That was good—for now. Time was what I needed, and I’d carved it out with fists, teeth, and bone. The consuming red was doing its job. Slow and patient, like always. It didn’t rush. It consumed. Five skulls were still in the making, their bodies twitching, their souls already halfway gone.
I just had to make sure nothing got in the way of the blood doing its job.
The crew wouldn’t move—not yet. They were scattered across the deck like forgotten scraps. Breathing, yes. Dangerous? Maybe. But not until someone gave them a reason. Not until he told them to.
Because they weren’t soldiers anymore. Not after what they’d seen. They weren’t brave, and they were never righteous. They were waiting. Waiting to be commanded. Waiting to be used. Waiting for the thing in the dark to tell them who to kill.
And that thing?
He was already awake.
The demon leaned at the doorframe of his cabin, half-shadowed, spine straight, face lit by nothing but greed and amusement.
He knew I was here. He knew what I’d done. He knew what I was becoming.
And he didn’t care.
That smile on his face? That twitch of his jaw every few seconds?
It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t rage.
It was joy.
Every few breaths, he laughed. Not loud, not deep—just a little leak of madness, like air slipping through cracked teeth. A giggle that came from somewhere behind the eyes, somewhere rotten.
Proof enough.
Proof that he didn’t take me seriously. Not yet. I was nothing but noise in the attic to him. An insect trapped in the walls—irritating, maybe even interesting, but not dangerous.
Tch.
Figures.
When had anything been fair since the waters?
Since I woke up choking on salt and memory. Since I clawed onto that raft—half-drowned, half-dead, fully fucked. Since I stared up at a sky with no god in it and realized I had no past worth returning to.
Nothing had been natural since then. Nothing had made sense.
So of course the demon didn’t care. Of course he laughed.
I did too. I laughed at the absurdity of it all. Looks like the demon I had a thing in common after all.
But we were different.
Different.
Because I was doing all this for me.
Not for them. Not for the blood. Not for fear. Not for the love of game. Not for the fuck you I showed the heaven.
But after seeing the girls. Seeing their battered, broken bodies.
It stopped being about me.
It became about the girls.
For the girls.
For the ones who never got to scream. For the ones who died in silence while men like him built thrones out of their bones.
It became about them.
The sickening ritual, I was doing. It was for them. I had no idea to make blood eagles and skulls. I had no need to fight like this. I had no need to go against the demon.
Yet, I have done that and I plan to do that.
And I plan to complete it.
So, Let him giggle all he wants. Let him stare at the raft like it was some divine relic. Like it was gold drifting toward him.
He could laugh now.
But the blood hadn’t finished yet.
The ritual wasn’t done.
And once those last skulls were claimed—once I had what I needed—then we’d see how long that laugh lasted.
I wasn’t rushing toward him.
Not yet.
I didn’t need to win this fight in one glorious charge. I wasn’t a hero. I wasn’t even a man anymore.
I was a process.
A slow, crawling inevitability made of blood, pain, and purpose.
And he’d feel it soon.
Not all at once.
But when it counted.
I glanced at the twitching bodies again—four of them still writhing under the weight of the blood. One already quiet.
Almost there.
Soon, they’d be skulls. Ritual pieces. Offerings.
And I’d be ready.
Until then, I’d hold the line. Watch the crew. Watch the demon.
Wait.
And when the blood was done?
When the last skull was silent?
Then we’d talk.
And I’d see if I could make that laugh choke in his throat.