Victor lounged atop the crumbling roof of the abandoned warehouse, moonlight painting the desolate district in pale silver.

  Below, the city lay silent, the streets empty save for the soft hiss of wind against broken glass. All things considered, it was a relatively quiet night. Humming to himself, he reached into the battered box of cookies resting on his lap, fishing out another one and biting into it lazily. Crumbs tumbled onto his coat, but he didn’t bother brushing them off.

  The quiet shattered abruptly as the warehouse walls below him exploded outward with a deafening , a plume of dust and debris erupting into the night. He didn’t flinch. He reached for another cookie—chocolate chip and coconut milk flavoured—and popped it into his mouth, slipping it between his bandages. Immediately, he shivered from head to toe. It appeared he still couldn’t handle the taste of coconut, but, well, it wasn’t like he could handle most food products from the far eastern Mori Masif Front anyways. He was a far westerner, born and raised. Just like the Mutant-Class ghost crab that’d just been kicked out of the warehouse.

  Through the swirling haze of dust beneath, Marisol emerged from the warehouse like a storm, her glaives glinting as they caught the moonlight. She skated across the cracked pavement, her movements fluid and relentless, and a cool mist poured from her glaives, rolling across the streets like ghostly tendrils.

  He tilted his head, amused, as he watched the lass execute a handstand spin. The little mist she was discharging suddenly became a cyclone. Bits of broken glass, wood fragments, and jagged metal scraps were swept into the whirlwind, becoming deadly projectiles swirling around her. He raised a brow and noted the precision in her chaos—she wasn’t spinning recklessly with both palms on the ground. There was a method to the madness. A master of the currents.

  The Mutant-Class ghost crab clicked its mandible in irritation as it clawed to its feet, and its carapace shimmered. Its cloak was nearly perfect, rendering it almost invisible save for the faint, rippling outline of its claws, but the whirlwind the lass was spinning up was a violent, frightening one. A shard of metal ricocheted off something hard and unseen—the ghost crab’s shell—and the lass didn’t miss the sound. Didn’t miss the beat.

  She immediately backflipped out of her handstand and lunged towards the distortion, her glaive crackling with lightning. Her next attack struck true again. The ghost crab staggered back as she kicked it straight in the chest, gouging deep into its shell and making headway towards its heart.

  Victor smirked, popping the last few cookies into his mouth as the crab let out a guttural screech. The lass darted back, skating in a wide arc to reposition herself for another strike, her whirlwind of mist reforming around her as she did her handstand spin again.

  He shook his head slowly. It didn’t matter either way. Her Archive was part of her now. It could only suggest strategies and tactics it knew she was capable of doing, so was leading the way, not her Archive.

  That was that, then. He wouldn’t have to worry about her from now on. He’d taught her everything he could teach, so the rest of her life as a Hasharana was up to her.

  The box of cookies was empty now, and he sighed as he crumpled it in his hand. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it off the roof, listening to the faint rustle as it tumbled into the street below.

  Then he stood, brushing crumbs from his lap, and his gaze drifted westward—past the broken city and to the open sea.

  Even from this distance, the wall of autocannons loomed like a scar across the horizon. They were steel giants standing vigilant against the endless tide of the Crawling Seas. That was the name humanity gave to the unending, infinite sea of giant bugs threatening to engulf the entire continent. The ‘Swarm’ they fought in the Swarmsteel Fronts were just the very best of the best the Crawling Seas sent to vanguard their conquest.

  Even now, the unmanned cannons were firing in relentless unison against the Crawling Seas, their barrels glowing faintly from the constant heat of discharge. The sounds reached him in uneven waves. Dull booms rippled through the air like distant thunder. He didn’t even have to close his eyes to feel the faint vibrations in his chest.

  They weren’t firing at maximum speed.

  Massive pipelines snaked across the seabed from the city’s factories to the cannons, feeding them a near-endless supply of ammunition, but given most of the city’s population were already warped off the island, the factories weren’t running at full production power. They weren’t producing enough shells, and the sea of bugs weren’t getting whittled down quickly enough. It’d only be a matter of time before the Crawling Seas would break through and wash across the Deepwater Legion Front.

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  If the Crawling Seas were allowed to reach the western shores of the mainland continent, that’d be the end of the Deepwater Legion Front.

  He turned his gaze upward, past the city, and onto the volcano that loomed over the island. It was impossible to see the whirlpool from below with his naked eyes. With his Archive’s live navigation map, he get an aerial view, but… he didn’t feel like catching even a glimpse of the Worm God’s battle against the entire whirlpool. He knew what was going on down there. The Worm God may not be dead just yet, given not a single leviathan had crawled out of the whirlpool the past two weeks, but he’d be stupid to think the Worm God be dead in the very near future.

  He knew he’d just told the lass that this wasn’t the first time the city had been on the brink of destruction, and that was true. That was true. But the thread it dangled from now was thinner than ever before.

  His jaw clenched as his thoughts turned to his Swarmblood Art.

  For ten years, he’d saved its final use. It was a trump card with one purpose, and one purpose only: to delay Corpsetaker if he ever breached the surface. He knew very well his Swarmblood Art couldn’t kill Corpsetaker. That had never been its purpose. That had never been purpose for staying in the city. In a way, he was exactly identical to the clone of the Worm God. He was the second line of defense, the less famous one—a desperate, final measure put in place just to buy everyone else more time to run before the Greater Crab God could reach the surface.

  But now, as he stared idly up at the whirlpool, a gnawing doubt crept into his mind.

  Could he afford to wait?

  His gaze shifted to the three largest wormholes sitting out like sore thumbs across the city. Each one of them were currently sealing a single Insect God. If he used his Swarmblood Art, he could instantly take out one of them. Maybe even two, if they were in extremely close proximity. That’d certainly be enough progress carved out that the rest of the Imperators and Guards could focus solely on the last Insect God, and then they could dive down the whirlpool to reinforce the Worm God.

  But doing that meant the city wouldn’t have a second line of defense against Corpsetaker if calamity ever struck again, he’d never face off against Corpsetaker again.

  Was he content never getting his rematch?

  Was he content on using his Swarmblood Art for some… rabble Insect God?

  It’d be so mundane.

  So uninspired.

  So... utterly boring.

  He leaned on his cane, staring down at the abandoned district below. The faint breeze tugged at his coat, and he readjusted his feathered cap as the lass darted through the debris-strewn streets like the winds herself.

  The Mutant-Class crab was faltering now, its legs dragging as it clawed desperately at the ground. Every strike from the lass’ crackling glaives sent cracks through its transparent carapace, lightning rippling and damaging its shell with each blow.

  Seeing her lightning glaives reminded him of something.

  His hand slipped into his pocket, brushing against a small, cold object nestled there. It was the last of his supply. If he used it, he eek out enough energy to use his Swarmblood Art twice before dying—but the keyword was ‘could’. He’d been using it for an entire decade just to keep his body going longer than it had any human right to, so its effectiveness on his body had been steadily decreasing across the years. There was a chance, no matter how slight, that even if he used this last item, he wouldn’t be able to use his Swarmblood Art twice.

  A sharp gasp of breath pulled him from his thoughts. He looked down to see the lass standing over the carcass of the Mutant-Class crab, her chest heaving as she wiped blood off her skin, tore loose bandages from her arms. Her glaives were shaking, the mist around her was slowly dissipating, but there was still in her eyes.

  She tilted her head back, her gaze locking onto his.

  “Well?” she called, her voice hoarse but defiant. “Satisfied now?”

  He chuckled softly, resting his weight on his cane as he smiled down at her.

  “Very,” he said. “Nicely done.”

  She rolled her eyes, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.

  “Now,” he continued, “start a fire. Quickly. Eat up.”

  The lass blinked, caught off-guard. “What?”

  “Get those points into your system before the others show up,” he said, pointing at a distant patrol team speeding through the abandoned district. He knew the lass couldn’t see them from her vantage point, but he still felt like pointing. “That racket you just made? People are already on their way. Imperators and Guards. Now, they won’t it outright, of course, but you’ll feel it in their stares. They’ll want you to share the points, so best to eat as much as you can now in one of these abandoned buildings, and try not to throw up from the food poisoning.”

  The lass blinked again. She looked at him like he’d just told her to steal candy from a baby.

  “You’re… not gonna stop me?” she said, frowning suspiciously. “Not gonna tell me to quit pushing my limits like Claudia did?”

  He tilted his head, his expression amused. “Why would I do that?”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “We’re both Hasharana,” he said simply. “Pushing limits is what we do. You’re a speed demon, and you live on the very edge of your feet. Toe the line between life and death for all I care—you think I gave a shit when the Thousand Tongue told me to ease up on the eating? You think I listened when he told me to watch out for food poisoning when the Worm God was right behind me, gobbling up half of the giant remipede?”

  For a moment, all the lass did was stare at him.

  Then a slow smirk spread across her face.

  “... Rowboat,” she whispered.

  With a triumphant grin, she grabbed the crab’s carcass by one of its broken legs and dragged it toward a nearby building. The sound of chitin scraping against concrete echoed through the street as she quickly disappeared inside.

  Victor stayed where he was, watching as the faint glow of a fire flickered to life within the building. He could see her silhouette through the cracked windows, crouched over a small campfire as she prepared to devour her prize. She’d get a decent amount of points from the C-Rank Mutant-Class. Probably enough to unlock another tier five core mutation.

  The corner of his mouth twitched upward, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  He stared back up at the whirlpool for a long time, his thoughts heavy. The little item in his pocket felt heavier still, its presence a nagging reminder of the choice he’d eventually have to make.

  But he wasn’t an indecisive man like that.

  Here, he’d make his choice.

  And now, he’d made up his mind.

  The little item in his pocket would stay there. He wasn’t going to use it. There was someone else who’d probably need it more than him eventually, and he was looking right down at her, huffing and puffing as she tried to stuff steaming hot crab meat down her throat.

  He’d already had his chance.

  It was time for someone else to take centre stage.

  One shot. One more use of his Swarmblood Art. That was all he had, and the thought of having to pick his target made his heart pound like it hadn’t in a decade, a strange thrill rushing through his blood.

  It was almost like being young again—full of fear, full of fire.

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