Time dragged on like that, and I managed to find a rhythm for spotting the corals more easily—though most dives, those relentless currents pinned me in place, turning every trip into a slog that ate up precious minutes. After what felt like an eternity down there, I had no choice but to surface, swap out the nearly empty air tank with Popeye, and plunge back in for deeper runs. The deeper I went, the more the pressure squeezed my chest, but it was the only way to hit the good spots where the Shadow Corals clung to the hidden crevices.
Between all the diving and surfacing, hauling up jagged chunks that weighed more than they had any right to in the water, I'd filled four full boxes already. Each one was massive, easily big enough to hold a small fortune in those dark, shadowy formations, but the real bitch was locating them amid the endless murk and swaying kelp forests that seemed to grab at you like living traps.
Down below in that suffocating blue-black void, I could feel my body starting to betray me with every labored kick. My limbs moved slower, heavier, like they were filled with lead instead of muscle, and a gnawing hunger clawed at my gut that no amount of willpower could ignore. My fingers—god, my fingers—were a mess, the skin pruned and raw from gripping the knife and hook, threatening to split open and bleed into the salt that would only make it all worse. I was pushing limits I didn't even know this kid's body had, but backing off wasn't an option. Not when the payout was so close.
Brushing along the rough, barnacle-crusted wall for balance, my hand groped through the empty water until it brushed against something solid and uneven. Another one—felt like the right shape, textured just like the sample Marlon had shown us. Heart pounding, I crouched low, knife at the ready, and started sawing carefully at the base to free it without shattering the fragile branches. But then, pure gut instinct screamed in my skull, and I jerked back hard just as something massive slammed into the wall right where my head had been a split second before. The impact echoed through the water like a muffled thunderclap, dislodging chunks of rock that swirled around me in the current.
I couldn't see shit—visibility was bad even with the flares—but I felt it: a whip-fast ripple cutting through the water, arrowing straight for me like a torpedo with teeth. Panic surged, but I clamped it down, yanking my knife free and twisting blindly, trying to guess the angle of attack from the faint disturbances in the flow. Nothing. Zilch. Then—bam—a brutal hit from behind, like getting trucked by a freight train, spun me end over end into the open water. No purchase, no way to grab hold; I was tumbling helpless in the grip of the tide.
"Damn it, am I gonna die like this? Over some fucking fish? Where are you, you son of a bitch?" I cursed silently in my mind, rage boiling up to drown the fear. But no time for brooding—a second blow clipped me mid-spin, knocking every last bubble of air from my lungs in a silent scream. Stars exploded behind my eyes, and for a heartbeat, all I could do was flail.
Powerless as a ragdoll, I gulped down frantic breaths from the tank, the regulator tasting like rubber and regret, and lashed out with the knife in wild arcs—stabbing left, right, up, down, every direction the chaos of my spin allowed. But whatever this thing was, it moved like lightning in the water; at that speed, even the biggest, dumbest fish would weave around my strikes without breaking a sweat. Desperation clawed in: I needed out, now.
Fingers fumbling, I grabbed the rope tied to my waist and yanked hard—three sharp tugs, the signal for Popeye to haul ass and reel me in. Nothing. No tension, no pull. The rope hung slack, mocking me. "Come on, you big lug..." I growled through gritted teeth, starting to climb hand-over-hand up the line myself, fighting the drag of my gear and the burning in my arms. That's when it hit: a searing slice across the hand clutching the knife, like a razor through flesh. The saltwater rushed in immediately, turning the cut into a white-hot inferno that made my grip slip. Blood clouded the water in dark tendrils, and I knew—I just knew—that whatever hunted me could smell it now, taste the weakness.
Up on the boat
Popeye stood like a sentinel by the rail, eyes locked on the rope's lazy float in the waves, waiting for that telltale twitch that meant Olbap was ready to come up. The deck hummed with the low chatter of exhausted workers nursing bruises and swapping tall tales of near-misses below, but Popeye kept his distance, his massive frame a silent warning to anyone dumb enough to crowd their hard-earned haul. Four boxes of Shadow Coral sat stacked nearby, their inky contents glinting faintly in the lantern light—proof of a damn good run, even if the kid was taking his sweet time down there.
That's when they sauntered over: a pack of four workers, rough around the edges with salt-crusted clothes and eyes hungry for easy scores. They weren't subtle about it, circling the crates like sharks scenting chum, their leader—a wiry prick with a scar twisting his lip into a permanent sneer—stepping forward with false casualness.
"Looks like you've had yourself some real luck out there, Muscle," the leader drawled, his voice oily with fake camaraderie. "Didn't peg the sea for favoring meatheads like you. Y'know, you still owe us from that last mess-up. Ring any bells?"
Popeye didn't flinch, his gaze steady as he sized them up. "If memory serves right, I settled that debt already, Koji. Now step off before I lose my patience."
Koji barked a laugh that didn't reach his eyes, crossing his arms as his crew—three hangers-on, including a lanky one called Karl—flanked him tighter. "You think debts square up that clean? If it was all 'paid in full' and done, hell, no one'd ever owe a damn thing. Yours? Dragged on too long, racked up interest like a bad habit. And if I'm not mistaken, that little 200 beri tab ballooned to 2,000 now, didn't it, Karl?" Koji's grin widened into something feral, shooting a glance at Karl, who nodded with a matching smirk, cracking his knuckles for emphasis.
Popeye's jaw tightened, the words slithering through his mind like poison, but Olbap's voice cut clear over the memory: If it's not Jerry, don't let a soul touch our corals. Words fail? Then give 'em a taste of why they call you Muscle. The big man didn't waste breath on more warnings. In a blur of motion, he hefted both tree-trunk arms high and brought them crashing down like twin sledgehammers onto the nearest goon—the one too slow to sidestep. The impact landed with a meaty crack, folding the guy like wet cardboard; he crumpled to the deck unconscious, sprawling limp as a sack of potatoes amid scattered tools.
Koji and Karl, frozen mid-bluster about compounding rates and "lessons learned," snapped to the thud. They dodged back just in time—the goon hadn't—but Koji's face twisted into a mask of bulging veins and raw fury. No more talk. With a guttural roar, he and Karl charged, knives flashing in the dim light.
"You bastard! You'll regret laying a hand on me! Don't you know who I am?" Koji bellowed, lunging low with a vicious slash aimed at Popeye's gut. The blade skittered harmlessly off the big man's corded forearm like it was striking iron, and before Koji could reset, Popeye's elbow whipped around in a brutal arc. It connected with Koji's chest like a battering ram, launching him backward off the deck and into the churning waves below with a splash that echoed like defeat.
Karl faltered, eyes wide at his boss's aerial exit, but hesitation was a luxury Popeye didn't allow. Massive hands clamped around Karl's shoulders like vise grips, and with a sickening snap-snap, Popeye wrenched both arms backward at angles bones weren't meant to bend. Karl's scream cut short as he was flung sideways into a coil of rope, collapsing in a twitching heap.
Breathing steady, Popeye shook out his arms like a dog shedding water, flicking away flecks of blood and sweat that dotted the wood. The deck had gone dead quiet, workers staring slack-jawed, but he ignored them—until a frantic thrashing caught his eye. The rope. It was alive now, jerking and whipping like a hooked tuna fighting for its life, the pulls coming fast and desperate.
No time to think. Popeye seized the line in both fists, veins bulging across his forearms as every ounce of his freakish strength poured into the haul. Pull after grueling pull, the rope sang taut against the strain, Olbap's wild bucks traveling up the line like Morse code for trouble. Sweat beaded on Popeye's brow, but he locked in, muscles coiling like steel cables, and unleashed a final, herculean heave. From the depths erupted Olbap, rocketing skyward in a spray of foam—clinging to his knife arm was a thrashing sea snake, its coils gleaming slick and scales armored like chainmail, jaws locked in a bloody vise.
"Popeye, you son of a bitch! Better have some damn good explanations when I get free of this! Help me kill this piece of shit—it's eating me!" Olbap howled through gritted teeth, his free hand flailing with the hook, stabbing futile jabs into the serpent's writhing body as momentum carried him toward the rail.
Popeye didn't miss a beat, planting his feet wide and cocking a fist the size of a cannonball. As Olbap arced past, trailing water and curses, that punch detonated against the snake's elongated jaw with a crunch like splitting timber. Bone gave way; the creature's grip spasmed open, and it tumbled free onto the deck in a flopping, venomous heap, tail lashing wildly as it slithered toward the scuppers and escape.
"Got the bastard off you, Olbap. A little gratitude wouldn't hurt," Popeye rumbled, flexing his knuckles while tracking the snake's desperate bid for the sea.
Pam. Pam. Pam. Three sharp cracks split the air, the acrid tang of gunpowder blooming on the deck. Jerry stood there, revolver still smoking in his grip, a lazy grin splitting his face as he eyed the twitching corpse of the sea snake, a neat trio of holes punched through its skull.
"Looks like you two are more than just haulers—you're useful," Jerry chuckled, holstering the pistol with a flourish. "Four boxes, pushing five, and you drag up dinner to boot? Now that's what I call workers. Heh, hehehehe."
"Your meathead over there—grab the kid. He'll bleed out like a stuck pig if you slack," Marlon grunted from his perch, jerking his chin toward Popeye without looking up from his tattered newspaper.
Popeye nodded once, scooping Olbap up by the scruff like a drowned kitten—one massive hand around the collar—and carted him belowdecks to Marlon's makeshift infirmary in one of the cramped cabins, the door banging shut behind them.
One day later
"Finally awake, huh? Was starting to think you'd checked out for good," Popeye's voice rumbled from the corner, where he sat hunched on a stool, staring out the porthole at the endless blue.
I blinked against the sway of the cabin, every inch of me throbbing like I'd been run over. "Almost did. What the hell happened up there? Why didn't you haul when I was this close to dying?" I snapped, propping up on elbows that screamed protest, fixing him with a glare hot enough to curdle milk.
It replayed in flashes: the blind panic underwater, body too sluggish to twist away, the gut-punch certainty of death closing in. Yeah, I'd died once before—a quick bullet in the chaos, over before I could feel the sting. But this? This was slow, visceral terror, the kind that hollowed you out. Never again. No more blind dives into the abyss. Hell, I'd take on those Crimson Blooms, thorns and all, over that nightmare.
Popeye shifted, meeting my eyes without flinching. "Trouble topside. Pack of idiots tried muscling in on our corals—thought they could shake me down for 'old debts.' Handled it. Then reeled you in soon as I could. Got some good news out of the mess, though."
"So they tried robbing us? Who the fuck were they? Point me at 'em— we'll gut those bastards," I growled, surging up in a blaze of fury, but the jagged bites on my arm and hand lit up like firecrackers, slamming me back to the bunk with a hiss.
"Already did. Even lifted their take—had one full box and half of another. Bumps us to six total now." He nodded toward the corner, where the crates loomed like trophies, stacked neat and heavy with promise.
I followed his gaze, a grin cracking through the pain. "For that? You're forgiven for the near-death experience. Three thousand beri, hahaha. When we make landfall, we're feasting—real food, not that sawdust bread." My stomach growled just thinking about it, drool pooling at the memory of something hot and substantial. That rock-hard loaf? Might as well be gravel for all it filled me.
"Sounds like a plan. We're en route—those currents were beasts, had to ride 'em out till they calmed for the run home. Marlon even tossed us this cabin as a perk for busting ass," Popeye replied, snagging a bruised apple from a nearby barrel and polishing it absently on his sleeve.
A whole cabin? Not bad. Steps in the right direction. To claw my way up and hijack this whole operation, I needed more than muscle—I needed eyes everywhere, dirt on Silco's game, weak spots to exploit. Back on the island, I'd carve out a day for the good life. Three grand split 60-40: 1,800 mine to burn. That top-shelf room at the tavern ran 200 beri a night—bed, meals, hot bath, the works. Leaves 1,600 tucked away for rainy days or bribes. Then, pivot to the flowers: 1,000 beri per crate? Tempting as sin. But whispers said they weren't a stroll either—thorny bastards in treacherous spots, and those smaller boxes meant twice the trips to fill. Worth scouting, though. Diversify or die.
I twisted toward the porthole, but it framed nothing but rolling waves under a slate sky. No point fighting sleep; these wounds wouldn't knit on spite alone. If I wanted back in the game—and I did—rest was the play. Eyes drifting shut, I let the gentle rock of the ship lull me under.
Hours later
We finally bumped against the docks, the familiar creak of wood on wood jolting me awake. My wounds had dulled from screaming banshees to nagging aches—swollen but bandaged tight, courtesy of Marlon's rough stitching—but they still tugged with every shift. Popeye's meaty paw steadied me as I swung my legs over the bunk's edge, and together we shuffled out, me leaning harder than I'd admit.
The deck told its own grim story. Of the forty who'd shipped out wide-eyed and eager, maybe twenty shambled back—half the crew gone, chewed up by the deep or bad luck. Faces gaunt, clothes torn, eyes haunted; low mutters about "that devil current" and "things with too many teeth." Fifty percent attrition on a single run? Unacceptable. If I was angling to crown myself king of this coral racket, lesson one: streamline the kills. More bodies meant more noise, drawing heat from animals or rival crews sniffing for a piece. Safer methods—better gear, maybe scout runs to map the hazards. Fixed crew, loyal and lean, till I had the island's pulse under my thumb. Quality over quantity; that's how empires start.
Popeye offloaded the crates to Jerry without fanfare. The foreman just flashed that oily smile, counted out the beri in crisp stacks, and waved us off like valued hounds. Our cut: 1,800 in my pouch, 1,200 for the big man—right on script. I felt the side-eyes from the survivors, envy burning holes in their stares, whispers slithering about "the kid and the brute hogging the lion's share." Let 'em gawk. Weakness invites knives; steel your gaze, and they slink away. Want a taste? Earn it—or try taking it. See how that ends.
Town wasn't far—a short limp through salt-stung air thick with fish guts and low tide funk—and I beelined for the tavern's swinging sign, not before pulling Popeye aside in the shadow of a warehouse.
"What's your move now, Popeye?" I asked, craning up to meet his gaze, voice low but steady.
He scratched the back of his neck, that mountain of a frame suddenly almost sheepish, lost in the ruts of old habits. "Truth? No clue. Floated the idea of trailing you. Ain't got ties pulling me elsewhere. Usually, I'd vanish into some alley, wait out the storm or hustle for gigs needing heavy lifting. But this... this felt different."
My chest warmed—score one for the new me, building a crew instead of burning bridges. "No skin off my back. You're in as my first lieutenant in the empire I'm carving out. I'll need that strength when things heat up. Come on—we've earned a proper spread after that gauntlet."
I clapped his forearm—shoulder was a stretch too far for my pint-sized reach—and he chuckled, a low rumble like distant thunder. Can't gripe; this was the vision. Subordinates, sure, but Popeye? He was security incarnate, a walking fortress to shield the rise. Smart play on his end—my circle was winners only, and loyalty paid dividends.
The tavern door groaned welcome as we shouldered through, the din of clinking mugs and raucous laughter washing over us like a balm. A young serving girl—barely out of her teens, with freckles and a no-nonsense braid—waved us to the counter. We shelled out for the deluxe double: two beds, full board, steaming bath tossed in. The extra cot nudged it to 250 beri, but after the deep's cold embrace, it felt like robbery in reverse.
Dumped my meager kit—a knife, rope scraps, the boots that'd seen better days—and hit the washroom first. It was primitive: a steamy chamber with a massive oaken tub brimming with heated seawater and a ladle for pouring. No fancy plumbing, but gods, the relief of sluicing off the grime, the salt-stink of blood and brine. I picked at the scabs on my hand, wincing as fresh water stung clean, but emerged reborn—skin pink, hair dripping, feeling human for the first time in months. Popeye lumbered in after, emerging with a splash like a beached whale, but cleaner for it.
Down to the common room, stomachs howling, and the spread hit like revelation: sizzling slabs of grilled fish flaky with herbs, loaves of bread soft as clouds—no more gnawing on bricks—steaming mounds of rice flecked with spices that had no business thriving on this rock. Rice? On a dirt-poor spit like Krakenport? Miracles happened, I guess. Didn't ponder the logistics; just dove in, tearing into the bounty with hands and teeth, flavors exploding on my tongue after a year of scraps. Meat juices ran down my chin, bread sopped up every drop, rice filled the hollows— I ate like a man possessed, till my gut protested and I slumped back, sated and shining.
Full belly, scrubbed raw, I barely made it upstairs before sleep claimed me again. The bed was no palace feather-mattress—straw-ticked and lumpy—but after dirt floors and open skies, it was heaven. Pillows? Actual pillows, yielding under my head like forgiveness. As the tavern's murmurs faded to a hum, I drifted off, dreams tangled with shadows and beri, plotting the next climb.
End of the chapter.