The dawn crept over Blackwater like a thief, its pale light doing little to cleanse the stench of salt and decay clinging to the streets. I stood beside the armored car as always—another shadow in the service of nobles who barely glanced my way. Their polished boots and crisp coats seemed absurd against the grime, as if they believed their finery could ward off the filth of this city. It couldn't. Nothing could.
Elyria emerged last, her movements stiff from the warehouse injuries, but her eyes were sharp. Too sharp. She paused, gaze lingering on the cobblestones near the car's wheels—where a single pebble sat displaced, its edges too clean against the muck. My fingers twitched. Stupid, to overlook details. But before she could speak, a horn echoed from the docks. Not the usual laborer's signal. This one carried a dissonant edge, like a goat's bleat twisted into something human. Black. White. Gold. The colors of the marked ships flashed in my mind. The nobles didn't react. But I knew. The Sect was moving again.
I returned to the warehouse with Donovan and Theron—who, as usual, did nothing but complain about the situation. To them, this wasn't an opportunity to prove their worth to their families or the crown. They didn't take the investigation seriously. I wouldn't let what happened with the sea panther repeat itself.
"Gunther, was it? You're driving us. I refuse to endure Donovan and Theron's bickering the entire way."
"As you wish, Lady Elyria." Gunther's voice was gravel, his gesture to open the car door almost too practiced.
"Fine job, old man. Might as well tag along and witness the brilliance of Sylvaris' elite," Theron sneered, brushing past him like a servant.
I settled into the seat, eyes scanning the streets. Nothing seemed out of place, yet my skin prickled. The locals watched us pass—their stares hollow, like frogs trapped in a well. Something was wrong here.
The warehouse door creaked open, releasing a stench of rotting salt and iron. The sea panther lay in the center—alive, but its limbs had been severed with surgical precision.
"Hells—" Donovan gagged. "Poachers wouldn't waste time on cuts this clean."
"Unless they wanted to send a message," I muttered, crouching to examine the blood splatter. Too symmetrical. Arranged.
Theron kicked a severed paw. "Who cares? Report it to the harbor master and be done with it."
"You're missing the point," I snapped. "This thing was displayed for us."
I examined the sea panther's wounds, then glanced at Theron—making sure he wasn't about to vomit or flee like a spooked horse.
"Theron, do you think a swordsman did this?"
"Unlikely," he said, though his voice wavered. "The cuts aren't symmetrical. And the bleeding… amateur work, maybe."
"Donovan, could you—"
"Hoeeeekkk—! Ugh… disgusting." Donovan retched, doubling over. The sound echoed in the hollow warehouse, turning the air even thicker with shame.
Pathetic. If this were Ironhold, Father would've had them whipped for such weakness.
Strange. Too many locals wore the white goat-head emblem—pinned to coats, etched into market stalls. Not hidden, but flaunted like some damn festival token. I needed to improvise.
I approached a fishmonger, his stall reeking of scales and salt. "Good morning. Do you have anything fresh? My wife craves a good catch."
"Aye, just off the boat, sir!" He grinned, toothless.
"Thank you. Ah… this emblem," I gestured to the goat-head badge on his apron. "It's quite respected here, isn't it?"
"Oh, this?" He puffed his chest. "The mayor's symbol! Since he took office, the fish practically leap into our nets. Blessed days!"
"How admirable," I said, forcing a chuckle. "I'd best hurry home—wouldn't want the fish to spoil."
Lies. The mayor's sigil was a three-masted ship, not a goat.
By the time I returned to the armored car, the three Sylvaris nobles were already waiting—Elyria scowling, Donovan pale, Theron pretending he hadn't gagged earlier.
"Took you long enough," Theron muttered.
I bit back a reply. Let them think me a slow old man. Their ignorance was my advantage.
[SPIRAL SERPENT]
Threat Level: ★★★★☆ (High)
Traits:
- Size: 80ft coiled length (body diameter of 3 carriages)
- Pelt: Armored black scales with bioluminescent gold spirals (pulse when enraged)
Weakness:
- Lightning attacks cause muscle spasms
- Vulnerable After cast Torrent cannon
Behavior:
Idle:
- Lies partially submerged, creating whirlpools to drown unconscious victims
Combat:
- Pure brute force - crushes ships/structures with body slams
- Prioritizes largest targets first (displays contempt for smaller attackers)
Abilities:
[Torrent Cannon]
Fires high-pressure water blast (200ft range, can bisect stone buildings) 3-second charge time (glowing throat)
[Tidal Manipulation]
Creates 20ft waves to: Capsize ships, Flood coastal areas, Disorient groups
[Abyssal Guard] (Defensive)
Wraps itself in swirling water barrier: Deflects projectiles, Blurs weak points, Extinguishes flames
The docks shattered before us.
Wood splintered like brittle bones beneath the weight of the beast, and the stench of salt and rotting fish flooded my senses as the Spiral Serpent rose from the depths. Its massive body coiled like a grotesque spire, scales gleaming black with those damned gold spirals—Sect markings. My fingers tightened around Gilded Thorn, the rapier's hilt biting into my palm.
"Theron, Donovan—formation!" I barked, already moving.
Theron, ever the peacock, flicked his wrist—Silvertongue glinting as he conjured an illusion. Three mirror-images of myself appeared, each poised in perfect Sylvaris dueling stances. A cheap trick, but effective. The serpent's massive head swayed, its vertical pupils dilating as it hesitated.
Good. Distracted.
Donovan didn't wait. He lunged forward, Oathbreaker humming through the air like a falling executioner's axe. The warhammer connected with a sickening crunch, splintering scales near the beast's ribs. Acid sweat dripped from his brow, sizzling against the monster's hide. The serpent shrieked, a sound like grinding metal, and its tail lashed out—
I barely dodged. The impact sent a market stall exploding into splinters beside me, rotten fruit pelting my dress.
Disgusting.
The serpent recoiled, throat pulsating with an eerie blue glow.
Torrent Cannon.
I knew what came next.
"Theron, now!"
He was already moving, dagger raised. But instead of attacking, he danced—flashing that insufferable grin as he activated Lux Divina. A thin beam of golden light lanced from his palm, aimed for the beast's eye.
Idiot.
The light reflected off the serpent's scales—straight into Donovan's face.
My knight froze mid-swing, his grip on Oathbreaker slackening. His eyes glazed over, mouth parting in slack confusion. "Perhaps... we could talk to it?" he murmured, voice dreamy.
Unbelievable.
The serpent didn't hesitate. Its massive head snapped forward, maw gaping—
I didn't think. I moved.
Aetheric Lash unfurled from my free hand, a whip of condensed force cracking through the air. It struck the serpent's snout just as it lunged for Donovan, disrupting its aim. Fangs the size of daggers grazed his shoulder instead of his throat, but the impact still sent him flying.
He hit the ground hard—out cold.
The beast recoiled, shaking its head as if disoriented. Blood—thick and black—dripped from its nostrils.
"Theron!" I snarled.
"I said perhaps we could talk—"
"Shut up and fight!"
The serpent wasn't done. Its gills flared, and the water at its feet began to churn.
the sea, but from the very air around the beast. Tidal Manipulation. The wall of water surged toward us, crashing over the docks like a collapsing fortress.
I barely had time to brace.
The force slammed into me, icy and brutal, tearing Gilded Thorn from my grip. Saltwater filled my mouth, my lungs, my soul—
Then, silence.
I surfaced, gasping, my dress now a sodden ruin. Theron coughed beside me, his perfect hair plastered to his forehead. Donovan lay motionless a few feet away, half-submerged.
The serpent loomed above us, its golden spirals pulsing with eerie light.
The world blurred at the edges. My lungs burned, my arms trembled—Gilded Thorn lost somewhere in the churning black water. Donovan lay motionless, his armor dented from the serpent's last strike. Theron, usually so insufferably composed, clutched his dagger with shaking hands, his magic spent.
The Spiral Serpent loomed above us, its gold-marked scales glinting like a cruel joke. Its maw gaped, throat glowing blue once more—Torrent Cannon, charging for the killing blow.
I forced myself to stand, my soaked battle dress dragging like chains. There was no elegance left, no clever strategy—just raw, desperate defiance.
"Come on, you overgrown eel," I spat, raising my empty hands. "Let's see how you like being the one hunted."
The beast struck.
And then—
The world spun—darkness creeping at the edges of my vision. The serpent's maw loomed, its throat pulsing with the killing torrent. I couldn't move. Couldn't scream.
Then—strong arms wrapped around me, lifting me off the ground. The stench of salt and iron filled my nose, but beneath it, the faint scent of polished leather and gun oil.
Gunther?
My vision swam, but I caught flashes—the frayed edges of a chauffeur's coat, the worn grip of a man who had carried more than just nobles. Then, blackness.
"Verdammte Scheiße!"
Fortune had a sick sense of humor. One moment, I was blending into the panicked crowd. The next, I was sprinting through collapsing docks, watching three idiot nobles get steamrolled by a damned sea monster.
I caught Elyria just as her legs gave out. Theron was wheezing on the ground, and Donovan? Out cold.
No time.
I hauled Elyria over my shoulder, dragging the other two behind a half-smashed fishing hut. Not safe—but safer.
Then I saw it.
A rusted harpoon gun, discarded near a capsized boat.
Perfect.
The Spiral Serpent turned, its goat-like eyes locking onto me.
I exhaled.
"Let's see how you like being the prey."
The harpoon's rope burned through my calloused palms as the Spiral Serpent reared back, its unnatural howl shaking the salt-crusted docks. Black blood – thick as motor oil – oozed from where the barbed steel had pierced that accursed golden horn. I'd grabbed the weapon from a fishing boat's emergency rack moments before, its edges still sharp despite the rust.
Good. Let it bleed.
The beast's tail came first – a whip-crack of scale and muscle that could snap a lighthouse in half. I pivoted, letting it demolish the fish stall behind me in an explosion of rotten mackerel and splintered wood. My fingers closed around a broken mast – eight feet of solid oak, still trailing frayed nets.
This will do.
The serpent struck like a falling guillotine, fangs dripping with seawater and something darker. I met it head-on.My steel-toed boot connected with its lower jaw – a perfect Brogue Kick, just like I'd learned during that NATO training in Ireland. The impact traveled up my leg like a sledgehammer, but the beast's head snapped sideways with a satisfying crack. Its momentum carried through, slamming me against a warehouse wall hard enough to crater the bricks.
Dust filled my mouth. My ribs screamed in protest but held firm – decades of battlefield punishment had turned my body into something stubborn.
Not even a Panzerfaust could break me.
As it recoiled, I spotted my opening. Sprinting up its snout like it was just another obstacle course, I drove the broken mast into the harpoon wound with both hands. The wood groaned as I twisted it deeper, fishing nets tangling around the beast's nostrils.
The serpent convulsed, throwing me off. I hit the docks rolling, coming up with the harpoon's chain wrapped around my forearm. A brutal yank – the links bit into my flesh as the barb twisted deeper.
Black bile erupted, stinking of salt and something fouler – Sect alchemy, no doubt. The golden spirals along its body flickered like a failing radio signal.
Not just a beast. A weapon.
It retreated into the bay, gills flaring. The water beneath my boots began to tremble.
Scheiße.
I barely had time to grab a mooring post before the wave hit. Twenty feet of cursed seawater rose like the hand of God himself. The impact drove the air from my lungs, the cold so intense it felt like fire. The post shrieked in protest, nearly torn from its foundations.
Through the stinging saltwater, I saw the telltale blue glow building in its throat.
Torrent Cannon. At this range, it would liquefy me.
I let go of the post.
Diving under the churning water, I felt the killing blast sear past overhead. The serpent's own wave had given me the angle I needed. Now – close enough to smell its rot.
My hands found its throat – cold, slimy, thicker than an oil drum. Years of deadlifts with armored vehicle parts had prepared me for this.
Breathe. Lift.
Muscles tore in my back. My boots sank into the waterlogged wood. But for three thunderous heartbeats, the 80-foot abomination rose – then slammed spine-first onto the docks.
The impact shattered every plank for fifty yards. The golden horn snapped at the base, tumbling into the blood-frothed water with a hiss.
One knee on its eye. Crunch. Twice. Squelch.
The pupil burst like a rotten grape.
Stillness.
I spat out a mouthful of blood and seawater, watching the serpent's scales dull to a lifeless gray. Behind me, I felt her gaze – Elyria, half-drowned but watching with those knife-sharp eyes.
Stubborn girl should've fled.
On the distant cliffs, black robes fluttered like carrion birds retreating from a lost meal.
Wiping serpent gore from my face, I tasted copper and something bitter – Sect poison, no doubt. My hands found the broken harpoon shaft still lodged in the beast's skull.
"Next time," I told the corpse, twisting the weapon free, "bring a bigger monster."
I carried Elyria through the hotel's service entrance, her weight nothing against my arms but the political burden heavier than the serpent's corpse. The girl breathed shallowly, her battle dress stiff with salt and blood. Part of me wanted to peel the ruined fabric off her—no soldier should sleep in wet gear—but the risk wasn't worth it.
One wrong move, and I'll be the old pervert who undressed the Jewel of Sylvaris.
I laid her on the canopy bed, propping her head with extra pillows. Her fingers twitched—still gripping an imaginary rapier even in unconsciousness.
Stubborn brat.
Through the window, Blackwater Docks smoldered. Locals picked through debris, their faces hollow. Then—
"People of Blackwater!"
A man emerged from the smoke like some gilded savior. Mayor Cestmir, his velvet coat embroidered with goat-head sigils, rings glittering as he gestured at the destruction. His bodyguards—thugs in polished armor—shoved refugees aside to clear his path.
"Fear not!" He pressed a hand to his chest. "These tragedies only occur when outsiders bring their filth to our shores! First the nobles, now this monster? Coincidence?"
The crowd murmured. A fisherman held up a child's broken doll.
"I vow to rebuild! But ask yourselves—who invited the serpent?" His eyes flicked toward the hotel. "Who provoked the deep?"
I exhaled through my nose. Of course. The playbook never changed—blame the foreigners, claim the crisis, pocket the relief funds.
Then I saw it.
Behind Cestmir, a black-robed figure slipped him a scroll. The seal gleamed gold.
Goat's Head.