A dozen warships, two lighthouses, and the shadow of the Whirlpool City stood in Marisol’s way—the final stretch to her destination ten years in the making.

  They didn’t fire a fourth warning shot. It was completely unnecessary. Captain Enrique immediately shouted at one of his Harbor Guards to toss him a swirly blue conch from the lower deck. He snatched it out of the air, turned a dial on the side, and spoke through the empty shell with a voice every bit as loud as the lighthouse guards.

  “We ain’t marauders or anythin’ of the sort!” he bellowed, marching from the helm to the front of the ship where Marisol stood, standing wide and open in the cross beams of light. He jabbed a finger at their crudely painted sails. “I am Enrique Delgaro, Captain of the ‘Caralonia’, frigate of the Fifteenth Harbor Guard Naval Squadron! Aye, we may not be flyin’ the colors of the Whirlpool City, but we can explain! Let us through and dock first! My daughter ain’t givin’ birth on these accursed seas!”

  A second voice cut back from the other lighthouse, booming across the sky. “Who is your Squadron Admiral?”

  “Alvaro Banez! Just get that old sod outta his mansion and have him look at my face! He’ll tell ye—”

  “Admiral Banez is dead, alongside the rest of the Fifteenth Naval Squadron! None of them returned from their patrols across the Deepwater Legion Front!”

  Enrique’s face twitched by her side. “What? The drunk’s dead? What in the blasted name happened to—”

  “Never mind what happened to Admiral Banez! We have hereby confirmed your identities as the Black Frigate known as ‘Caralonia’!”

  Marisol’s heart lifted for a brief second. Enrique immediately turned to shout at his Harbor Guards to raise anchors, and—

  “We still do not give you permission to pass and dock!” the lighthouse voice roared, and the hundreds of Guards on the warships in front of them waved at them to stop moving. “Defense Protocol ‘Black Storm’ is currently underway! By decree of the Harbor Imperatrix, no vessel is allowed to enter or leave the Whirlpool City! Move your vessel forward by only a hundred meters and drop anchors so you may join our ranks!”

  A fourth warning shot fired, splashing up a geyser of water right next to Marisol once again. She flinched at the explosive sound, but her paltry reaction was compared to Enrique’s fury. She watched, with great anxiety, as he climbed halfway up the ratlines to shake his fists at the lighthouses.

  “Fuck do ye mean ‘Black Storm’ Protocol is underway?” he bellowed. “Last time an Imperatrix ordered for its activation was three goddamned decades ago, after the Swarm God was repelled and we needed to stabilize the city—so what the hell’s goin’ on inside? You’re tellin’ me there ain’t a ship movin’ in and out of the city right now?”

  “Nothing has been entering and leaving for an entire month already! You are no exception to this protocol!”

  Enrique fumed even harder, his face burning red with anger. As he roared through his conch and exchanged conversations with the lighthouse guards, Marisol took a step back and gulped, glancing at the little water strider on her shoulder.

  she asked.

  The Archive was quiet for a moment before replying.

  It pointed a leg forward at the base of the city.

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  Marisol gritted her teeth.

  “My daughter is in labor, and damned if this ain’t the shittiest storm to give birth to a child in!” Enrique snapped, practically screaming into his voice-amplifying conch. “You ain’t know half the shit we’ve been through the past two months, aye? We were eaten by a giant remipede, attacked by Whitewhale Marauders, and then our entire warship went into freefall! Even if ain’t for my daughter, we’re runnin’ out of food, supplies, and only the know how much time this warship’s got left in it! The wooden boards and planks feel like they're gonna break and snap in half any time now!”

  “Link up with the other warships docked between our lighthouses! There are spare supplies for all of us to tide ‘Black Storm’ over with!” one of the lighthouses shouted back. “We cannot, however, under any circumstances, let anyone enter the city during this protocol! Not you, not your daughter, or anyone else! This is for the good of the Deepwater Legion Front!”

  “It’s one girl! girls, actually! I’ve got here a makeshift Hasharana who skated all the way from shore to city with nothin’ but her fuckin’ glaives for legs! At least let the two of them–”

  “We cannot—” the lighthouse voice suddenly cut off, and Marisol heard loud scuffling noises on the other side of the conch. Then, a different voice snapped back at Enrique. “The hell are ye houndin’ us for, man? Ye think we don’t wanna get back to our wives back in the city? Ah’ll tell ye what, ah’ve been stuck out here for three weeks! Ye think fishin’ in this storm is any easy? We’ve been pickin’ and sharin’ bones these past few days!”

  Enrique clicked his tongue loudly. “What, and the Imperators ain’t tell you nothin’? What’s goin’ on inside the fuckin’ city?”

  “Hell if ‘ah know, man, but orders are orders! Nobody’s gettin’ in and out, and that’s all there is to it!”

  As the two of them began screaming at each other once again, Marisol stumbled unwittingly. A particularly powerful wave smashed into the side of the warship and made even the reinforced hull rattle. She clung to the railings, knuckles white as she tried to stabilize herself, but a second wave smashed into the other side and sent her flying away from the railings. Enrique managed to cling onto the ratlines and continue shouting, completely oblivious to the fact that the storm was intensifying around them.

  And it wasn’t a natural storm.

  As Marisol clung onto the ropes dangling off the center mast, her skin pricked with unease. It was a deep, unsettling sensation that crawled up her spine; it made her shiver from head to toe; it wasn’t the cold rain; it wasn’t the never-ending thunder. It was… the waves beneath the ship, twisting and writhing like something swirling just beneath the surface was trying to break free. It was a gnawing sense of dread she couldn’t explain—the feeling she was being watched, but who? The sensation that something was approaching, but from where?

  She whirled in a panic, cold sweat beading down her brows as she scanned the churning black sea behind them.

  There were no marauders in pursuit. No monster fin breaching the turbulent waves. They were in the presence of a dozen more warships and two lighthouses built by Whirlpool City, the most reliable faction in the Deepwater Legion Front.

  What, exactly, was she even so terrified of?

  Her ‘fate’?

  How would that even possibly come true?

  … A shrill scream from the captain’s cabin silenced both her thoughts and Enrique’s shouts.

  They turned at the exact same time, staring through the foggy, dimly lit window on the cabin door. A single lantern illuminated the cabin, and Marisol could see the shadows refracting through the glass.

  Marisol saw half a dozen Harbor Guards crowded around Catrina, trying to accompany her through the delivery. Marisol saw her arms trembling, head tilted so far back it looked like her neck was going to snap. With clarity, she let out a howl so sharp and violent it sounded downright inhuman, and then—

  Heads flew inside the cabin.

  Blood splattered onto the glass, blotting out all light seeping out from the cabin.

  Silence.

  The waves stopped smashing against the sides of the warship.

  And neither Marisol, the captain, nor any of the Guards standing above deck could move as she listened to a single pair of footsteps approaching the cabin door—a single, bony hand curling around the doorknob and pushing it open from the inside.

  The door swung out slowly, gently, creaking on its hinges, and for a second, Marisol saw nothing.

  There was no light inside the cabin.

  So when the ghost she’d seen—on the very day everything went wrong—had to fold itself in half just to fit through the doorway, she couldn’t help but feel fate had finally caught up with her.

  The milky white ‘ghost’ stood in front of the captain’s cabin, surrounded by three dozen trembling Guards, and unfolded itself to its full height. Three meters tall. Skinny as a skeleton. It looked humanoid. If Marisol were to squint at it from afar, it’d look like it had two legs, two arms, and something resembling a head, but it human.

  Its body was more akin to a stick made of seven chitin segments. It had two antennae curled like horns. It had a slender head with two beady red eyes. It had twelve arms and two legs—two appendages jutting out of each segment—and save for the few splotches of flesh and blood stuck to its body, no doubt from bursting out of Catrina’s belly, its chitin was so pale and ghostly that she could see right through into its pulsing, writhing blue organs.

  It stood on its two legs as though trying to be human, but it really, wasn’t.

  It was a ghost.

  [Objective #10: Survive the F-Rank Mutant-Class Wraith Shrimp]

  [Time Limit: Undefined]

  [Rewa–]

  The status screen fizzled as the bug stomped, splitting the warship down in half.