“The Lightsea does not hate us. It forgets. And that is worse.”

* Legate Ganun's journal entry after he achieved his first Tide Reversal.

A figure materialized in the snow—tall, scarred, his right eye slashed by a jagged line. The cold gnawed through his threadbare shirt as he steadied himself, boots crunching faintly against the frost. Silence choked the night, broken only by his breath. Before him, the human-like monster turned slowly, its eyes glinting with unnatural malice, the lines of its form shifting in the dim light.

Its features were almost mocking to a man like Dante. How long had it been since he saw one of his kind? Two years? Three? He couldn’t remember for sure.

The similarity only made his actions more decisive.

Dante moved first—always first. His hand flicked, water erupting in a serrated arc that cleaved the old woman’s torso. He pivoted, snow crunching underfoot as a claw raked the space he’d vacated. The second creature lunged, jaw unhinging with a wet snap, lips shredding to the ears. Its scream wasn’t sound. It was a drill to the skull.

He hit the snow, rolled, and thrust his palm skyward. A geyser of water erupted, battering the second creature into a pine trunk. It staggered—but only for a breath. By the time Dante found his footing, the first monster was already whole again, tendons snapping taut like bowstrings beneath papery skin.

Its wet snaps of tendons and muscles knitting together sounded like taut wires snapping into place. Dante’s breath disseminated into the air with a visible mist, the hurried and doubled usage of Flick, his most powerful creation of his Tide, weighing heavily on him.

Eidolon sat on his back, humming as if asking a question, but Dante had no time to answer.

The two grievous lines upon the human-like creature merely made it appear more fierce. Snarling from countless fangs, it barreled toward him. Behind her, the younger monster dropped to all fours and pounced, its claws carving through the night.

“Pancake!” Dante barked. The word tore through the chaos—a lifeline. No escape, no retreat. Only the gamble of survival.

In an instant, his body vanished, replaced by the tiny stone he’d left behind earlier. Inside the mud hut, Dante manifested, his chest heaving as he nodded briefly to Rejo. His rapid breath fogged the air, but there was no time to linger. With a surge of focus, he reentered the fray, “Again.”

Dante reappeared outside, a foot behind the old woman’s snapping jaws. Her distorted face twisted in fury as she lunged, but he was faster. The Tide in his body had already formed upon his fingers before he stood out in the cold air.

“Missed me?” he taunted, his voice sharp.

Water shot from his fingers in a controlled stream, slicing through the air with sheer brutality. He held the torrent for a second longer than usual, his focus narrowing as he extended two fingers like a blade. The stream carved into the monster’s neck, severing it cleanly in a moment of perfect, deadly clarity.

But victory came at a cost. Such focus robbed him of any other senses in pursuit of his goal.

A second claw raked across his side, the younger monster’s strike biting deep before Dante could react. He staggered, but before he could fall, Matchlock, the Stigmata, borne of his soul, triggered. Before the nail could sever his inner organs or clip his spine, his fingers snapped.

Rippling waves yanked him out of the creature’s immediate reach, tumbling the man through the snow just in time.

Pain seared through his torso, but Matchlock acted upon its catalyst. It deployed the last of its charges, wrapping his gaping wound in a sheath of wobbling water. The cold pressed tightly against his flesh, staving off the bleeding. His vision swam for a moment as he steadied himself, one hand clutching his side.

Dante’s gaze swept the tree line. Shadows pooled at the hill’s crest. Then they moved. Figures, three, four, more. The ‘young man’ grinned, teeth glinting like shards of obsidian.

A flash of pain seared through his innards, and he glanced down.

No crimson stained the snow from him. Instead, dark green blood, thick and unnatural, seeped from the dead monster, spreading a sickly hue across the frost. He met the monster’s eyes again, both glaring with raw hatred.

The creature snarled and sprang at him once more while two more strode with leisure from the woods.

“Pancakes!” Dante barked, vanishing once again, his voice trailing behind him like a promise of slaughter.

However, the man held no such misgivings within the hut. He promptly collapsed to the floor, drained of energy and feeling a profound agony from within.

He sputtered out his demand, staring right at Joan, “Something’s in me! Get it the fuck out!”

The doctor nodded, kneeling beside him while opening her pouch. She waved at Rejo and Astraeus, her hands urging them to move. Both did so without question, while Joan set Dante against the wall.

Her eyes fell to the bubble of water, keeping Dante’s insides from leaking to the outside. She twisted her head with a thin smile, “You’re gonna have to drop that, y’know?”

Dante laughed through the misery with a nod, his veins and arteries bulging, “Yeah, I made it as a precaution! Just... fuck... It’s in there!”

The water receded while all eyes were on the doctor, even those of the now-solidified Eidolon. His presence was ignored for a moment as Dante's injuries were severe. Her grin broadened as she found a unique situation before her gaze. The laceration on her specimen wasn’t too large. Maybe requiring ten to twelve stitches at most.

Inside, though...

With a razor-like scalpel and pliers definitely not meant for living tissue, Joan dug into Dante’s organs. Her enthusiasm raised with each of Dante’s pained groans. Every movement she made left his hands gripping the mud floor tighter and tighter.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Joan’s tongue flicked in concentration, her secondary arms pinning Dante like a specimen. The scalpel plunged deeper. Blood pooled maroon on the floor. If she took pleasure in his pain, her face didn’t show it.

Still, no one said a word. Not even the patient. He felt a sensation worm into his flank, delving deeper to his inside. But right as the pangs neared his heart, it stopped.

“Got it!” Joan announced as she ripped a squirming strand of vomit-green. It fought against her pliers, but the woman refused to let go. Her eyes analyzed it and found out its origins in but a moment. “Some kind of plant? See the end here? Those are roots. No animals has these. But it’s eating your insides and growing from the blood spilled on it. How peculiar. I’ll name it the Heart-seeking Root.”

The doctor raised the voracious root toward the rest of the crew, yet everyone shrank back against the walls. Without the burrowing pest in his organs, Dante spoke through gritted teeth, “Okay. Okay. Put it in a vial or something. Stitch me up.”

A glare shot toward Dante, but the man met Joan with an unflinching gaze. After a heartbreaking sigh, she slid the Heart-seeking Root into a vial of blood. Of course, such nutritious fluid originated from the human before her.

Regardless, once her specimen was safe and sound, she returned to the pale Dante. In but fifteen seconds, she already stitched up the wound, cleaned it, and shoved a handful of pills down his throat.

With her captain sorted, Joan scurried to a corner, shoving Rejo aside, and examined her vial. Everyone else ignored her normal insanity, for now, probing Dante with questions.

“Did you ‘ill ‘em?”

“Are you alright?”

“Looks like a razor blade cut you.”

“Three Flicks. You’ve grown since I saw you last.”

Dante shuddered as he exhaled with slow, careful motions. Then, he answered his crew one by one, starting with Rejo, “Yeah. I beheaded one. Three more are out there now, though. One of them scratched me,” his hands shook before stabilizing themselves. “It could have been way worse. I should be good now.”

The man had fought many times in his life. However, the rush of adrenaline in a contest for survival never grew easier to handle. The repercussions almost always left people needing time to recover.

Nevertheless, after a few short breaths, Dante forcibly brought his focus down to earth. He stared at Joan for a second, lamenting the lack of Hemomarat. Without it, he couldn’t replenish his lost blood and close the wound fully.

It would be left stitched up for several days at best.

However, as his gaze swept by Sonna, he had an idea. Hydro’s weakness was sheer power and sharpness. It had been overcome with careful ministrations and absurd focus. Dante reversed the weakness and made it a strength.

Can the other Tides do similar things? Could Cryo become pliable? Thermo become grasping? Could... Arido give instead of take?

Instantly, the man asked Astraeus a question, pivoting off from the most crucial matter, “Can you develop Tides in opposite directions? Can Arido give life instead of taking it?”

Astraeus nodded, his head switching to face Sonna. The Anathema gauged her for a moment. Then, he turned back to Dante.

“Yeah. It’s called Yin-Yang or Reverse. Extreme heat gives birth to extreme cold, and vice versa. But... It’s a technique that is so demanding in control and experience that I don’t know anyone who can do it. Plus, I've heard it's not without cost. Nectos can’t do it at all, so Thanaris never taught me much about the method. The Judge would probably know a little more,” Astraeus’ long explanation was met by profound interest from every crewmember. Even Lucius gazed at the ‘Thema like a treasure trove sat before him.

“Claudius. Eight. Pick their brains about Reverse Tides. If you can heal instead of devour…” Dante’s voice frayed, but his stare hardened. “…we might live long enough to regret it.”

The petite woman bobbed her silver hair. Her mind had already jumped to the same conclusion as her captain. She pondered how she could bestow vitality to another instead of merely devouring it as her mists always did. Her contemplations deafened her from the ensuing conversation.

Under Rejo and Lucius’ demand, Dante returned to the bout with the monster. He detailed the short battle and how he decapitated the elder. While he was doing so, Joan shuffled over, her eyes bloodshot from study.

“Rosemen,” Joan declared, holding the vial aloft. Inside, the root writhed, tendrils knitting into a miniature torso. “The bodies aren’t grown—they’re woven. And this…” She grinned. “…is the thread. They are all made by these roots.”

The analysis stunned the others. Even Astraeus hadn’t heard of anything like this before, but none argued. She was the expert, after all. In the next moment, the doctor also handed Dante more pills. She promised that he’d be healed within a single day with her help. The man could only trust her expertise, as she knew his physiology the best.

Dante shrugged after downing the medicine. He addressed everyone before closing his eyes for rest, “We’ll check out the corpse in the morning. Hopefully, the Rosemen don’t take it. Worst case, there is plenty of blood.”

Joan’s pupils dilated at the word blood. She retreated to her vials, humming. Lucius and Sonna lingered, eyes locked on Dante. Ten seconds. That’s all it took for his breathing to deepen, for the tension in his jaw to unravel. Ten seconds to collapse from soldier to corpse-in-waiting.

Twenty later, Rejo had joined him, though this vice-captain snored with a reverberating echo.

“Like that? He’s out? Not going to tell us about all that he’s been through? Or listen to our time?” Sonna complained with eyes on her captain, annoyed to the ends of her hair.

Beside her, the muscled Martian laughed softly. He relaxed his body, joining the others for rest. His physique recovered unnaturally fast, but even Lucius needed sleep after what he had endured.

Still, he patted Sonna on the shoulder and shared her gaze, “He’s a soldier, like me. Maybe not in the title, but he is. After this, he’ll talk. We’re all in crisis mode right now. Give him time.”

Astraeus bowed his head in agreement. A clawed finger pointed right toward Dante before sweeping toward all the other figures and eventually landing on Rejo, “Lucius is right. In my time with him, he would never stop talking unless he was training. Always a story to tell, a lesson to teach, or a pain to endure. Though, the red-skinned one received the most tales.”

The admission raised Lucius’ eyebrows and prevented him from falling asleep. He probed Astraeus for more information on what Dante had told him, and in minutes, the three had a lively conversation.

Even Eidolon joined into the discussion, breaking his usual silence slowly as the others gazed at their newest member, "I must say. I am surprised Dante is not a Necto. He fits the bill in my eyes. Unfortunately, not all of us are as blessed as they are."

At first, those awake seemed rife with unease near Eidolon, but they gradually warmed up to him. Dante had said they made a deal earlier, but the dead man himself was willing to share much of his knowledge regardless.

Sonna and Lucius soon asked the Revenant Tide countless questions while Astraeus added just as many. With each passing moment, the ‘Thema learned how odd the human he had traveled with was while Sonna learned more about her Tide than she thought possible.

With two Dirge speaking to two sentients, the two ‘Seacursed,’ as Astraeus put it, discovered the depths of a Dirge’s mind.

Lucius’ fiery rage softened bit by bit until a soft smile emerged on his face when Astraeus mentioned the chainsaw that Dante had found for the Dirge. The way Astraeus’ face brightened despite the darkness embedded into his face brought a laugh to the pair.

“Perhaps... you aren’t all that bad, Astraeus. But... why did you do all those things on Crislend?” Lucius’ pressing concerns couldn’t stay inside his heart. He didn't say a word to Eidolon, knowing he had already paid for his sins in death. The current being seemed more than regretful.

Still, the Martian needed some answers. He couldn’t travel with a monster. It would destroy his will if he left it alone. Sonna, too, wished to know the reason for Astraeus’ massacre. After speaking to him at length, neither saw the murderer.

They only saw the man—a man dedicated to a possibly evil master, but a man nonetheless. He had his own ambitions, interests, and feelings.

Just as Sonna had fallen in love with controlling her Tide, Astraeus was the same with his talents. The Weren strayed from her Stigmata, fearful of its power. However, he dived into his Stigmata and Tide in equal parts. His pure joy in advancing his skills was plain to see in the way he spoke.

Still... as Lucius’ question entered the air, the room froze. Astraeus’ body shivered, and he scuttled to the side. The Anathema refused to face either of the two. Sonna raised an eyebrow at Lucius in response to the oddness.

While pursing his lips, the Martian sighed and slid down the wall until he was comfortable. Without another word, he entered his dreams, wondering what was in Astraeus’ mind. He had noticed the hints of restraint in the Anathema’s answers as if something was stopping him from speaking freely.

Yet he couldn’t guess why.

************************

Malnourished fingers hastily typed upon a keyboard, inputting constant commands while a boy spoke to himself. After almost an hour, he had finally become the administrator. His eyes trailed over the surface of the planet below as a complete Domain Collapse shattered the power of the Heron’s Wing.

The lack of lights frightened him, but Euclid’s presence, the secondary mind within him, calmed him. It provided him a pillar to rely on as he turned over and looked every which way.

Time is ticking.

The thought burrowed into his mind as he gazed into the darkness. While on the other ship, the lack of light spawned over a dozen Anaphage to prowl the corridors. Here... Isaac worried the same would befall the Heron’s Wing.

Domain Collapse. It’s odd that it causes Dirge to appear like this. Is that the case even when it originates from others? I guess it still connects to the Lightsea, right? Maybe it’s not that odd. Those who can create Domains can deal with Anaphages like they’re nothing.

“They aren’t like me. Weak,” he spoke while stumbling through the Heron’s Wing. A piece of him called him to enter its depths. Euclid. It was guiding him.

His partner was too tired to speak after being killed, devoured, and saving the boy’s life. All it could do was guide him.

Archimedes obeyed.

Blood smeared the floor in his wake, footprints blooming crimson. Darkness swallowed the corridor, but the ship’s schematics that he had glanced at briefly months ago flickered in his mind—a map etched by his gnawed nails. Glass shards bit into his soles. He barely felt them. Euclid’s pull was stronger.

Minutes later, as the invisible clock ticked toward the first appearance of a monster, Archimedes stood in the bowels of the starship. He brought his hand toward the engine, the heart of the masterpiece.

The boy did not yet understand how such things worked. He had never found a manual no matter where he hacked into or what he stole. None of his forced crimes were related to the construction of starships, so only the publicly available knowledge reached him.

Still, he knew vastly more than most of the sea of stars.

However, as he opened the latch to the engine, he grew curious at the absence of heat. Pythagoras imagined that a starship would produce excessive heat in its core.

But it didn’t.

The slide revealed to API a sight beyond his wildest imagination. Instead of an engine, a piston, or some other kind of mechanical device, there was a beating heart in the core of the ship.

It pulsed faintly before the genius’ eyes as something suppressed the organ.