The merman struck first.
His jaws clamped down on the demon’s thick, mangled arm, teeth sinking deep into corrupted flesh. There was no hesitation—no warning growl, no ritualistic display of dominance. It was war, and it started with the sound of bones shattering.
Crunch.
I flinched.
The demon let out a shriek—not of fear, but of pure, primal rage. He reeled back, the merman still latched on like a steel trap, and in the next instant, he retaliated. His free hand, massive and calloused, curled into a fist and came crashing down on the merman’s head.
Once.
The impact vibrated the entire deck. A few loose boards cracked beneath their feet.
Twice.
The merman’s body buckled, but he didn’t release.
Thrice.
Each blow was like thunder, and each one left something behind: blood, broken scales, pieces of the merman’s pride being chipped away.
But still, he held on.
He wasn’t fighting to win—he was fighting to **take** something. And then, after a final twist of his powerful neck—
Rip.
The demon’s arm tore free.
Torn tendons slapped wetly against bone. Blood geysered from the shoulder in a pulsing arc. The severed limb fell with a sodden _thunk_, twitching once on the blood-slicked deck like a dying thing unsure it had died.
The demon screamed.
But the merman didn’t celebrate.
He staggered back, his head bowed under the weight of damage. Blood ran down his face, a deep groove cut into the side of his skull where bone had nearly caved in. The radiant shimmer of his scales had dimmed. His body was coated in his own blood, the demon’s blood, maybe some of mine too—who the hell could tell anymore?
Still, his eyes—
God, those eyes.
Burning like two dying stars. He didn’t fear the demon. He didn’t even seem to see him anymore. His gaze drifted to the brick in my hand—the same way the demon had stared at it. That strange reverence, that desperate obsession. It wasn’t just an artifact anymore.
It was **everything**.
But the demon wasn’t done.
He charged.
Blood still pouring from the stump, his face contorted into something that wasn’t quite fury and wasn’t quite pain—it was something worse. Something personal. His legs thundered across the deck as he crashed into the merman with the full weight of his rage.
The impact was seismic.
The merman was lifted off his feet, slammed backwards like a ragdoll, skidding across the deck before crashing into the railing. The wood cracked behind him. For a moment, I thought he’d stand, swing back, roar something cinematic and heroic.
But the demon didn’t give him the chance.
He was already on him.
He climbed atop the dazed merman and began to **pummel**.
Fist after fist, smashing down like a jackhammer. Ribs cracked, blood sprayed, the deck groaned under their combined fury. The merman’s arms flailed, trying to shield his face, but it was no use. One uppercut later, and he was airborne again.
This time, he flew clean off the side of the ship.
Splash.
The sea swallowed him whole.
Silence followed. Not peace. Not relief.
Just silence.
And then the demon turned to me.
His steps were uneven now—heavy and limping. Blood continued to leak from his stump, but something unnatural was happening. His blood, the blood of his crew, the blood I had seen spilled across this cursed ship—it was **moving**.
It crawled.
It slithered.
Streams of thick, blackened red curled toward him, toward his feet. They pooled beneath him, and I watched in stunned horror as the blood began to **climb**. It moved up his legs, along his body, soaking into his skin like he was drinking it through his pores.
His chest heaved. His muscles flexed. The bleeding stopped.
He was healing.
Not in the way humans do. This wasn’t biology. It was something else. Something wrong. The blood didn’t just sustain him—it obeyed him. It remembered him. It fed him.
I felt my own blood stir in my veins at the sight. That same sentient weight I’d known before—it twitched, like it recognized a lesser rival, enough to be known but not enough to be cared for. The blood moved once and stopped. It stopped caring for something so insignificant.
And then he looked at me.
Truly looked.
One eye gone. Face mangled. His expression empty except for the glint in his single eye.
Not hunger.
Obsession.
He didn’t see me anymore. He only saw the bricks in my hand. And with each step he took, I could feel it—this wasn’t about vengeance or dominance. This was lust.
A sacred kind. A filthy, unholy kind.
He needed those bricks the way a dying man needs air.
I stepped back.
The bricks pulsed in my grip. I don’t know how else to describe it—they were alive. Not just objects, but conduits. One felt heavier, the other lighter. One grew colder. I couldn’t tell if I was holding salvation or damnation.
But I knew this much:
If I let him touch them, something of me would be lost. Forever.
He took another step.
And another.
His lone arm outstretched, fingers twitching.
The deck sagged beneath his feet.