The Harbor Guards returned fire.
Both vessels had an equal number of cannons. The giant whale was a bit larger, but that only made it a bigger target. The warship’s sleeker design gave them more maneuverability. Captain Enrique bellowed for reloads as he spun the helm, making the ship tilt starboard and forcing the whale to turn along with them. That extra ten seconds before the marauders could line up their cannons again bought the Guards enough time. The sky crackled once more, cannonballs shattering mid-air as they sailed along the edge of the Dead Island Straits.
They only had maneuverability advantage because they were in the air, and the giant whale was obviously not used to swimming anywhere outside of the water. Ten minutes—that was how long they had until they’d reach the edge of the Dead Island Straits and plummeted to level waters once again.
The Archive shoved a dagger of ice into the back of her head and made her spine arch. She’d never get used to it, and she didn’t want to. It was a horrible sensation that forced her to take note of twice as many details as she normally could, and if she had this type of kinetic vision twenty-four hours a day, she’d puke her guts out, no doubt.
But she could do ten minutes.
“I’m going, cap!” she shouted, skating back to the other end of the railings as the Harbor Guards on the upper deck noticed her moving. Four of them immediately retrieved an ultra-long plank and stuck it onto the railings, raising it like a ramp… and she clenched every muscle in her body, expelling every last breath of air in her lungs.
The world became blurry line of light as she kicked off the railings, speeding off the ramp to take flight in the skies.
Wind shrieked in her ears, a sharp, cold howl that drowned out all other sounds. Her gliding wings fanned outwards with a crack, catching the air. The wind was overpowered with deep, resonant booms of cannon fire. She wasn’t breathing. She wasn’t really looking, either. She was . She tucked her arms in and rolled, dodging a cannonball as it whipped past her, and then jerked her wings up to soar over another few shots.
The muscles in her back burned, her arms trembled from the strain it took to stay on course. The marauders’ town on the giant whale’s back was an intricate tangle of wooden structures, ropes, and sails—a ramshackle fortress soaring through the clouds—but what she focused on was just a single, narrow point. The little building at the tail-end of the whale that looked like a harbor for smaller vessels.
On the sea’s surface, that was probably where the marauders would kick off their smaller dinghies and sail to any ship they were plundering, but now it was just a big target for her to aim for.
She clenched her jaw, kept her eyelids peeled open, and . Her heart was a wild drum. Every pulse sent a jolt of electricity coursing through her veins. The marauders’ town was so, so close. There was no stopping. No slowing down. A Sand-Dancer lived their entire lives on the edge between life and death, and with this speed she held so dearly in her heart—
She flew and smashed glaives-first into the wooden harbor.
Planks exploded around her, splintering into a thousand shards. Her impact sent a shockwave rippling across the entire harbor, making even the giant whale buckle for a second, but she stood firm. Her wings snapped shut behind her as dust billowed up, swallowing her and the harbor in a thick, choking cloud.
For a few more moments, everything was quiet. The world was still. Dust swirled in the air, debris rained around her, but eventually, it all cleared to reveal the destruction she’d wrought. The pier she landed on was reduced to a jagged ruin, and wooden beams jutted out at odd angles. Just beyond the pier, she saw a dozen marauders, all standing in ragged lines, defenders for this part of town.
Their cutlasses gleamed in the moonlight, and their faces were hardened, weathered by the sea.
She met their gaze with a cold, steely calm, two blade-like bones jutting out of her elbows.
A slew of status screens popped up next to her, showing all the attributes and mutations she’d upgraded with her points, but she glossed over them and kept her eyes straight ahead.
[T3 Core Mutation Unlocked: Basic Apiclaws Lvl. 1]
[Brief Description: You have grown sharp bones that can extend out of your elbows like blades. Their current toughness is the same as your toughness level. Subsequent levels in this mutation will increase their toughness. At max level, they will be twice as tough as your toughness level]
[Striding Glaives Lvl. 2 → Striding Glaives Lvl. 4]
[Basic Apiclaws Lvl. 1 → Basic Apiclaws Lvl. 3]
[Basic Wings Lvl. 1 → Basic Wings Lvl. 2]
[Basic Setae Lvl. 1 → Basic Setae Lvl. 2]
[Speed: 4 → 5]
[Aura: 902 → 1,184]
[Points: 284 → 2]
Her face twitched slightly, and the marauders hesitated, shifting uneasily. Their blades trembled just a little in their hands… and if that wasn’t her cue to go, she didn’t know what was.
[Objective #9: Destroy the C-Rank Giant-Class Whitewhale Marauders on the giant whale]
[Time Limit: 8 minutes]
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[Success: Rescue of all living slaves and Damselfly Oracles on board]
[Failure: Death]
She launched from the wreckage, skating up towards the first marauders standing in her way. They swung—and missed. She wasn’t twice as fast as them, but she was well faster than them, so she didn’t even bother kicking them. Speeding past them, she dragged her apiclaws through the nearest beams of wood and tore through them, making the flimsy building collapse.
As she skated through the town, she tried to sniff out the locations of everyone that smell like they had blood on their hands, but… there were none in this end of town.
the Archive said.
There was no need to hold back, then.
Her claws and glaives carved through the wooden planks around her as she tore across the town like a storm, sending splinters flying, leaving a trail of destruction in her wake. The town erupted into chaos. Marauders who were manning the cannons turned to see her skating at them. They tried to swing or shoot at her. A few times, they nearly got close to hitting her, but they were disorganized, and unprepared for her speed. She was a blur. Her cloak fluttered after her as she cleaved through the shoddy buildings in swift, heavy blows. Her goal wasn’t to skate straight towards the whale’s head, that would come in time.
Instead, she zigzagged across the town, weakened as many wooden beam foundations as she could, and tossed colored pheromone flares into the sky. They were pill-shaped bombs the Guards had given her—and they were the go-ahead signal for the warship to aim and fire on her location, because there were no prisoners for her to save here.
To her far right, the warship’s cannons thundered. The sky lit up in bursts of red and green as the flares streaked upward, and each pop of color was a promise: destruction was imminent.
It took a few seconds, but then the first metal shells smashed into the town she was still skating through. Dozens of buildings buckled under the assault, roofs caved in and walls splintered. Ropes and sails whipped out in every direction. She maintained a five second delay between every toss of the colored flare. The ground exploded behind her, the sound of the falling cannon balls loud in her ears. Her timing had to be perfect. Even a second too slow, and the cannons would obliterate her along with the marauders. She had to trust her instincts. There could be no room for doubt.
If nothing else, though, skating through the explosions was
She was .
it replied curtly, and she launched a spinning jump over a dozen marauders. She flung more flares skyward as they charged at her; cannon fire annihilated them as she landed.
Her nostrils flared as she sucked in shallow breaths, tasting smoke, ash, and the acrid tang of burning wood. It was like trying to find a whisper in a storm. The swirling scents clashed violently, but she clenched her jaw, determined to parse through the chaos. Somewhere beneath it all, she could feel the faint threads of life—the salty sweat of terrified captives and the raw, iron tang of blood.
It was difficult picking up a particular scent with so much smoke, ash and fire in the air. Still, she persisted and skated across the rope bridges connecting the tail and head-end of the town.
That was when she came across the wooden cages.
They sat out on the streets: dried blood caked around some of them, mounds of broken and dismembered corpses lying inside others.
Among only a few, she spotted imprisoned Damselfly Oracles huddled together and cowering against the sounds of cannon fire. She cleaved through their cages as she skated by and narrowed her eyes in disgust. She quickly asked the captives if there were any more prisoners, but they shook their heads—a united ‘no’ as their response.
“... Fly, then!” she barked at them, the Archive translating her words. “Get to the warship over there! Don’t stop! Your people are waiting for you!”
She didn’t stay to see if they obeyed her orders. Her heart with rage. She saw dozens more marauders trying to intercept her from the giant pointed fortress at the head of the whale, and she charged straight through the main street as she tossed out the remainder of her pheromone flares. She did so only because she could tell: any slave on board had already been fired towards the warship as part of the invading force, and those who hadn’t been chosen were dead, slaughtered by the marauders.
If she’d been a little faster—if they’d been in a bit more of a hurry towards the Whirlpool City—maybe she could’ve saved them in time.
As things stood, though, there were no more slaves to be rescued. No more souls left on the giant whale without the putrid scent of murdered blood bled into their very skin.
There was no point stopping the Guards from barraging this entire town to hell anymore.
The colored flares hissed as they ignited, spiraling into the air in bright, vivid colors. The explosions that followed ripped through the makeshift town like a thunderclap, reducing flimsy structures to rubble. She didn’t look back. She didn’t stop to help any of the marauders who tried to jump overboard. Her vision blurred, festering anger clouding her thoughts.
That was all the confirmation she needed to keep going.
As she pushed forward, the rope bridges violently beneath her, the planks groaning under the weight of her fury. The ash-filled air clawed at her throat, but she didn’t slow. Couldn’t slow. Ahead, more shapes emerged from the smoke: marauders. Filthy, grinning, blade-wielding bastards. They moved like they owned the wreckage, like they weren’t scavengers picking flesh from corpses.
Her glaives were in motion before she realised she lunged.
The first marauder barely had time to sneer before her glaive tore through his shoulder. She spun with the follow-through, carving a wide arc. Blood sprayed hot and thick. Another rushed her—too slow. Her glaive connected with his knee, snapping bone, and she drove a second glaive through his chest before he even hit the ground.
A third marauder came from her blind side. She ducked instinctively, the swing of his cleaver missing by inches. Then she twisted low, slashing upward, her glaive splitting his stomach open with a wet, visceral sound.
Two more charged her from the bridge ahead, their weapons raised. She surged forward. Faster. Her speed blurred the edges of her vision, but she could see them clearly. Every grimy detail, every twitch of their muscles. One swung wide. She vaulted over his blade, planting her hands on his shoulder as she flipped over him. Her glaive came down like lightning, severing his spine.
The thought burned hotter. Her muscles burned with it. The town continued groaning under the weight of her fury as she cleaved and skated and tore her way forward. Too much fury. Too much destruction. Planks cracked. Chains shuddered. She didn’t care. Even more marauders lunged at her, but she was faster. Her apiclaws and glaives were blinding now, four arcs of sharpness and death.
A new wave surged toward her, six at once. She snarled, wild and feral. Her anger was all-consuming now, fueling her legs, her arms, her claws.
Another came, then another. Their weapons blurred. Her movements blurred faster. A blade grazed her arm. She didn’t feel it. Her glaive bit through an axe haft, then its wielder’s throat. She vaulted forward again, glaives slamming onto solid ground as the bridge behind her began to collapse under the weight of the dead.
Smoke and fire curled around her, casting her shadow long and jagged against the path ahead.
The giant wooden fortress loomed before her. The head of the whale. The heart of the filth. A new surge of anger pulsed through her veins. By the time she practically flew through the giant wooden gates, the sounds of cannon fire made the entire fortress at the head of the whale rumble.
Her heart pounded with an aggressive, murderous rhythm like it never had before.
Emerging into the single, enormous hall shaped like a fighting pit, she skidded to a halt and scowled at the grotesque skull effigies lining the walls. Torches jutted from the floor like bone spikes, and the air was thick with salt, sweat, and old blood. It was obvious more men had perished here than anywhere outside in the crumbling town… and the person who was responsible for all the deaths was standing right in front of her.
In the center of the cavernous hall was a single thirteen-armed man: a monstrous, towering body with skin like gnarled oak. His crab head and pincer were garishly orange. He was missing a right arm, but his twelve whale louse arms held chipped cutlasses with ease. His protruded eye stalks gleamed with cruel, dark amusement as he sneered at her.
Marisol recognized those eyes from somewhere. She panted heavily, letting her muscles cool down for a second.
“Yer the water strider girl, ain’tcha?” the Whitewhale Marauder captain rasped. “The skies have ears and the seas have mouths, ye know—the whale lice tells me ye killed my little brothers.”