The air soured before the sound came. A heaviness thickened across the ruined docks, as if the ocean itself had inhaled and refused to breathe out. Even before the survivors saw them, they felt them — the stench of rot, the sting of brine, the faint gurgling laughter that didn't belong in any throat.
"Something's coming," Diago whispered, his knuckles white around the crude spear he had been sharpening.
Juro squinted into the mist, his one good eye flicking nervously. He opened his mouth, almost ready with some cutting remark, but then it came. A shape broke through the fog. Then another. Then dozens.
They walked on two legs, but their bodies betrayed them. Some had skin stretched so thin over bone that it tore as they moved, leaking black, tarry fluid. Others dragged tails slick with algae, spines jutting from their backs like broken masts. Their eyes glowed faintly green, unblinking, unhuman. Their teeth were too many, too sharp, gnashing as if chewing on air.
"God…" Genji's voice cracked. "What are they?"
Shitsubo didn't answer. His own curse pulsed under his skin — veins swelling black, a pressure building inside his skull like whispers clawing to get out. His breath came ragged. They were not strangers to him. He knew them in the marrow of his bones, as if their corruption was a sibling to his own.
One of the creatures lurched forward, gurgling. Its chest split as if ribs were doors, and water poured out in streams, spilling something slick and wriggling onto the ground. A half-formed spawn flopped at its feet and hissed.
Juro gagged. "We're supposed to fight that? We'll be torn apart before we swing once—"
Shitsubo moved before he finished. His hand gripped Juro's collar, slamming him back against a ruined wall. His other hand pressed against the scarred side of Juro's face, forcing his remaining eye to meet his own.
"You talk too much," Shitsubo growled, his voice cracked with the edge of his curse. "Do you think your fear makes you wise? Do you think doubting makes you strong? Look at them, Juro. They don't wait for your arguments. They don't care for your reason. And I—" his voice dropped, dangerous and low, "—I am closer to them than you'll ever understand."
He let go, letting Juro stumble, coughing, his bravado shattered.
The minions shrieked in unison — a sound like rusted chains dragged over coral — and charged.
The survivors scrambled. Diago roared and lunged with his spear, catching one in the throat, but the thing didn't fall; it pulled itself closer, using the shaft as leverage, snapping teeth inches from his face. Genji fired a rusted pistol, the bullet tearing through a glowing eye, but another creature dragged itself along the ground like a twisted crab, latching onto his ankle.
The curse erupted from Shitsubo. His skin burned, his shadow split. Black tendrils unfurled from his arms, lashing and piercing, skewering three minions at once. He dragged them together, crushing their bodies until brine gushed like blood. Their screams turned to gargles.
The survivors froze. For one terrible moment, Shitsubo looked less like a man saving them, and more like one of the monsters feeding.
"Fight!" Shitsubo roared, his voice cracking with fury, his curse stretching across the battlefield. "Fight if your lives mean anything. But don't ever think I fight for you."
The battle dissolved into chaos. Claws ripped. Waterlogged hands dragged men down. And in the eye of it all, Shitsubo was both their salvation and their terror — the cursed weapon they needed, and the nightmare they could never escape.