The demon punched another one of his crew so hard the man folded like paper.
He gripped another by the throat—lifting him off the ground with one blood-slicked hand—and crushed.
Crack.
The sound echoed across the deck.
The demon wasn’t fighting like a leader.
Not like a captain disciplining his crew.
No.
He fought like an animal cornered by its own kin.
Like a starving beast defending the last scrap of meat from the others.
They swarmed him—dozens of them, eyes glassy and limbs jerking, like puppets pulled by invisible strings.
They weren’t after him.
They weren’t even after me.
They were after the brick.
The brick I held against my chest like a shield.
The brick that hummed with a power that made even the sea churn and squeal in hunger.
The cathedral was real.
It was real.
And these bastards—their broken bodies crawling, their bleeding fingers reaching, their ruined faces snarling—they were proof enough.
I didn’t need scriptures.
I didn’t need prophets.
I had this deep in me.
This madness.
This desperation.
This savage devotion.
The demon roared and threw one of his men into the waters with a wet, snapping sound.
The body hit the sea with a splash—and then the ocean answered.
I heard it.
The squeals.
The rush of wet bodies slamming against the ship.
The komodo bastards, the beasts of the deep, clawing and snapping for any meat that touched their cursed waters.
The demon didn’t care.
Another lunged for the brick.
Another broken thing, dragging half a shattered leg behind him.
The demon caught him too.
Didn’t just throw him—
He tore him apart.
Flesh.
Bone.
Muscle.
It all tore like wet cloth.
The demon fed as he fought.
Swallowed hunks of his crew with blood dripping from his chin, greedily shoving meat into his mouth between punches and screams.
I stood there.
I watched.
I laughed a little.
How could I not?
They were fighting like fucking dogs over my brick.
Over my sweet, cursed little relic.
The cathedral was real.
The cathedral was watching.
And it loved this.
I could feel it—its hunger echoing inside the brick, a heartbeat that wasn’t mine, vibrating up my arm like the purr of something ancient.
And then my gaze drifted.
Past the slaughter.
Past the blood.
To the cabin door.
To the prisoner’s cell below.
To the merman.
I frowned.
If the humans went this mad...
If the sea beasts acted this crazed...
Then what about him?
The merman?
He was tied to the sea more than any of them.
Would he come too?
Foaming and raging, tearing at the walls, desperate for a taste of the power humming in my hands?
He should.
He would.
He had to.
And if he did—
If he broke free—
Then it would be perfect.
Him.
The demon.
Madness crashing into madness.
A battle royal.
I licked my cracked lips, blood mixing with spit.
The thought was intoxicating.
If I could just hold the bricks long enough.
If I could just survive long enough.
I could watch them tear each other apart.
Let the blood fuel the ritual.
Let the chaos crack the heavens wide open.
I shifted my eyes back to the demon.
He was closer now.
Closer than ever.
He moved without seeing me.
Without registering anything that wasn’t the brick.
He was bleeding from a dozen wounds.
Chunks of flesh missing.
One eye ruined.
His groin a shredded mess.
Yet he moved like a pilgrim.
Slow.
Awed.
Every step forward was a prayer.
Every reach of his hands was a hymn.
He had forgotten about me completely.
There was nothing human left in him now.
Nothing rational.
Just that sick, trembling devotion to something he didn’t understand but needed more than air.
Such a sweet poison you are, I thought, clutching the brick tighter.
Such a beautiful curse.
He inched closer.
The dead and dying around us didn’t even matter anymore.
The few survivors—those still breathing, still crawling—dragged themselves across the deck.
Ribs showing through split skin.
Eyes rolled back in skulls.
But their fingers kept reaching.
They didn’t care about their torn legs.
Their shattered ribs.
Their bleeding guts.
They wanted the brick.
They needed it.
The demon stepped over them like they were nothing.
His shadow fell over me.
And still, my gaze flicked back to the cabin door.
Still waiting.
Still hoping.
Come on.
Come on, you scaled bastard.
Come tear this stage apart.
Make it a show worth dying for.
The demon crouched now—so close I could smell his breath, copper and rot and old salt.
He stretched his fingers out, shaking, trembling with need.
He was so close to it.
And me?
I just smiled.
Because I knew what was coming.
Because if the merman was anything like the rest of them...
If he had even a fraction of the madness in his blood...
He would come.
And when he did—
This cursed little ship was going to drown in its own fucking blood.
And maybe then—
Maybe then—
I could finally complete the ritual.
Even if it cost me my last breath to do it.