My name is Lin Ze. I used to be a fisherman. Now I’m one of the “mountain folk,” clinging to the last scraps of high ground—the jagged peaks of the Himalayas. Once the roof of the world, it’s now humanity’s final refuge. The air is thin, the wind bites like a blade, but at least there’s solid rock beneath our feet. Below the cliffs, an infinite ocean stretches out, its depths hiding terrors we can’t even fathom.
That day, I stood at the edge of a drop, staring at the water far below. The breeze carried a salty tang, laced with a low, rumbling hum—like the sea itself was mocking us. Over the past decade, we’d adapted. We built crude shelters from stone, collected rainwater from crevices, and grew cold-resistant potatoes. But food was running low, and our numbers hadn’t dwindled much. The mountains couldn’t sustain us forever. Deep down, we all knew we’d have to face the sea someday.
“Lin Ze, get down here!” Aya’s voice cut through the wind. My little sister, thin as a reed, her black hair a tangled mess in the gusts. “The patrol’s back—they’ve got news.”
I turned and saw them staggering up the slope, a handful of figures wrapped in tattered waterproof cloaks, spears in hand. Our patrol team, the ones who kept watch over the lower slopes. Their faces were paler than usual, like they’d seen a ghost.
“What’s wrong?” I called, my voice shredded by the gale as I hurried toward them.
The leader, Old Knife, was a grizzled man in his fifties, his beard a patchy mess. He was panting, his eyes wide with something like dread. “We… we saw them down at the mid-slope.”
“Them?” I frowned. Over the years, rumors of “sea beasts” had drifted through the camp—things with tentacles and glowing eyes crawling up from the deep. But no one had ever seen one and lived to tell the tale.
“Yeah,” Old Knife rasped, swallowing hard. “Worse than we thought. They’re not just animals. They’re… organized. And they took people.”
“Took people?” Aya’s voice quaked. “You mean they came up the mountain?”
He nodded, pulling a ragged cloth from his pocket. It was streaked with purple-black slime, reeking of something sharp and foul. “Found this near the mid-slope outpost. Blood, too. The whole place was smashed—everyone there, gone.”
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My stomach sank. For ten years, we’d thought retreating to the peaks would keep us safe, that the water was our only enemy. But now, it seemed the things in the deep weren’t content to stay below. They were hunting us.
Night fell, and the camp gathered in a cramped stone hut for an emergency meeting. A few dozen survivors huddled around a flickering fire, its light dancing on their anxious faces.
“What are they?” a young woman asked, clutching a crying child to her chest.
“Don’t know,” Old Knife muttered, shaking his head. “But they’re not fish. I got a good look at one—six tentacles, eyes like lanterns, a shell harder than rock. And… they talk.”
“Talk?” The crowd erupted—some scoffed, others gasped.
“I’m not crazy!” Old Knife snapped, his eyes blazing. “Not human words. It was a low, buzzing sound—like water rushing, or a drumbeat. I couldn’t understand it, but they were communicating.”
“Why take people?” I cut in, unable to hold back.
He went quiet for a moment, then lowered his voice. “I saw them drag the bodies down the slope and toss them into the water. The people weren’t dead—not at first. It looked like… they were using them.”
“Using them?” Aya’s brow creased. “For what?”
No one answered. A chill crawled up my spine. I remembered old rumors from years back—whispers of strange structures in the sea, like coral fused with metal. Some said they were alien ruins; others claimed the ocean had birthed a new civilization. Now, it hit me: those taken weren’t just food. They were being enslaved.
The next morning, Old Knife and I decided to scout the lower slopes. We grabbed what weapons we had—sharpened rebar spears and a coil of rope—and descended into the fog. The mist hung thick as soup, the rocks slick underfoot. Every step felt like a gamble with death.
We reached the outpost ruins, and I understood Old Knife’s fear. The place was obliterated—stones crushed, human shoes and bloodstains scattered across the ground. A trail of purple slime stretched from the wreckage to the cliff’s edge, disappearing into the sea. I crouched and touched it; the stuff was thick as glue, stinging my fingertips.
“Watch out!” Old Knife hissed, yanking me behind a boulder.
I held my breath and followed his gaze. Below the cliff, a massive shape broke the water’s surface. At first, I mistook it for a reef—until it moved. A hulking thing with tentacles, its back studded with glowing armor, like a living fortress. It hauled itself onto the shore, its limbs coiled around two human figures. They were alive, thrashing silently.
“What are they doing?” I whispered.
Old Knife pointed to the sea beyond. I squinted and saw it—something rising from the waves, not natural but built. A structure of bone and metal, like a grotesque nest. The creature tossed the humans into the water. Moments later, smaller shapes darted out, binding them with tendrils and dragging them under.
“Slaves…” Old Knife’s voice shook. “They’re turning us into slaves.”
I gripped my spear tighter, heart hammering. In that moment, I realized something: we weren’t the masters of Earth anymore. We’d fled to the mountains thinking we were survivors. But we weren’t. We were just prey that hadn’t been caught yet.