Never strike a deal with the Lightsea. She will take, take, and take some more. She’ll grant temporary strength, or even grand vestiges, but they will not be entirely yours.
Every person I’ve ever met that has made one, other than myself, has died shortly after. The sheer difficulty is reason enough. She is a fickle, picky mistress.
But if your back is against a wall… and you have no other choice…
The abyss holds many opportunities if your blood is delectable. Just be prepared to trade your heart and a bright future. Just as I did.
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Legate Oswort, in the final chapter of his book, titled ‘Lightless Pacts”.
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Rejo had spent twenty-six years moving among the stars, drifting in and out of worlds. But now, he’d found something—though he didn’t know what it was.
His eyes, once vivid and multicolored, now saw only monochrome. And... the surrounding figures weren’t moving.
A chill ran down his spine as his mind flickered with panic. He hadn’t felt such fear since the day Dante and he entered the Skull, and that... thing appeared. In the monochrome world, a shadow shifted at the edge of his vision. However, Rejo couldn’t move.
He felt a claw scraping along his neck, and a voice whispered into his ear, soft and menacing, “I. See. You. Why don’t you run along now? You were lucky I was in a forgiving mood when I emerged. I could be the same now. Help me, and I’ll save you.”
Astraeus. He was here. At least, his mind was. That was the only conclusion Rejo could come to. It made sense, too. The Dirge was the creature inside him, after all, far beyond him in power. Though it wasn’t the origin of his power. He could sense that much.
The Dirge was only a parasite that had hopped onto him through some measure. Despite their split, Astraeus held a connection with the Araki through space, forged between their shared affinities.
Yet Rejo, despite his terror, wasn’t one to cower before a monster. He wouldn’t betray Dante. As Rejo struggled to move, his face quivered, and he slurred out a defiant, “G’ck yu’elf.”
Astraeus sighed, long and drawn out, before the world returned to color. As the hues flooded back, Rejo saw the spark of a gun, the flash that would end his life. The light burned into his pupils, pivoting his life into what may very well be eternal darkness.
But... he lived. The light faded in his eyes, allowing him to see. Then, a Judge’s voice filled his ears as a screeching shard of metal slammed into a distant wall and a watch crashed to the ground in front of Rejo, “One out of two. Better than expected. Welcome aboard, Rejo. A spatial Stigmata. Likely a Cryo, too, like Eight. How odd that there are three of you on this planet counting the ''Thema...”
Rejo’s chest heaved up and down endlessly as he brought his hands back to the forefront of his focus. Raised to hover beneath his eyes, they were familiar, utterly unchanged, but he felt something bubbling beneath the surface as they trembled maddeningly.
Nothing made sense. Astraeus didn’t save him. He didn’t get lucky either, though. What happened?
Dante wrapped an arm around him, grinning with rare pride, “Good job, Rejo! I knew you had it in you! We’re good now, right, Claudius?” Dante’s acknowledgment left Rejo stunned. Dante was never that nice.
Yet... it settled within Rejo’s mind, and the Araki’s fists tightened painfully. As it did, he felt his Stigmata. The knowledge of it flowed into his mind from the brief usage.
Those clenched fists realized they could mark an object each, allowing for instant transposition between the two marks. It was a complicated Stigmata, far more than most would believe Rejo capable of using, but he smiled.
The ‘Mojo’, as Rejo swiftly named it, would allow him to help Dante. It was a perfect mix of support and attack. In seconds, the Araki’s thoughts switched to how he could use it in a fight or make his captain proud.
Meanwhile, the Judge glanced at Dante before his eyes switched to the two warriors, one flipping blades of freezing azure and the other with a hatchet. The former teleported all over the place as the latter merely breached through his enemies with raw force. The hours spent resting recovered the Martian’s stamina and strength to a great degree.
By seeing their battle, Claudius’ earlier decision cemented in its place. He turned his gun on Sonna with a misguided confidence, “Rejo’s made it, yes, but we can’t protect her. Ending her here would be a mercy.”
Both Rejo and Dante shook their heads, refusing to accept this, “No. I’ll protect her myself,” Dante insisted.
Claudius sighed through his nose, his gaze cold but hiding a deep sorrow, “You don’t understand. This is mercy.”
A gunshot punctuated the final syllable, but it never reached its destination as Rejo’s hand pointed upward, delivering the projectile into the reaches of the atmosphere.
The Judge’s surprise was apparent, but he relented, his expression souring with each word, “Fine. She’s your responsibility. But you’ll leave her if needed. And—Rejo—nice Stigmata. Few are as useful in combat.”
Claudius strode right toward the Dirge after, the Lightsea swooning from his core.
Finally, Rejo could feel it, too, as weaves of water materialized around the Judge, whipping a hound-like fiend away from him into the concrete. Another one protected him from a spindly bullet from a needled creature. After witnessing his ‘leader’ rush in, Qain followed suit, steam wafting from his body as he accelerated out of Rejo’s visual range.
Dante could barely keep him in his sight, but he learned then and there the gap between him and the actually trained Seafarers. They could manipulate the Lightsea, not just pull from it.
The human peered down at his palms, attempting to conjure something, anything, and all that happened was his skin glitching out in his sight as if endeavoring to jaunt in time.
Worse, it made him feel sick to his stomach. Why did his Stigmata always feel so wrong? Dante had no idea, but now was not the time for questions.
With Claudius and Qain on board, the battle ended promptly. The former killed more than half of the monsters with his wicked liquid constructs, and the latter did quite a number, too, his sheer speed showing to Dante and his group that even the quiet one was not to be underestimated.
Once several dozen corpses lined the road, Eight stood at the forefront beside Lucius, the young man utterly untouched and without a hint of sweat. The Martian, however, exhaled with pain, a dribble of azure leaking from his side.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
Dante nodded to Joan, letting the doctor take action. She listened to him primarily, as per the deal they struck. Still, she wasn’t against throwing prices at him, “I’ll just add it to your tab, then, Dante.”
“Fine,” he replied, moving to the front to confront Eight. “So, you nearly kill two of my crew for what? To draw out the Dirge and reveal our location?”
The briefcase in Eight’s hand wobbled as he shifted to face the human, ever the annoyed prick. By angling his head towards the taller man, Eight might as well have spit in his face with his comment, “Man, you’re quick on the uptake. I can teleport. Easier with myself, but not impossible with more. Partially why we needed to lower our numbers, but whatever. I’ll manage. Guess I’ll just be low on oil.”
Dante’s pride shivered, vibrating with rage as his hands clenched seamlessly into fists, but he held himself back. Instead, he extended his palm, piecing together the plan. The Anomaly would teleport them further into the city. Everything here was just a diversion to throw off the Dirge.
Astraeus couldn’t expect it since he couldn’t know Eight’s abilities as the young man was that, an Anomaly.
The young man squinted at Dante’s offering before shrugging and taking it squarely. Icicles grew from their connection as Eight smiled sharply, “I think I like you. Here’s a hint toward using the ‘Sea, newbie. Ice is violence. Water is adaptable. Steam is intangible. Go for one, and you’ll do great. The others are a little more unorthodox, and in my opinion, lesser.”
He gave a firm pat on Dante’s shoulder that followed only stoked his ire more, but he appreciated the advice, seeing as Claudius hadn’t done shit to help.
“All around! Touch one another! I need skin contact for my Stigmata!” Eight shouted beside Dante’s ear. His volume gathered everyone together quickly, barring Archimedes. The slim teen wobbled on the fringe of the group, hating such close quarters.
Dante looked out to help, but Claudius had a solution ahead of time. Water streamed from his fingertips and graced Arch’s shoulder. Dante thanked the Judge with his eyes before the world went colorless.
“Alright! Gather your britches, gentlewomen! We’re taking a quick voyage into the Lightsea! And! Do. Not. Open. Your. Eyes.” Eight’s voice echoed into the night as every single person flinched at his words. Dante attempted to pull away from Eight, but the Seafarer knew better.
An icy dagger held itself to the human’s throat, disavowing his movement away, “Motherfucker. If you had—” Dante began, his voice low and filled with fury, but he never got to finish.
Before he could protest, they plunged into the Lightsea, where reality twisted and warped. Dante felt the familiar disorientation, a detachment from his body as they drifted through the void. It slid into his bones and veins, almost as if a worm was slipping through him. Every inch of his insides shivered in the unnatural sensation while goosebumps formed across his flesh.
He felt this same thing before when initiating that jump on the Starsinger, but this was... different.
This time, it felt different—controlled, as if directed by an expert hand. Dante’s attention circled back to Eight, the young man navigating the Lightsea with unnerving confidence.
Everyone had their eyes shut tight, obeying Eight’s command without question, but Dante held other thoughts.
How could he know so much? He’s at most, what? Sixteen? Seventeen? Eighteen if he’s lucky. Could be even younger if he’s some weird hybrid. Maybe older, though. Hmm...
Dante couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that something was awry with Eight. No one that young should possess such a deep understanding of the Lightsea—or the ability to navigate it effortlessly.
As far as he knew, even Judges were trained by the decade, not the year. To him, this was impossible, yet Claudius didn’t treat it as abnormal. He just went with the flow.
Dante’s thoughts spiraled as he weighed the possibilities. Eight could be a Breathing-Metal, one of those outlawed abominations crafted from the twisted technology and the hopeful yet corrupt intentions of his forefathers. Something about his mannerisms and odd face brought such a thought to his mind.
Back in the old millennium, humans did whatever they could for power, and it often bit them in the ass. Breathing-Metals were one such thing, but...
They didn’t exist anymore. They couldn’t. Those machines were renowned for their vast knowledge and inhuman precision, as well as their ability to manipulate the Lightsea, though it was not without a price.
The legendary machines from humanity’s past also possessed an inevitable descent into madness without a soul to anchor them.
Still, to Dante, despite the unlikeliness, his mind tugged toward that answer.
Perhaps Eight was something far worse—a monster of the Lightsea itself, a creature born from the very chaos that they now traversed. If that were true, then Dante couldn’t even begin to fathom the threat he posed, allying with natives and living among them.
But as much as Dante’s mind raced, he couldn’t find an answer. Eight remained an enigma, a puzzle with pieces that refused to fit. Then there was the Lightsea itself, brushing against Dante’s consciousness in ways he had never felt before. He remembered Eight’s advice to control the Lightsea’s water. Hydro, it was called.
He had mentioned Hydro was adaptable. Dante quite liked the idea of such a thing. Tentatively, Dante reached out with his mind, attempting to grasp the essence of simple water within the Lightsea. And, of course, he kept his eyes closed tight.
For a brief, fleeting moment, he felt it—something wet, something fluid, almost tangible, brushing against his skin. A thrill of excitement surged through him. Then the sensation vanished as he hit cold concrete, shocking him out of his state.
While shaking his buzzing head, Dante pushed himself from the floor of...
The water treatment plant.
Pipes ran along the ceiling and all across the walls, making the space near zero for movement. Rejo landed right beside the human, and he coughed up some phlegm while cursing their luck, “Fuck, I miss ‘hen we did our own bounties. You are a far ‘etter captain than these pricks.”
The back of a fist bonked the Araki upside his head, and a briefcase sat beside him, too. Eight kneeled to stare into Rejo’s eyes.
“You. I don’t like you. Too stupid to think for yourself, but just smart enough to know when to stop swinging. Typical ice. Can’t believe we’ll share the same essence,” Eight hissed out derision with a scowl. Then, without striking the man, Eight stood back up and cracked his young back as if he were an old man.
Dante placed a steadying hand on Rejo’s shoulder, pulling him back from his bubbling fury.
Joan hovered nearby, syringe in hand, “I could calm him down if you like,” she offered, but Dante declined. He instead followed after Eight, noting that Claudius and Qain had already vanished into the pipeline.
Lucius hauled Archimedes to his feet, and the group hurriedly steered along the pipeline, all in an effort to catch up.
Besides Sonna. She stood still, scared to her bones, as she realized how far out of her depth she truly was. Her previous lies were nothing compared to the current situation.
The others ran ahead, slowly shrinking in her vision before one stopped. A human eye flickered backward, falling right upon the young woman. Dante hesitated, opening his mouth and raising his arm, but he lowered it with a weighty exhale. He didn’t say a word, but his azure eye told it all.
“You won’t get a second chance. I did what I could. Sorry. There is only so far I can go for someone who won''t save themselves.”
Sonna’s breath hitched, and she struggled to breathe, even worse than when Qain’s blade was against her throat. The anxiety broke her, shattering the persona she had been failing to hold together. She wanted to be strong, fearless, and not... that scared girl who was told to do everything with no input of her own.
But... she didn’t know what to do. If she stood still, she’d die. If she ran ahead, she’d die. She didn’t believe herself capable of surviving.
The woman stumbled forward and caught herself on a pipe, cutting open her hand. Not that she noticed. Her head then smacked roughly against the cool pipe as her brain spiraled into pure panic.
As her skull shook, she remembered the vial in her pocket. The one she swiped from Dante’s desk. Nullify.
She remembered how dangerous the drug was. How easy it was to grow addicted to it. And... she recalled how it was used for psych-ward patients.
The woman kept it in case she would need it to deal with Dante, but now... she edged it toward her flesh. Yet she halted the needle, falling into thought.
Dante... he needs this, doesn’t he? If I take it... will he be okay? No. Why should I care? He’s a lying asshole. He’d leave us all for dead at the first chance. But... he didn’t.
Sonna tore at her hair, indecisive and losing her sanity with every passing second. She was doomed to die here, on this planet. Her life had only been extended a scarce few days from the woman she was meant to die instead of.
Fuck! I don’t want to be so... helpless!
Her mind collapsed in on itself, and the Weren sank to the chilly concrete in agony. Her brains still rang about in her skull, but she forced herself to focus.
With stabilizing eyes, she retrieved the revolver that Dante had handed her just hours ago. She hadn’t used it yet. She didn’t know how, but she wasn’t stupid.
After turning it about, she pointed the barrel at her face.
Inside, there was a dark tunnel, an endless vein of approaching death. Sonna stared into it, wishing that she didn’t have to die, that she could live freely without having to cower beneath another.
She didn’t want to be a slave. Yet... she didn’t know how.
Tears dripped from her face as she recalled the scene moments before. How they threatened her life and Rejo’s. With such a thought in mind, Sonna’s fingers wrapped around the trigger.
She squeezed the trigger but couldn’t do it, her fingers too weak, too afraid. The fear of the monsters tearing her apart and the cold bullet fell into a stalemate.
Her mistress was right.
“Worthless cretin. All you can do is take a bullet or stand in for me while I’m busy. Go stand. For four hours in the corner.”
The words rebounded within her mind, again and again, filling it like a matrix until they came out of her mouth subconsciously.
“Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless.
Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless.
Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless.
Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless.
Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless.”
Sonna repeated the words so many times that they lost their meaning, and she drifted off, the heightened emotions and non-stop action tiring her to an extreme.
The woman slumped over, her body falling toward the ground, but at the very last second, her hand caught herself.
She stared at the petite hand that held her aloft. The trim veins pumped blood back toward her heart and the bones that were hidden beneath. Beneath it all, she saw a network, a web of working systems and immaculate architecture.
Sure, it could be better, as all biology could, but it was seamless. The blood in her hand flowed along just as the thoughts in her mind did. Slowly, she calmed. Her mind beat alongside the streaming blood, the anxiety slowing down to idle chatter as she closed her fist, and a mist came from within it—not steam as she had overheard Eight mention.
It was mist with a tiny pale rock hidden inside it that quickly turned to more whiteness. Sonna stared down at the haze that evaporated into nothingness, in awe of what she had done. In the brief moment that it existed, it devoured the air around, delivering minute amounts of energy to the woman.
Her heart sped up, and she clambered to her feet as she finally felt it, the line that connected her to the sea beyond reality.
I... I did it. I’m... not... worthless!
She had done it. Furthermore, it was before Dante or Rejo. She had conjured her Tide.
Sonna looked around herself, expecting upraised eyes and some praise just as Rejo received.
When she searched around, she found herself alone. The others were gone, and her triumph faded into the bitter silence. There was only the endless passageway to comfort her.
Her shoulders sagged, and the chill siphoned away much of her joy. With a sharp sigh, she trod down the path, hoping to catch up with the others.