They say Rio de Janeiro is still beautiful.

  That is a geological lie. Rio de Janeiro sank.

  We were at the top of the Serra das Araras, looking down. The descent of the Presidente Dutra Highway ended abruptly in a toxic mangrove swamp that had swallowed the Baixada Fluminense.

  Sea levels had risen ten meters in the last few months. The global warming caused by the awakening and death of the Devourer King had melted magical polar ice caps.

  "Diagnosis: Excessive humidity and structural corrosion," I murmured, adjusting the focus of my tactical binoculars. "The city turned into Venice, if Venice were built on top of a radioactive cemetery and populated by fish with legs."

  "Look at that, Arthur," Luna pointed to the horizon, where the mountain silhouette met the sea.

  The Corcovado was still there. But the statue of Christ the Redeemer had changed.

  The left arm had fallen off. The soapstone body was covered in giant barnacles and red bioluminescent corals. And in place of the head... someone had installed a high-power rotating spotlight.

  The Lighthouse Christ. Its light swept across Guanabara Bay, which was now a graveyard of ships and submerged skyscrapers.

  "Looks like someone organized the chaos," commented Valéria, leaning on the hood of our truck (now painted navy blue for night camouflage and reinforced with chitin plates from Amazonian insects). "That lighthouse uses a military-grade mana generator."

  "Pirates," Gristle spat on the ground, sharpening her cleaver, which now had saw teeth. "Where there's sea, there are pirates. And where there are pirates, there's bad food and a good fight."

  "Let's go down," I decided, climbing into the cab. "But stay sharp. Atmospheric pressure is different down here. The air has too much salt... and smells of old blood."

  The descent was treacherous. The road was blocked by landslides and "Tank Crabs" using VW Beetle carcasses as shells.

  We reached what used to be the city entrance. Avenida Brasil was now a navigable canal of black mud.

  Valéria engaged the truck's amphibious mode (a recent modification made with manatee swim bladders). The vehicle entered the muddy water, wheels acting as propulsion paddles.

  We navigated between building tops and rusted walkways.

  There were survivors. People living on rooftops, fishing with spears, connected by precarious suspension bridges. They looked at us with suspicion and hunger, but saw the cannon mounted on the truck roof and decided not to risk it.

  Suddenly, Valéria's improvised sonar beeped.

  "Movement in the water. Fast. Coming from the sides."

  "Fish?" asked Luna, holding her sonic baton.

  "No. Jetskis."

  Three personal watercraft emerged from behind a submerged building. They were customized vehicles with rusty metal plates and spikes.

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  The riders weren't normal humans. They were hybrids.

  Gray skin, gills on their necks, serrated teeth.

  [SPECIES: MUTATED HUMANOIDS (EFFECT OF CONTAMINATED WATER).]

  [PROBABLE FACTION: ASPHALT SHARKS.]

  They circled us, spinning, kicking up curtains of dirty water.

  One of them, bigger than the others, with a dorsal fin stitched onto his leather jacket, shouted:

  "Toll! The Bay belongs to Admiral Skull! Hand over the cargo and the women, and we'll let you keep the bones!"

  "What a warm welcome," I sighed, exiting through the roof hatch.

  The lead rider saw me. He saw a thin man in a torn lab coat with burn scars on his neck. He laughed.

  "Look at that, boys! A little doctor! Let's see if he can swim with his guts hanging out!"

  He accelerated the jetski toward the truck, preparing to launch an explosive harpoon.

  "Arthur," Valéria called from inside. "Want me to use the turret?"

  "No," I replied, extending my right hand. "Need to test the system update."

  The Parasite inside me awoke. It was no longer just a hungry beast. After interacting with the Boitatá and the Devourer King, it had evolved. It learned to eat from a distance.

  My eyes glowed with a pale purple light.

  I pointed my open hand at the speeding jetski.

  [ACTIVE ABILITY: KINETIC MANA DRAIN.]

  I didn't fire energy. I pulled.

  The jetski's engine ran on impure mana crystals.

  In an instant, the engine's energy was sucked into my hand.

  The vehicle died instantly in the middle of the water. Momentum stopped.

  The rider, without propulsion, was thrown forward by inertia, face-planting into the armored side of our truck with a wet, satisfying thud.

  "What?!" the other two pirates braked, scared.

  The energy I stole rushed through my arm, recharging my cells. I felt a pleasant tingling, like strong coffee.

  "The Admiral's card was declined," I said, channeling the stolen energy to my fingertip. "Luna, finish it."

  Luna appeared in the side window.

  "Cavitation Frequency!"

  She emitted a short pulse. The water under the two remaining jetskis vibrated violently, creating vacuum bubbles that imploded.

  The water "broke." The jetskis flipped, tossing the mutants into the toxic water.

  Gristle appeared at the back door, holding a fishing net.

  "Time to catch dinner!"

  In minutes, the three pirates were tied up on the deck of our amphibious truck, coughing up dirty water.

  Medical interrogation is more efficient than torture.

  I was crouched in front of the pirate leader, holding a syringe with fluorescent green liquid (just vitamin B12 and food coloring, but he didn't know that).

  "What's in the syringe?" he asked, trembling, gills flapping frantically.

  "Drought Virus," I lied, in my best professional tone. "Turns your gills into dry lungs in ten minutes. You die suffocated in the air and drowned in the water. The choice is yours."

  The pirate paled (turned grayer).

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Who controls Rio? What is that Lighthouse on the Christ? And where can I get parts to fix an industrial-level water purifier?"

  "Rio is divided!" he spoke fast. "The North Zone belongs to the Necro-Marines, zombies that came out of flooded cemeteries. The South Zone... the South Zone belongs to the Church of High Tide."

  "The Lighthouse Christ is their base. They say they're building an Ark."

  "An Ark?" Luna asked. "To save who?"

  "To save whoever pays the tithe in Black Pearls."

  "And about the parts... the only place with working tech is the Maracan? Floating Market."

  "The Maracan? turned into a market?" Valéria laughed. "Ironic."

  "But be careful, Doctor," the pirate smiled, showing sharp teeth. "Maracan? is neutral ground, but the way there goes through the territory of the Petroleum Sirens. And they don't ask for tolls. They sink everything."

  I stood up and put the syringe away.

  "Thank you for your cooperation."

  I kicked the pirate back into the water (hands tied, but loose enough to free himself in a few minutes).

  "Let's go to the stadium," I ordered. "I need to see what this 'Church of High Tide' is preaching. If it's another sacrifice cult, I'm going to have to do another theological demolition."

  Valéria started the engines. The truck spun in the water, heading toward the gigantic circular structure rising on the flooded horizon.

  Rio de Janeiro might have sunk, but rot floats.

  And we were the cleanup crew.

  I looked at the Lighthouse Christ one last time. Its light swept over us.

  I felt a chill. Not of fear. But of recognition.

  That light wasn't electric. It was biological.

  Someone had put a giant eye in the statue's head.

  "We're going to need a bigger boat."