Endless Sea—October 1. Cycle 13.
A sea of fire lit the underground space like a second sun.
The corridor, the stone, the stale air—everything turned blood‑red under the blaze.
Panglos Fell staggered backward, skin already blackening from the heat. His coat curled at the edges. His breath came out in ragged bursts.
Across from him, the flames roared forward like an oncoming tide.
And at the far end of the passage, behind the wall of fire…
A black dragon stood with its wings half‑unfurled, eyes burning with a hatred that could melt steel.
Shia.
Panglos’s face twisted. “So you’re still alive.”
Shia’s voice rolled through the stone like thunder.
“I’m alive,” she said, “so I can watch you die.”
Panglos raised his hand—and the strange pressure of his half‑formed Divine Spark surged outward.
A translucent barrier formed around him, like a shell of invisible force.
Dragonflame crashed into it.
For one heartbeat, the shield held.
It began to melt.
Panglos’s pupils shrank.
“This shouldn’t be possible…”
…
Half an hour earlier, Shia had already realized something was wrong.
She had returned to Windrest City the moment her “daughter” performance ended, intending to regroup and move on to the next step.
But the people she was supposed to meet were gone.
Haizan.
The trolls from Fury Sand Isle.
The hideout was empty, as if the city had swallowed them whole.
The secret passage leading into the Storm’s Eye—one of the few routes that could bypass the governor’s surface patrols—had collapsed as well.
Shia stood over the cracked stone and felt a coldness settle in her bones.
Something had happened.
Not to her.
To Storm Island.
And to Rhine.
She didn’t have proof, but she could feel the thread of their contract tugging—tight, urgent, painful.
He was down there.
Deep inside the Storm’s Eye.
So Shia did what she always did when she couldn’t solve a problem quietly.
She forced her way in.
…
The core of the Storm’s Eye was a cathedral of ruin.
Broken pillars. Twisted metal. A wind that howled through gaps in the stone like the breath of a dead god.
Shia slipped through the shadows in her cat form, silent as drifting ash.
She saw it.
At the center of the underground hall, mounted like trophies, were dragon skulls.
Black dragon skulls.
Their horns were polished. Their teeth had been cleaned.
Someone had displayed them deliberately—like art.
Shia’s heart clenched.
She remembered the day the governor’s men dragged her parents’ bodies into the city.
She remembered the blood in the rain.
She remembered Panglos Fell standing above her, smiling, promising protection… and then ordering the slaughter anyway.
The skulls were proof.
Not just of genocide.
Of mockery.
Shia’s claws dug into the stone.
Her mind filled with one thought:
Kill him.
She moved again, faster now, following the contract thread like a scent trail.
Deeper.
Colder.
Until she reached a side chamber.
And found Marsas.
His body lay sprawled on the ground, still dressed in the attire of a priest. Fresh blood had pooled beneath him.
But his head…
Was gone.
Shia froze.
Marsas was a monster in his own right, but he was also a key piece on the board.
And she hadn’t killed him.
She stepped closer, nostrils flaring.
The corpse was still warm.
Whatever happened here had happened recently.
Shia’s gaze flicked to the shadows beyond the chamber.
The contract thread pulled hard.
Rhine was further in.
And so was Panglos Fell.
Shia left Marsas’s body behind and slipped into the corridor, her hatred sharpening into something clean and lethal.
…
She found them in an underground passage lit by flickering, dying lamps.
Rhine was on the ground.
Blood soaked his shirt, blooming dark across his abdomen.
He was conscious—but barely.
Standing over him was Panglos Fell, holding a scepter shaped like a cresting wave.
The Tide Scepter.
The governor’s voice was calm, almost conversational.
“You really are stubborn,” Panglos said. “Hand it over, Rhine.”
Rhine’s lips moved. His voice was faint.
“No.”
Panglos’s smile thinned.
“You know what I want,” he said. “The half‑Divine Spark under Storm Island. You found it. You touched it.”
“Do you really think you can keep it from me?”
Rhine coughed, spitting blood. “You don’t deserve it.”
Panglos sighed as if disappointed.
He lifted the Tide Scepter.
“I wasn’t going to kill you,” he said. “Not at first.”
“But if you insist…”
The scepter’s tip glowed.
Shia didn’t wait.
She launched herself forward.
The black cat mask shattered as she grew—bones cracking, scales unfolding, wings tearing free into the narrow corridor.
A black dragon surged into existence, filling the tunnel with a presence that made the air feel heavy.
Shia opened her jaws and breathed.
Fire.
Not ordinary flame—dragonfire with a depth like molten metal.
It slammed into Panglos Fell.
Panglos didn’t panic.
He swept the Tide Scepter in an arc, and a wall of cold, surging water rose from nowhere, smashing into the flames and bursting into steam.
For a moment, fire and water collided, drowning the corridor in white fog.
Panglos’s voice cut through it, mocking.
“My dear ‘daughter’,” he said. “You’re too late.”
Shia’s eyes narrowed. “Stop calling me that.”
Panglos laughed.
He stepped forward through the steam, his barrier flaring.
The pressure of his half‑Divine Spark pushed outward, and Shia felt her movements slow—as if unseen chains had wrapped around her limbs.
Her flames sputtered.
Panglos’s expression turned cruelly satisfied.
“You feel that?” he asked. “That’s what a god feels like.”
Shia bared her teeth, forcing herself to move.
Rhine, still on the ground, lifted his head.
Through the contract, his voice reached her like a whisper under the roar.
Hide.
Shia’s gaze flicked to him.
What?
Rhine’s eyes were sharp despite the blood. Not yet. Wait for my signal.
Panglos didn’t hear the silent exchange—but he saw Shia hesitate.
His gaze sharpened.
“Protecting him?” Panglos asked. “How sentimental.”
With a casual flick of the Tide Scepter, he fired something like a compressed brick of force.
It punched into Rhine’s abdomen.
Rhine’s body jolted.
Blood sprayed.
He collapsed again, breath knocked out of him.
Shia’s roar shook the corridor.
She tried to lunge—
And the pressure slammed down harder.
Panglos’s Divine Spark dominance pinned her in place.
He walked closer, leaning down toward Rhine as if inspecting a dying animal.
“Your mistake,” Panglos said softly, “was thinking you mattered.”
He straightened and looked at Shia, smile widening.
“And your second mistake,” he added, “was surviving.”
Shia’s vision blurred with rage.
“You killed them,” she hissed.
Panglos’s brows lifted. “Your parents?”
Shia’s voice shook. “The Black Dragon King. The Queen. You butchered them.”
Panglos’s smile didn’t fade.
“Oh,” he said lightly. “That.”
He tilted his head as if recalling a minor inconvenience.
“They were troublesome,” Panglos said. “They didn’t know their place.”
“And you know what’s funny?” His eyes gleamed. “They begged.”
Shia’s flames flared violently.
For a fraction of a second, she broke the pressure—
And Panglos’s barrier shuddered.
Panglos’s expression darkened.
“Enough.”
His half‑Divine Spark surged, crushing Shia back down like a mountain.
Shia’s wings trembled.
Her flames died to embers.
Panglos exhaled, annoyed. “You’re going to die here too,” he said, “and I’ll mount your skull beside theirs.”
He turned back to Rhine, convinced the fisherman was finished.
Rhine lay motionless, blood pooling under him.
Panglos waited.
A minute.
Two.
No movement.
Panglos’s posture loosened.
“That’s it,” he said, almost disappointed. “All that trouble… and you still die like everyone else.”
Shia’s claws dug into the stone.
She could barely breathe under the pressure.
But she kept watching Rhine.
Kept waiting.
Because Rhine had told her to.
The world clicked.
A subtle shift, like gears locking into place.
Rhine’s chest rose.
He inhaled.
And the blood‑soaked wound in his abdomen… was gone.
Rhine pushed himself up.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
As if death had tried to claim him and failed.
Panglos Fell froze.
His eyes widened, not with anger—
With fear.
Rhine stood fully upright, shirt still stained, but body whole.
He rolled his shoulders once.
He looked at Panglos.
“Did you forget,” Rhine asked quietly, “what happens when a cycle ends?”
Panglos’s throat bobbed.
Shia felt the pressure on her body ease, just a little.
Because something else had entered the room.
Something heavier than Panglos’s half‑Divine Spark.
Rhine’s divinity.
Panglos’s barrier wavered.
His half‑Spark reacted like a candle in a storm.
Rhine took one step forward.
Shia’s flames reignited.
Not sputtering.
Not restrained.
This time, her dragonfire carried a terrifying clarity—like the world itself had decided to burn.
Panglos tried to raise the Tide Scepter again.
He tried to reinforce his barrier.
But the defense didn’t answer the same way.
The fire hit—
And the barrier failed.
Panglos screamed as dragonfire swallowed him whole.
His skin blackened instantly. His hair turned to ash. The smell of burning flesh flooded the corridor.
He stumbled backward, clawing at the air, trying to retreat deeper into the tunnels.
But there was nowhere to run.
Shia’s roar shook the stone.
Flames drowned Panglos Fell completely.
And as the governor burned, his eyes locked onto Rhine—wide with dawning understanding.
He’d spent years drinking from Storm Island’s buried power, trying to become a god.
He’d thought half a Divine Spark made him untouchable.
But Rhine’s Divine Spark…
It wasn’t half.
It wasn’t borrowed.
It was something Panglos couldn’t compete with.
Panglos’s lips moved, voice breaking.
“…Impossible…”
Rhine didn’t answer.
He only watched.
Because some debts didn’t need words.
They needed fire.