We hacked through the nest of tentacles, while closing in on the second anchor limb. Gunfire stitched past my head, shredding vines of flesh that blocked our path. My sabre tore through them in brutal arcs, blade soaked with the kraken’s rancid ichor. The cracks running down the fuller widened with every hit—one more strike and it might snap.

  No time.

  “Fall back!” I barked. “You’re in my way!”

  The vanguard peeled off. I surged ahead—slashing, ducking, sliding under low strikes, knocking aside whipping limbs with the flat of my blade. The second anchor limb was right there—towering, thick as a tree trunk, coiled tight around the deck.

  I lunged for it.

  It shifted—snapping loose and rising fast. The sudden motion wrenched the footing out from under me.

  Off balance.

  A shadow fell—the main limb, thick as a cannon, dropping straight at me.

  I raised my sabre and took the full hit across the guard. Metal screamed.

  The blow hurled me backward, crashing me into the bridge cockpit in a tangle of limbs and steel.

  Ribs bruised. Arm half-numb. Still breathing.

  I rolled to my feet, kicked off the wall, and launched back into the fight.

  It’s a miracle the blade didn’t snap. Cracks run the length of the fuller, pulsing with each strike. It won’t last. I need to end this—fast.

  Lucky me—the limb wants me just as badly. Almost romantic, really. Two beings, locked in a dance of mutual obsession.

  It crashes down again, a lumbering mass hungry to pulp me, joined by a swarm of smaller feelers snapping in from every angle. My squad answers—bullets cutting the air, driving the tentacles back.

  I slide under the main limb as it slams down, boots skidding over slick deck. The instant it rebounds, I grab hold and haul myself onto it.

  It shoots skyward—faster than I expected. Almost too fast.

  I nearly lose my grip, but I drive my knife into the slick hide. It sticks. I hold.

  The ocean drops away below. Through gaps in the clouds I glimpse the beast’s full silhouette beneath the waves—a mountain of muscle, lurking just under the surface.

  The tentacle whips hard, trying to shake me off. It flings upward—just what I needed.

  I let go.

  Gravity reverses. I’m flying—above the limb, above the ship, above everything.

  Then I fall.

  I channel every drop of mana I can muster into the cracked sabre. It flares—brighter than ever before, a pure cobalt light.

  Blade down, I plummet—using its own force against it. I hit like a comet, sabre first.

  Flesh parts.

  The wound sizzles where light meets muscle.

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  Then I’m through.

  The anchor limb gives way—severed. I grab hold of the falling piece, riding it down like a burning log through a storm.

  But the limb’s arc is off—I realize too late it’s going to miss the deck.

  I leap, boots skimming air.

  The severed tentacle plunges toward the kraken’s gaping maw behind me as I twist mid-air—

  —and crash against the ship’s lip, fingers scrabbling for purchase.

  Barely made it.

  I haul myself up onto the slick deck, rain and seawater sluicing across the iron plates—mixed with the kraken’s repulsive, stinking blood. My sabre’s a ruined mess of metal, shattered down to the guard. It did its job. Time to move on.

  I reach for my knife—only to remember it’s still buried in that bastard’s hide, halfway to the ocean floor.

  No blade. Great.

  I’m separated from Hein’s squad, too far to call out, too deep in to retreat. No melee weapon in reach. I grab the next best thing—my not-so-trusty sidearm. The rifle’s slung across my back, but at this range, it might as well be a broomstick.

  I barely have time to steady my breath.

  The tentacles come again—relentless, unending, snapping from all sides. No finesse now, just survival. I squeeze the trigger.

  Shots ring out. Bullets tear through the thinner limbs, shredding them—useless against the larger ones, which only stagger before surging in again.

  Too close.

  I duck, weave, sidestep, pivot—moving through them like a dancer in a laser maze. But it’s not enough. I need a better edge. A new one.

  Then the thought hits—if I can flood my muscles with mana, why not sharpen it? Taper it. Mold it to a point.

  Steel strength is one thing. But sharp? Sharp could change everything.

  I channel it—focusing the flow down my arms, narrowing it to my fingertips.

  A tentacle whips in.

  I test the theory.

  My hand slices through it.

  Clean.

  No resistance—like butter under a hot blade.

  I blink, stunned.

  The flesh sizzles where I passed through.

  It worked.

  It actually worked.

  My body—fueled by mana—might be a better weapon than steel ever was.

  This has to be another step toward the second dream—I can feel it. But that revelation can wait.

  The two anchor limbs are tightening their grip, the hull groaning beneath it. If I don’t move now, it’s going to crush through.

  I pour everything I’ve got into speed.

  No more distractions. No more wasting time on small fry.

  I blitz forward, ignoring the snapping tentacles that try to drag me down. It works—but not without cost. Thin lashes catch me now and then, carving shallow cuts into my arms, legs, shoulders. Nothing vital. My priority is the main limbs, and I’m not slowing down.

  I leap, roll, vault—like I’m sprinting through a warped obstacle course where every piece wants to crush, tear, or strangle you. Honestly? It’s kind of fun.

  Tentacles lash from all sides. I dodge low, hop over one, twist sideways as another whips past my head. The wind sings with each near miss.

  Closer.

  More lashes—sharp stings, little ribbons of blood blooming across my skin. My uniform’s a shredded mess, fluttering like old canvas in the wind, but the flesh beneath is holding strong. Mana pulses through my limbs, sealing the worst of it as I push harder.

  I’m nearly there.

  Two more limbs.

  I raise my newly formed mana blade—raw energy shaped into edge and will. Might as well give it a name. Mana blade works for now.

  I brace to strike the second to last limb, focus drawn tight—too tight. In my hubris, I let my guard slip. Just for a second.

  A tentacle—medium-sized, but twice my width—lunges straight for my chest, aimed dead at the heart.

  I’m caught mid-transition, locked into the stance needed to cleave the main limb. I try to shift—too late. My body can’t realign fast enough. This is it. I’m going to get impaled by a damned squid.

  Then—blue light.

  A streak cuts the air beside me, humming with the same cobalt glow as my own technique. It slams into the tentacle mid-flight—detonates in a burst of searing blue.

  Flesh explodes. The tentacle vanishes in a cloud of gore and light.

  I spin—Hein.

  He’s pushed forward through the melee, blood streaking his coat. A jagged gash runs down one side of his chest—nasty, but not fatal. The rest of his wounds look shallow.

  He grins, teeth red. In his hands, a repeater still smokes.

  He’d done it. Compressed mana into a bullet. Fired it before it unraveled. Saved my life.

  So… I’m not the only genius.

  I snap my stance back into alignment, blade buzzing with energy. More stable now. More refined. One clean arc—and the glowing edge sears through the kraken’s anchor limb.

  The monster shrieks. Severed flesh crashes into the sea in a sizzling heap. The final limb releases its grip… to my dismay.

  The ship is free.

  I almost drop to my knees from sheer relief—but we’re not done. Not yet. The small fry are still flailing across the deck, and the ward grid hasn’t come online.

  Still… the biggest threat is gone. We bought ourselves a chance.

  Just as that thought settles, the ship rumbles—deep and low—from beneath.

  Not over.

  I rush to the edge, peering down into the storm-thrashed sea.

  The water churns, bubbling like a boiling pot. Something massive stirs below.

  Then I see it.

  The Final and five more limbs—identical to the anchors we just severed—erupt from the water, rising like black pillars into the sky. They tower over the deck, blotting out the moonlight.

  My stomach drops. “Fuck.”

  The monster wasn’t just clinging to the ship—it was holding back.

  The new limbs curl, preparing to strike—one last grab, one final death grip to take us down with it.

  Then—

  Zzzzt!

  A blinding flash arcs across the hull. The ward grid hums to life, blue lines etching across the ship’s surface in a web of light.

  The limbs slam down—

  —and bounce off harmlessly.

  The shield holds.

  A beat later, another ripple spreads through the ward, and the kraken twitches. Sparks crawl along its limbs—lightning dancing across wet flesh. A side effect of the mana grid.

  The whole beast convulses, smoke rising from charred suckers.

  Seconds later, the limbs go limp, crashing into the waves with a hiss of steam and a final splash that rocks the ship.

  Cooked.

  Crisp.

  As fresh as seafood gets.

  “Seafood does taste better when it’s caught near the ocean,” I mutter, almost laughing as I sag against the rail.

  The day—well, storm-wracked night, but who’s counting—is won.

  And I never even got to give Rainer a single damn order.

  Figures.

  I turn to Hein, now limping his way toward me through the haze. He looks worse than I do—blood-soaked, bruised, a little hunched—but still standing. He’ll manage. He always does.

  I flash him a tired grin.

  “So—uh, who’s in charge of getting the calamari prepped?”

  He stops beside me, squints at the drifting limbs still steaming in the sea, then looks back with deadpan exhaustion.

  “You shot it. You cook it.”

  “I didn’t shoot it—sliced, not shoot.”

  He grunts. “…All the more reason.”