The rman 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 rman 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 ca crashing down on the rman’s head.
Once.
The impact vibrated the entire deck. A few loose boards cracked beneath their feet.
Twice.
The rman’s body buckled, but he didn’t release.
Thrice.
Each blow was like thunder, and each one left sothing behind: blood, broken scales, pieces of the rman’s pride being chipped away.
But still, he held on.
He wasn’t fighting to win—he was fighting to **take** sothing. 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 scread.
But the rman 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 shimr of his scales had dimd. His body was coated in his own blood, the demon’s blood, maybe so 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 sa 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 sothing that wasn’t quite fury and wasn’t quite pain—it was sothing worse. Sothing personal. His legs thundered across the deck as he crashed into the rman with the full weight of his rage.
The impact was seismic.
The rman was lifted off his feet, slamd backwards like a ragdoll, skidding across the deck before crashing into the railing. The wood cracked behind him. For a mont, I thought he’d stand, swing back, roar sothing cinematic and heroic.
But the demon didn’t give him the chance.
He was already on him.
He climbed atop the dazed rman and began to **puml**.
Fist after fist, smashing down like a jackhamr. Ribs cracked, blood sprayed, the deck groaned under their combined fury. The rman’s arms flailed, trying to shield his face, but it was no use. One uppercut later, and he was airborne again.
This ti, 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 .
His steps were uneven now—heavy and limping. Blood continued to leak from his stump, but sothing 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 sothing else. Sothing wrong. The blood didn’t just sustain him—it obeyed him. It rembered him. It fed him.
I felt my own blood stir in my veins at the sight. That sa 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 sothing so insignificant.
And then he looked at .
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 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, sothing of would be lost. Forever.
He took another step.
And another.
His lone arm outstretched, fingers twitching.
The deck sagged beneath his feet.
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