he was munching on a box of cookies. She recognised the logo on the box. She’d visited the store once, but there was no way it was still open, so he must’ve robbed the place.

  That aside, she scowled and pressed the back of her head against the pillar, inhaling a deep breath through her nose.

  “What do you want, old man?” she muttered.

  He smirked, leaning back on his arms. “You’ve been pushing yourself for two weeks straight—recklessly, I might add—fighting like you’ve got something to prove to someone. I’m curious. What’s it all for? Who are you punishing?”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Marisol clenched her jaw, but she didn’t answer. Victor took that as his cue to continue.

  “You think it’s because of you that we’re all still here.” He tilted his head, studying her. “You really are something, you know that? You were the deciding vote, sure, but we all chose to stay. We’re here because we want to be, because that’s what it means to be an Imperator… and that’s what it means to be a Hasharana, Storm Strider.”

  She flinched at the title.

  She still didn’t like it.

  Not one bit.

  It made her more than the speed-loving Sand-Dancer she was—it made her a hero with responsibilities, and she hadn’t come all this way to defeat the Swarm or anything.

  All she wanted was to sand-dance with her mama once again, not… be the ‘Storm Strider’ or anything.

  Victor leaned forward, his gaze steady and unflinching. “Even the men we had to leave behind in Depth Five knew what they were signing up for years ago. Just like you were prepared for death when you received your system from Antonio. What happened in Depth Five ain’t the first time you’ve made a difficult choice, your deciding vote ain’t the second time you’ve made a difficult choice, and the next choice you make ain’t gonna be the third, nor the last. You gotta toughen up. This ain’t even a real war yet. In times like these, you gotta stop pretending you can do it all alone and work with everyone more than ever before.

  Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms.

  “Says the Hasharana,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, thick with emotion.

  Victor raised a brow. “What’d you say?”

  “You’re a Hasharana,” she said, her words trembling. “You said it yourself a long time ago—you never worked well with people. A Hasharana operates alone. We’re wandering bug-slayers who slay giants and hogs all the points we obtain. Why shouldn’t I fight alone now, huh?”

  …

  The air grew still, Victor’s smirk fading into something more solemn.

  For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  Then, without warning, he vanished from the top of the crates.

  Marisol didn’t blink. She wasn’t startled by the sudden emptiness. She’d seen him vanish many, many times before, so when he reappeared beside her—sitting on the ground with his back against the pillar, cane resting against his shoulder—she wasn’t at all surprised by his speed.

  “... When I was younger,” Victor began, “I travelled with Enki and Zora for… ah, that ain’t right. When I was younger, I travelled with the Worm God and the Thousand Tongue for a bit, when they first came to the Deepwater Legion Front three or so decades ago.”

  Marisol turned her head slightly, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

  “Back then, I was the first person to use my class,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “My mother was the one who made it. Designed and forged it using the parts of a particular Mutant-Class bug that’d washed up dead on the shore of our little island in the middle of nowhere. I was fourteen when my mother operated on me to help me survive the system integration, and for a long, long time, I slayed giant bugs in one particular strait of the Deepwater Legion Front all by myself. All alone.”

  He tapped his cane lightly against the ground, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet space. Marisol frowned, unsure where he was going with this.

  “For the longest time,” he continued, his tone growing heavier, “I didn’t like working with people. Didn’t trust them, didn’t need them. They were slower than me. They were weaker than me. And I knew how to pick my battles, of course. I only fought battles I knew I could win. F-Rank Mutant-Classes, maybe the occasional E and D-Rank, but never anything stronger than D-Rank.”

  Then he leaned his head back against the pillar, and Marisol thought—under his bandages—that his gaze was probably… distant.

  Somewhere far, far away.

  “Then I met the Worm God and the Thousand Tongue,” he said, “and, well… let’s just say things got interesting.”

  Marisol couldn’t help but snort. “That’s one way to put meeting two of the strongest humans on the continent.”

  Victor snorted back. “They had a bastard of a cook with them, too. They dragged me into one fight after another, and I fought bugs far stronger than anything I’d ever faced before. Insanely powerful ones. The kind that’d make your skin crawl just being near them.” Then he paused for a moment, his expression softening. “That short year where I traveled with them across the Deepwater Legion Front? I’ve never come closer to dying ever since. I can count sixteen separate instances where I thought ‘this is it’, but you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I never actually died,” he said, shrugging casually as he did. “‘Cause I wasn’t alone. I had companions I could trust, rivals I wanted to surpass. And it ain’t just about strength—it was about resilience. Did you know human auras can combine? That, when you put two humans together, their auras will become one and make both of them more resistant to the killing pressure of a stronger bug?”

  She knew that. The Archive had told her. Still, she shook her head slowly and pretended like she didn’t, because she didn’t want to say anything.

  The old man knew she knew, but he didn’t say anything about that, either.

  “Well, even when I faced Mutants with killing pressure leagues above mine, the Worm God and Thousand Tongue’s auras made it so I stood a chance,” he said. “I was afraid, yes, but I ain’t never found myself paralyzed with fear. And honestly? I hated how strong the two of them were. They made me wanna kick their faces in. They made me wanna…. push myself harder than I ever thought I could.”

  …

  Marisol was silent, and Victor exhaled softly, glancing at her.

  “You’re right,” he said plainly. “It’s true most Hasharana operate alone. We’re the only bug-slaying organisation in the world that doesn’t try to cultivate soldiers in an organised, training-based environment. We’re the only organisation without laws that dictate at least eighty percent of gathered bug meat must be shared equally amongst the rest of the organisation, even if you were the one who killed the giant bug all by yourself. We cultivate heroes. We cultivate legends. We prove ourselves in battle against bugs above our grade all the fucking time, but you know, the Archives exists not just because its aggregate of information will prove useful to us—the Worm God created the Archives so we’d never truly, truly be alone, no matter what kind of bug we’re going up against.

  “You might’ve been the deciding vote for all of us to stay and fight in this city, but the burden ain’t just yours to carry.”

  Then Victor grinned, his voice lightening.

  “Besides, this ain’t the first time the fate of the city is hanging by a thread, so guess what? We’ll win. Just like every. Other. Time.”

  Marisol was quiet for a moment longer.

  Then she let out a shaky breath, her lips twitching into the faintest of smiles.

  “... You’re awfully optimistic about this whole thing,” she grumbled. “What brought this on?”

  Victor shrugged, leaning back against the pillar.

  “Just felt like it,” he said.

  And before she could press him further, a deafening crash echoed through the warehouse. The ground trembled, dust and debris falling from the rafters as something massive punched its way through a wall.

  Marisol’s heart skipped a beat as the killing pressure of the Mutant-Class crab wafted in at full force, but Victor wasn’t affected. He stood smoothly, brushing dust off his coat, and then clasped his hands on top of his cane.

  His god-annoying smirk returned.

  “Well, that’s my cue,” he said lightly. “And I know I just said you’re not alone, but, like, this fight is on you. You and your Archive alone.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him. “Fuck you.”

  He tipped his feathered cap, bowing slightly. “Good luck with the crab. If you die, you die.”

  Then he vanished with a puff of wind, leaving her alone in the warehouse with the stalking, mandible-clicking crab.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her ragged breathing to slow, her pulse to steady.

  In and out.

  In and out.

  Her hands unclenched, and she wiped the sweat off her palms. Her grip had to be steady for what was coming next—she couldn’t afford to shake.

  And for the first time in two weeks, she looked at the little water strider perched on her shoulder.

  Its legs twitched faintly, an almost imperceptible hum emanating from it as though acknowledging her attention.

  ... Archive.

  The water strider remained still, though she knew it was listening. It always was.

  You betrayed me, she thought quietly. You shocked me. In Depth Five. You listened to that old man’s command over mine.

  [...]

  Do you know what that felt like?

  It felt like you didn’t trust me.

  Like you thought I was wrong.

  Like you thought I couldn’t do the impossible and save everyone.

  Her thoughts lingered, brittle and full of unspoken pain, and for its part, the little water strider still didn’t move. Its silence cut deeper than she wanted to admit, but… she forced herself to exhale shakily, closing her eyes.

  … But I know why you did it, she thought. You thought you were doing what was best for me. You thought it would save me, and… I guess it did, didn’t it?

  Then she huffed out a small, bitter laugh, the sound harsh and hollow.

  I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for you.

  I know that.

  I owe you my life since the day you listened to me and gave me my Water Strider Class.

  Thank you.

  But fuck you, too.

  [...]

  The Archive remained silent, its hum fading into nothing.

  Marisol frowned, shifting her gaze back to the small bug on her shoulder.

  What?

  Got nothing to say?

  Then, after what felt like an eternity, the Archive spoke. Its voice was soft and measured, neither apologetic nor defensive.

  [...Let us make a pact,] it said plainly.

  Marisol blinked. A pact?

  The Archive continued, its tone resolute. [From now on, I will disregard Victor Morina’s commands. I will also disregard the orders of any higher-ranking Arcana Hasharana. I will listen only to you, and I will never shock you again—unless you ask me to.]

  Marisol stared at it, her breath catching in her throat.

  [But in return,] the Archive added quickly, [please do not ignore me anymore.]

  [As an Archive of an Altered Symbiotic System, my capability to empathise with my users extends only so far as to ensure perfect synchronisation in and out of battle. I cannot afford true ‘companionship’ as humans are able to do for each other. My voice can never be given physical form, and to establish sentimental connections with my users is fundamentally impossible given the nature of my design parameters.]

  [Even still, I… do enjoy the time we spent together.]

  Her lips parted, but no words came out.

  Then she swallowed hard, rubbing her nose gently.

  You’d really do that for me? she thought finally.

  [Of course,] the Archive replied without hesitation. [I am your Archive, after all.]

  [And for what it is worth, I am sorry.]

  She stared at the little water strider for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

  But slowly, steadily, a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

  “Okay,” she said softly. “I won’t ignore you anymore. And… I’m sorry, too.”

  The water strider didn’t have a face—couldn’t smile or frown—but she could feel something in its presence shift. A faint warmth, a sense of quiet relief.

  It was ‘happy’.

  Marisol’s smile widened just a fraction before the ground beneath her trembled. The sound of skittering legs grew louder, closer, and the Mutant crab’s guttural screech echoed through the warehouse.

  “... Right, then,” she said, sucking in a sharp breath as she glanced around the pillar, lightning blood coursing through her veins. “Help me out here. Tell me its weakness or something. How’s it going invisible like that?”

  And the Archive’s hum returned, stronger this time, almost eager.

  [With pleasure.]

  [Objective #67: Slay the C-Rank Mutant-Class Ghost Crab]

  [Time Limit: Undefined]

  [Reward: Your partner back]

  [Failure: Death]

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