Amongst all the scum in the world, two stand out as so remarkable that any nation would pay dearly for their services. Sometimes, the Whore of Depths will even deign to deal with the Empires, though her price is exorbitant.
But the Lord Of Gold? The Man Who Stole The World? Anomaly 654? The Collector himself? His many titles speak for themselves.
Any leader would be batshit to let him merely look at their home. Who knows what he could find?
His eyes are enough to steal anything. I dare say they are better than mine.
If he wasn’t so hard to catch, he would’ve died long ago—certainly after he stole from Legate Oswort. I am not so dense as to think that my copied Domains or your stolen Stigmata would fare any better should he snub us on our deals.
* An excerpt from Endless Eyes of Glaniece, in her letter to Endless Spines discussing the prospect of enlisting the Dual Eidolons for the Contest.
Archimedes Pythagoras Isaac awoke to the sound of rhythmic pounding, a noise that he zeroed in on the instant his brain began turning within his head. His ears, finely tuned to the workings of the ship, homed in on the source.
The engine’s overheating. Nearing two hundred Celsius. The expanding metal will affect more than that, too. I need to be fast.
As he bolted up from the mattress Lucius had placed within the Skull, the frail young man hastened to the console, where his hands had spent most of their waking hours for the past week. His fingers flew over the keys, adjusting values and redistributing heat.
Automatic dispersion is off. This ship is nothing like the one I’d build. It’s hanging on by a thread. Me.
Isaac’s eyes darted back to where Lucius sat, his head resting against the metal doorway. The tension in Isaac’s wiry muscles relaxed at the sight of his guardian.
With a few more keystrokes, Archimedes stepped away from the console. Quietly, on tiptoe, he fetched his own blanket and draped it over Lucius with all the smoothness his frail hands could muster. The soldier remained still, deep in sleep.
Archimedes smiled—a small, innocent gesture—before his fixation slipped back to the ship. The strength of his body couldn’t possibly match the resolve in his heart. Nor could it hope to reach the heights of his mind.
For Dante. For Lucius. I’ll get us there. No matter what.
He turned, walking deeper into the ship to deal with the root of the overheating problem. Adjusting the heat was only a temporary fix, a treatment for the symptom, not the disease. The root cause had to be addressed. Just as Joan could diagnose illness with a glance, Archimedes possessed an uncanny intuition for technology.
As the boy waddled into the hallway, struggling to carry the tools left there, Lucius’ eyes opened. He had kept them closed on purpose, observing the boy as he worked. Archimedes, for all his brilliance, didn’t understand Martian physiology, especially how one woke.
Lucius peered downward at the blanket trapping him and couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath, a thin grin forming on his lips. His rough fingers ran over the soft fabric, and just touching it seemed to erase some of his worries.
He had wanted to get Archimedes away from all this danger, all the floods and brimstone. But... the boy didn’t want to escape it. Isaac wanted to stay with Dante. He wanted to fulfill his dreams. He wanted to build a starship, explore the infinite seas, and become strong enough to carve out a future for himself.
Archimedes didn’t want to be a powerless boy, forced into crime and irredeemable labor.
And Lucius couldn’t fault him for it or argue. A boy, yes, but Archimedes was not stupid. If this is what he wanted, then the soldier would protect him to the very end. He could set aside his own thirst for vengeance if it meant safeguarding the boy’s future.
It was a tough decision for Lucius to make, not to relinquish his extended vengeance but to respect Archimedes’ determination.
Lucius only wished he had done the same for his own son. If he had, maybe his boy would still be alive, in Judge training, instead of...
Lucius’ chest tightened, and his breathing grew labored as memories of his lifeless family washed over him. He couldn’t cry—tears had been stolen from him by the experiments that made him what he was. His hands clenched the blanket tighter.
And for just a moment, a tiny instant, he considered taking a Qualae for that kind boy on his ship.
Then, his eyes grew lidded as the comfort of the blanket lulled him to sleep. He’d worry about such things later. For now, he needed to rest.
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Most of the crew was asleep at this late hour.
Lucius, bent against a wall with covers too small for his extra-large form, dreamt a nightmareless night. While snoring beneath blankets stolen from Sonna, Rejo’s face showed deliberate and existential peace. Meanwhile, in her room, Joan had passed out after using too much of her Tide and exhausting herself, laid out on the cold floor with nothing to smooth her slumber.
Three slept, and two remained awake.
Sonna, unaware of Archimedes’ nightly tinkering, was busy dialing a number on the ship’s shared communicator. After several beeps, a voice answered.
“Yes, Sonna? What do you need this late? We’re about to start a raid. The medicine worked, no?” Claudius Vermillion’s voice, though irritated, tinged with concern.
The Weren bit her lip, “Yes. The Soul Suppressant worked great. Maybe too well, but that’s not why I’m calling. I... uh...”
Sonna stammered, fearful of the answer to her question. Yet she knew it had to be said as the other end was noiseless, lingering for her to get it out. And so, she did, speaking as fast as she could as if to rip off the proverbial bandaid, “We’re only a few hours away from Crislend. What do we do if Dante is dead? His metrics still say he is, but... Joan’s tech could be wrong.”
The silence on the line lingered just a little too long, and Sonna opened her mouth to defend herself and her crew. Yet Claudius’ voice reposefully sounded through before she could, “He’s alive. I can feel it. I’m a Seer, remember? It’s not just my Stigma. We have... senses for this kind of thing. Trust my gut,” he paused for a moment, then added, “Anything else? I really need to go.”
Sonna thought about it, wanting desperately to have someone to talk to outside her small crew. She liked... most of them, but between Joan’s cruelty and Rejo’s eccentricity, she needed a break. Still, she knew Claudius had no time for her personal struggles.
“No. I don’t need anything else,” Sonna lied through her teeth, but Claudius took it at face value.
The Judge thanked Sonna for her diligence before hanging up the call. Those words, however, merely phased through her mind.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Sonna returned to the dim stillness of her room. Alone once again. It did not differ from the days isolated within Lisera’s room, just waiting for the end if it were to come.
She dragged herself to the corner of her bed against the wall, hugging her knees, just like she had done countless times before as a body double. Terrified, fear gripped her tightly.
While she might have some vestige of power, it meant little to her if Dante was dead. But why? Why did she feel that way?
He was just a human. If he was dead, then she didn’t have to worry about the news of her gifting him a Qualae on a golden platter leaking. She could return to the Federation Of Flesh.
But did she want to do that?
Sonna’s enlarged eyes followed the low lights up on the ceiling, back and forth, like a moth’s flight. She shook her head, convinced that returning was not an option. They would kill her for letting Lisera die.
But... she could still run if Dante died, right?
Her eyes halted at the end of the luminant strip, hanging onto the edge where the light meets the dark. She’d be tossed into the cosmos without a goal. Without a guide. Without someone to follow.
Could she do that? Could she survive without someone to depend on?
Sonna wasn’t so sure. Sure, she could, maybe, work for Claudius if all went wrong, but... it didn’t feel right.
I owe Dante my life.
She was consumed by the truth, fraught with unease and worry. If he was dead, it meant more than her being aimless. It meant... she would have betrayed the one person who valued her life.
While clutching the communicator in her hands, she felt its warmth seep into her skin. That small comfort was enough to carry her into sleep, a final slumber before her fate would be decided.
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Across the stars, on a warring planet, another crew of Seafarers crouched atop a valley of desiccated trees. The thin branches narrowly supported their weight, so the five of them spread out among several trunks.
Claudius Vermillion clasped the communicator closed, then slid it back into the inside of his shirt while weighing the Executioner at his hip. It did little in the fight against Astraeus, but that was because the Anathema’s Stigmata was particularly oppressive.
An ability that could slash space? Such was terrifying, a rarity that may qualify him to fit Eight’s Designation. Who knows how far it could grow? If at all? If Astraeus had awakened a Fused Domain, combining the aspects of his Tide and Stigmata instead of a Mystique, they would have all died on Crislend.
Here, though? On this battlefield?
The Judge’s standard Executioner was unrivaled in its stopping power.
Behind Claudius, Rose readied her knives, while across from her, a young man cracked his neck, still gripping his briefcase. They were not alone.
With her two pairs of hands, Yue drew four revolvers fabricated to resist Domains, and her partner unsheathed his curved blade. Talander’s sword matched the deadliness of his pointed tail, wrapped around the trunk for stability.
All five were ready for bloodshed. Each trained for the greater half of their lives, whether by a Judge, a Centurion, or someone they couldn’t remember through their mangled mind.
The shortest figure conjured a slim needle of ice that he slid into his mouth. At the same time, his eyes fell beneath him, where a squad of Dirge wandered. His keen senses picked up the hints of power, each individual’s connection to the Lightsea, the most important measure of strength for Dirge.
It was a difficult task to scale strength, nigh impossible in sentients that wished to hide it. However, it wasn’t impossible to differentiate the inhabitants of the Lightsea based on their habits. Anachronisms didn’t talk much; most couldn’t speak at all or were simple-minded. Anathema, however, possessed a cunning gaze that an observant watcher could spot.
Eight’s sharp eyes found four Anachronisms and one Anathema below—a rare combination. The ringleaders scattered themselves across the bloody continent, making them difficult to locate. Without the leaders, the Dirge couldn’t rally their forces, even with a Juncture. The Anachronisms had intelligence, yes, but they lacked the leadership needed to command their underlings effectively.
Claudius had taken it upon himself and his crew to eliminate as many of them as possible before they were called to assist Praetor Sun. No one in the group had objections, even though killing Anathema was notoriously dangerous.
But that danger only pushed them to grow stronger. That’s what each of them craved—strength, more than credits or fame.
With the targets beneath him, the Anomaly began the attack. Eight evaporated into the air, slipping into the Lightsea itself. He splashed behind a lithe Anachronism, silent as death.
He didn’t pause to watch as the icy needle he spat pierced his prey’s neck. Already, he was moving, his Stigmata flaring as he swept an ice blade toward the Anachronism’s exposed throat.
A crown of steam flew into the air a moment later, and Eight was already gone, scrunched upon a branch scarcely a few feet away from Rose. The Tianshe breathed under her lips with genuine fear, “Shit. He’s a natural assassin!”
Eight’s eyes, devoid of any waves or light, flicked toward her while the four beneath went mad, his cold gaze chilling even the battle-hardened woman, “I can probably get another one,” he muttered, barely audible. “Then Claudius and I will handle the ‘Thema. You three can take care of the other two, right?”
Indignant stares shot back at him from the others, but no one voiced any protest. Now wasn’t the time. Even if it were, neither Yue, Talander, nor Rose had the desire—or the courage—to challenge him.
Though Rose was co-leader on the surface, everyone knew Eight, the teenage Anomaly, was just as powerful as their Judge.
Still, with their agreement, the briefcase-wielding young man delved into the Lightsea once more, propping back up behind a swordsman. Dirge that held weapons weren’t rare, but they definitely were not the norm. As such, Eight wanted to kill this one as soon as possible.
It likely possessed some strength.
An icy blade lunged for the Anachronism’s neck, but to Eight’s surprise, the creature blocked the attack. The Dirge countered instantly, a swift and lethal strike aimed at the young man’s throat.
For anyone else, dodging would have been the only option, but Eight had earned his Designation for a reason, even if shrouded in mystery. Before the counterattack could land, his frost-coated blade pierced the Anachronism’s spine, protruding from its mouth like a grotesque tongue.
The other Dirge, furious, stomped toward him, but Eight vanished, leaving four bodies to drop from the trees, descending onto the remaining enemies.
Yue and Talander moved as one toward the burly, fur-covered Anachronism. Yue’s revolvers spat bullets, slowing the creature down while Talander’s blade sliced toward its throat. Meanwhile, Rosa’s body fumed with a humid heat, the rushing Tide both enhancing her form and providing a rapid acceleration to her regeneration. Her daggers slid toward the final Anachronism, the tall female Dirge meeting Rosa with her own knives.
With that, they separated the Anathema. He judged his surroundings, crestfallen, and between both a Judge and an Anomaly. Claudius recognized his enemy at such a close distance, noting the medals pinned onto its striped flesh and stolen clothes.
Eight swapped his briefcase to the other hand and formed another longsword of frost as Claudius raised his Executioner, taunting his enemy, “Justini, right? Slayer of ten thousand men? You and your... ‘men’ look... awfully pitiful under these moons.”
As if his words had been a spark, the moons above seemed to fuel Claudius, their pale light intensifying his Tide. His skin burned with the energy they provided, and the effect was palpable. But it did more than merely strengthen Claudius; it turned Justini’s pensive and saddened gaze into raw fury.
The Anathema, eyes blazing with fury, lunged straight for Claudius.
Claudius fired a bullet from his Executioner, grinning despite the warmth. The shot tore through the air, meeting Justini’s forming steam head-on. The super-heated gas began to melt the bullet, but not quickly enough to stop its momentum. It slammed into Justini, forcing him back several steps. Mint-green seawater dripped from the wound, staining the forest floor.
Still, more steam hissed from Justini’s body, and the waters of the Lightsea surged around Claudius. The Judge knew he was outmatched. Even with the minor boost from the moons, the Anathema would overpower him, eventually. But that didn’t matter. He wasn’t alone.
Claudius stomped forward, bringing his Tide to bear while tendrils of boiling steam dove for his face. A flood of water met the steam, releasing a hissing noise that deafened all present from its sheer might.
And in that moment, Eight struck.
While Diving into the Lightsea, the teen strutted out of the endless waters behind Justini, the scalding heat already blistering his skin. While gritting his teeth, the young man forced through the pain and focused on his ice.
The sword he had forged from his freezing, violent nature threatened to melt under the heat, but he held it together with his mind alone. The blade soared through the air, opening a crooked smile on the back of Justini’s neck.
But Justini reacted as if he had eyes behind his head, flipping his fury toward Eight and releasing a cloud of his Tide. The Anomaly vanished again, reappearing three hundred feet away, gasping for breath as the trees around his opponent ignited in flames. His skin peeled from the intense heat, but he ignored the pain, casting ice over the burns to cool them.
Still, the damage the Anomaly had dealt wasn’t minor. Justini growled out a fate while coming to terms with his own, “Claudius Vermillion. Your name has grown in these parts. I hope you meet Hana in that realm. She will rip out your insides and feed them to her waves.”
Claudius laughed in turn, excited by the new information. Information was power. He wasn’t even aware that Hana the Gunwale, who feared across this whole Sector, would be wherever Praetor Sun was taking him. And now, thanks to Justini, he knew what he was up against.
The Judge felt the weight of his last bullet as he took aim. It would take hours to recharge, but it was always worth the firepower. One shot to kill most Anachronisms, and allowed even the weakest Judge to help with the likes of Justini and Astraeus.
Justini clad himself with his smoke, obscuring his form with the Judge, but it didn’t matter in the slightest. The Tide-Seer proved his Designation by shifting the barrel aside. While only his Stigmata could see the past, his other senses were far more perceptive than they had any right to be.
The minor shuffle of feet against dirt, the ruffle of clothes on air, and the rapid exhale—all gave away Justini’s position.
Claudius fired.
Again, the bullet tore through the steam, but this time, it had water wrapped around it, evaporating to keep the lead’s velocity. Shortly after, a grunt of pain rang from the steam.
Claudius glanced behind him, finding the other Dirge dead, and he smiled. After he holstered his pistol, he waved his hands to control his Tide. The Anathema was wounded harshly, too, but a beast such as him was the most terrible kind.
“Talander, Yue, be careful. He’s fast. Nearly caught Eight. Rosa, focus on healing if someone is hurt. And... Eight, just do what you do best. Let’s kill this one without any major injuries,” the Judge instructed his crew, circling the expanding cloud of steam. Meanwhile, he silently pointed to a spot in the mist, guiding their next move.
Yue nodded, already taking fire. Her four revolvers broke the night’s peace several times before the steam-clad figure finally emerged from his haunt. Claudius stepped in front of the charging Dirge, a veritable flood at his fingertips.
More bullets flew while Talander darted in, slashing one with his blade before flicking his tail out in retreat. Justini reached out to catch the Irgen, but a glint of water warned him of danger.
Justini clenched his fist around Talander’s tail, choosing to endure the damage to his physique, but a cascade of lead slammed into his face at the exact moment, blinding him from the cutting waters. As he howled in pain, he released the swordsman and stumbled backward.
He seemed to wish to withdraw into his safety net behind him, just one step away from the boiling fog.
Nevertheless, he never would, for Eight struck again.
Legs wrapped around Justini’s neck, and two icy knives plunged into the sides of his throat. While contorting those instruments of death, Eight vanished once more before he was caught, finally collapsing to the ground from the awful temperature. With his knees on the torn-up dirt, he slammed his chest with a closed fist to breathe while the other retook his briefcase.
Almost as if in sync with Eight’s, Justini’s knees gave out, too. The Cryo only glanced at the peeling flesh on his arms before tossing even more ice over it to help cool them down. A temporary fix, the kind that only an experienced warrior could administer.
Rosa delivered the final blow. Her Stigma’s thorny vines from her veins wrapped around Justini’s neck, dragging him from the protection of his steam despite their immolation. The single yank was enough with his weakened strength. Once at the crew’s footprints and without power, Claudius crouched with a smile, his grasping palm excited to see what he could uncover.
Justini’s trembling eyes, quickly bleeding out, looked up to only glimpse those fingers, the opened cascade of death falling upon him. His last thought was not of his dead friends, born from the same waves as he, but instead of how many more this monster would take from his birth-waters.