Dragon Slayer - Part 1

Two hundred and eighty-two minutes had passed since the last echoes of cannon fire faded above the water's surface. Another hour slipped by after the ship's movements came to a halt. There was no sound of flowing water, no groan of metal strained under pressure—just the soft rush of air coursing through the ventilation ducts. This could only mean one thing: the vessel now floated just above the surface, surfacing to replenish its oxygen.

But above all else, there was one sound—shrill, incessant, maddening—that drummed relentlessly in my ears.

No one else could hear it.

To them, it was nothing more than a low-frequency hum, perhaps enough to make their ears feel heavy or clogged. But to me, it was a signal—a call.

It had started after the violent tremor that rocked the submerged ship, a quake so fierce it almost tipped us sideways. I knew exactly what it was: the volcanic eruption on Kyushu Island. There were only a handful of possibilities for what could've triggered it.

Someone had found a way into the old Soviet missile launch facility hidden on the island—and they had fired. Whoever it was had to know the secret codes, passed down through generations of high-ranking Soviet officers.

Of course, I knew Sonia's origins the moment I saw her. Her distinct features betrayed her heritage. Her very presence within the Underrican expedition—a supposed enemy state—made her an enigma. She could have been a refugee living incognito in Under D.C., or more likely, a spy who'd embedded herself onto the ship.

I also knew the Tokyo Navy would strike Kyushu, hunting me and my father—the last heirs to Tokyo's throne. I didn't know exactly when, but the attack was inevitable. I knew that the local forces on the island didn't stand a chance. Not unless there had been meticulous preparation.

And of course, I knew what would happen if the volcano erupted. I even knew what was slumbering beneath that mountain.

Naturally, I knew far more than anyone could possibly imagine.

But I won't stand here and say I had planned it all—every twist, every turn—like some omniscient puppeteer. No, what I did was play the odds. Probability. I calculated, predicted, and manipulated the percentages to push events in the direction I wanted.

But even then, it didn't guarantee anything.

No one—not even me—could truly see the future or predict the ripple effects of each decision. If I could, I wouldn't be human. I'd be a god walking among mortals.

The thought made me smile.

Gods. Deities. Mankind's labels for forces they couldn't comprehend—energies and phenomena too vast, too alien. Religion. Mythology. The supernatural. All just names for the unknown.

And by that logic, perhaps I was a god too.

But no—that would be arrogance. Dangerous arrogance.

Especially because I knew what a real god looked like.

I stood, counting one to sixty in my head, repeating it until I reached three hundred and fifty. Then I walked to the door—the one I knew had been locked from the outside—and knocked three times.

No response. The door remained closed.

They hadn't stationed anyone to guard it.

Most likely, when the Tokyo fleet attacked, the crew assigned to watch over me had been stranded ashore. They hadn't made it back in time to reorganize the guard rotation.

I almost laughed—admiring the sheer weight of probability once again. That ancient human invention, wielded by the cunning to tip fate's scales.

I pulled a knife from my coat, slid it between the door's locking mechanism, and twisted.

Somewhere, long ago, the man who discovered the term 'probability' deserved to be called a god himself.

And I was about to prove it.

…

Holland jolted awake so violently that he nearly slammed his head into Hector, who stood at the bedside.

"Holland! You're awake!" Matthew sprang up from a folding chair in the corner of the room.

"For God's sake, man, could you not wake up like a goddamn explosion next time?" Hector muttered, clearly annoyed. Beside him, Dr. Heisenberg was pulling off his cloth mask, exhaling in mild exasperation.

Holland blinked hard, his mind sluggish as it tried to catch up with reality. He was lying on a cot in the infirmary of the Washington. There was a dull ache at the back of his head, a steady throb that hinted at painkillers still swimming through his system. He winced. "Did you get my message, Matthew?"

"Message?" Matthew's brows furrowed. "What message?"

"I tried sending a transmission—before the battle. Through radio waves." Holland rubbed his temple, struggling to dredge the memory out of the heavy fog in his mind. It felt like trying to grasp smoke. "I told you… I told you to take the ship under the cliffs, near the harbor."

Matthew shook his head. "No. I took the ship underwater and cut off all radio communications as soon as Hector and Arthur were back onboard. Those Tokyo destroyers had anti-submarine ordnance and signal trackers. We got lucky—they were too busy bombarding the fortress to notice us slipping away. That's how we made it out of Kyushu Harbor."

"That stunt with the old coastal cannons… was that your idea?" Hector chimed in, his rough face breaking into a crooked, almost impressed grin. When Holland gave a slow nod, Hector let out a bark of a laugh. "You're insane, man. But genius. No one in their right mind would've thought to use relics like that to take out a destroyer at close range."

Holland's expression darkened. "No one would've guessed they'd sacrifice a destroyer just to create a smokescreen either."

The fragmented memories began knitting themselves back together—his plan to use the cliffside defenses, the sinking of the enemy ship, and the reckless but calculated retaliation from Tokyo's fleet commander.

And then he saw her again in his mind's eye.

The dark-haired woman, framed by fire and the broken bodies of his crew, raising her weapon and aiming it directly at him.

That image alone was enough to make Holland try to sit up, a surge of urgency driving him.

"I'd advise against moving so fast, Captain," Heisenberg snapped, his voice sharp but not unkind. "Unless you want me stitching you back up again."

Holland paused, grimacing, and finally eased himself back onto the bed.

The doctor moved away, heading to another cot. Holland's gaze followed—and that's when he noticed the others.

The infirmary was packed.

At least ten wounded filled the room. Three lay motionless on the cots beside him; the rest were scattered across the floor on makeshift bedding. Some wore the battered uniforms of his crew, others were in ragged civilian clothes—fishermen, perhaps, or refugees. Bandages wrapped heads, splinted broken limbs, and stained cloths bore the dark, ugly blotches of seeping wounds.

These were the ones who had lived.

But there were so many more who hadn't.

I brought them into that fight, Holland thought bitterly, his chest tightening. And I led so many of them to their deaths.

Holland shifted his weight, testing his limbs. There was still a lingering numbness in his body, but the pain in his abdomen flared with every small movement—sharp and searing, like a hot iron pressed against raw flesh. Yet, despite the pain, the idea of lying in this bed, while the wounded he had led into battle lay scattered on the cold floor, was something he could not bear.

Matthew watched him, worry etched deep into his face. "Holland, I really don't think you should be moving around right now."

"Did the crew make it back to the ship?" Holland's voice was tight with concern.

Matthew's expression darkened even before he spoke—a telltale answer. "We waited nearly ten minutes after the destroyers started shelling the fortress. Most of the crew from the first landing party made it back once the gunfire began, but... we're still missing at least ten men. Including Rain, and Arthur's daughter."

"That girl again," Hector muttered, rubbing a hand down his face before letting out a long, heavy sigh. "Arthur's gotta be losing his damn mind over this."

Holland nodded slowly. Emergencies during shore leave were rare—usually, if someone didn't return to the ship on time, it was because they'd gotten too drunk in some back-alley tavern, been killed in a brawl, or decided to desert altogether. But this? This was different.

Maybe Esther and the others had wandered too deep inland and missed the signal cannons. Or maybe they just couldn't make it back in time.

One crisis at a time, Holland told himself. At least Rain was with her. That thought alone gave him some comfort.

"What happened after that?" Holland asked, forcing himself upright, the edge of the infirmary cot digging painfully into his lower back as he perched on its side.

"I waited until the destroyers docked, then brought the Washington in under the cliffs to search for survivors," Matthew said, locking eyes with him. "Mostly, I was looking for you."

There was a beat of silence. "Honestly, I thought I was looking for your body." Matthew added.

Holland's eyebrows lifted.

"I found you washed up on the rocks," Matthew continued, his voice softer now. "There was metal—some kind of debris—piercing straight through your abdomen and shoulder. I didn't think... I didn't think there was a chance in hell you'd survive."

That admission caught Holland off guard. Search-and-rescue missions were nearly unheard of in the Sunless Sea—especially during wartime. If someone went overboard, they were counted as dead. The darkness above the water made finding anyone impossible, and shining a searchlight would do nothing but draw predators to the ship. No captain in his right mind would ever risk it—not even for a former captain.

"How... how did you even find me?" Holland asked, his mind racing. "If you didn't get my radio signal, and if you used lights, the destroyer would've spotted you."

Matthew hesitated.

Then he glanced toward Hector.

That single look was all Holland needed to know that something was off.

There's something they're not telling me.

And that was when the memory hit him—slicing through the fog in his mind.

The last thing he saw before losing consciousness.

A light.

A blinding, searing light, so bright it had torn through the eternal darkness of the Sunless World, cutting through the black like a god's hand splitting the sky.

Holland struggled to rise, only to realize his legs were still weak from the lingering effects of the anesthesia. He barely had time to brace himself before his knees buckled, but Hector and Matthew were there in an instant, each grabbing a shoulder and hauling him upright before he crumpled to the floor.

"What the hell are you doing? You trying to get yourself killed—again?" Hector barked, his voice sharp with frustration.

"The light…" Holland muttered, his brow furrowing as fragments of memory pieced themselves together. "You found me because there was light above the surface, didn't you?"

Hector exchanged a glance with Matthew.

"There was a light," Matthew admitted, though his voice was cautious, hesitant. "It came from the northern mountain range. We felt the shockwave even beneath the sea. The light was... intense—blinding. It lit up the surface for miles. We saw everything."

"I thought it was a missile," Hector cut in. "Maybe even a nuclear detonation."

A light unlike anything ever seen in the Sunless World—accompanied by a quake strong enough to shudder the ocean floor.

If it had been anywhere else, Holland might have thought the same.

"Surface the ship," Holland ordered hoarsely, shifting more of his weight onto the shoulders of the men flanking him.

"We're already surfaced—taking in oxygen," Matthew replied, frowning. "What are you planning?"

But before Holland could answer, the ship jolted violently. Overhead lights flickered wildly, some going dark altogether. IV stands toppled, metal instruments clattered to the ground, and the cries of the wounded and the shouts of crewmen echoed through the infirmary in a chaotic chorus. Holland was thrown backward, his spine slamming against the metal cot. Pain lanced through his side, sharp and burning, and for a moment, it stole the breath from his lungs.

Matthew was the first to react. He pushed away from Holland and lunged for the wall-mounted communications panel, gripping the rails embedded in the bulkhead to keep his balance.

"Control room! Report—what the hell is going on?" he shouted into the speaker, his voice barely rising above the din.

There was a pause, crackling static, before Rosa's panicked voice filtered through—thin, high-pitched, laced with fear. "I—I'm not sure! The sonar display's glitching out—it's gone haywire!"

"How the hell is it glitching!?" Hector roared from where he crouched on the floor, one hand gripping Matthew's ankle to steady himself.

"We—we were surfaced in open sea, but now… there are obstacles surrounding us! It's like… it's like the ship's trapped inside a cavern or something!"

Only Holland seemed to grasp the full weight of what Rosa had just said.

"Rosa! Radio silence! Kill all engines—now!" Holland barked.

For a heartbeat, he wasn't sure if his command had gone through—until the overhead lights flicked out completely, plunging them into shadow before the emergency lights kicked in, washing the room in an ominous red glow.

The vibrations lessened.

Then stopped altogether.

And without the hum of the engines, the silence was absolute—deep and heavy, as though the sea itself was holding its breath.

Matthew and Hector both turned to Holland, their eyes wide with alarm. Holland raised a finger to his lips in an urgent gesture for silence before speaking in a whisper.

"Matthew, how far are we from the island?" he asked.

"Roughly ten nautical miles…" Matthew replied, his voice barely audible.

"What the hell is going on?" Hector hissed, his knuckles white where they gripped the railing. "What's happening now?"

"The light… from Kyushu," Matthew murmured, his face pale. "Don't tell me—"

"A predator," Holland interrupted, his voice low and heavy with certainty. "A massive one, deep beneath the sea. Bright lights above the surface attract them."

A heavy silence fell over the room as the meaning of Holland's words sank in. All eyes in the infirmary—the wounded, the crew—turned to him, their faces pale, their breaths held.

"A leviathan?" someone whispered.

"That shaking—was that it moving?"

"I didn't survive the damn island just to die trapped in this floating coffin!" another snapped, his voice cracking with panic.

"Shut up!" Holland barked, his voice rising only a notch above the frantic whispers, but it was enough. The room fell instantly silent. "If the sonar's right, that thing's massive—far too big to care about something as small as a submarine. But if you lot keep flapping your jaws, we might get its attention anyway."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Every creak of the hull, every distant groan of the metal under pressure, every ripple of water against the ship's sides now sounded like claws scraping steel or the low rumble of some ancient beast. Minds filled in what eyes could not see—massive shapes in the dark, jaws wide enough to swallow the submarine whole.

Holland didn't blame them. Even he felt the primal fear curling in his gut, the image of their ship—small and fragile—adrift before some titanic shadow in the black abyss.

"Was that it? That low moan?" Hector whispered, the sound barely carrying.

"That's the hull groaning," Matthew answered grimly.

"It's not moving anymore," Holland agreed, his voice growing steadier. "If it saw us as prey, we'd already be scrap metal in its gut."

"Then what now?" Matthew asked.

Holland inhaled deeply. "Get me topside. And I want every crew member up there too."

…

For the first time in months, Holland noticed the wear the Washington had endured during its long journey. Algae clung to slick patches of metal walkways, while barnacles clustered in dense colonies along the hull, like jagged scars. Rust streaked down from seams and bolts, long trails of brown-red painting the ship's weathered surface.

They had always been there—hidden beneath the darkness of the Sunless Sea—but now, the brilliant glow forcing its way through the gloom revealed every crack, every flaw, in startling detail.

Yet even this fierce light couldn't pierce the black ocean depths.

Holland stepped to the rail, his eyes searching the ink-black waves for any sign of the behemoth that had just passed beneath them. But there was nothing. The Sunless Sea kept its secrets, no matter how vast or monstrous.

So, he turned his gaze inland.

Far beyond the churning waves, the jagged peaks of Kyushu loomed, sharp and uneven against the horizon. Atop the highest summit, an amber light burned—a gash of brilliance in the dark—while a thick plume of black smoke twisted into the sky, curling outward like the vast branches of some ash-colored tree, its roots buried deep in the heart of the island.

He lowered his gaze and spotted a solitary figure at the edge of the bow, hands gripping the railing as if anchoring himself against the vast, open sea. The light from the erupting peak of Kyushu bathed the man's silhouette, stretching his shadow long and thin across the deck of the Washington.

Holland gritted his teeth, leaning heavily on the railing as he forced himself forward. Every step sent searing pain through his side, a deep, hot ache that gnawed at his strength. But he pressed on, each stride a stubborn defiance of the agony.

The figure turned as Holland drew closer, the harsh glow from the island reflecting off the man's glasses, casting twin flashes of light across the lenses.

"I've read dozens of geology books from the Old World," Arthur said quietly, his voice almost lost beneath the low rumble of the distant eruption. He turned back to the towering mountains of Kyushu, their jagged spines black against the furious light. "But this is the first time I've seen a volcanic eruption with my own eyes."

Holland didn't respond. He stepped beside Arthur, his gaze following the other man's across the burning landscape.

The Washington floated miles from the island now, but the chaos was still clearly visible. Flames licked the coastline. The docks, the buildings, the Saipan destroyers—all were reduced to embers and ruin. From this distance, they looked like mere specks swallowed by a sea of fire.

"Soon, the lava will break through the summit," Arthur continued, his voice hollow. "Nothing will survive on Kyushu once that happens. Not a soul."

Holland listened, his face unreadable. Beside him, Arthur's composure cracked—his shoulders trembled as tears cut silent paths down his cheeks.

"I know you're the captain of this ship," Arthur whispered, forcing the words out. "I know that what we're doing out here—it's bigger than any one life. I know that. But my daughter is still on that island. And I won't leave her behind. Whether you help me or not, I'm going."

Arthur's blue eyes locked onto Holland's—there was no pleading in them, no desperation. Only hard, unrelenting resolve. It was the same stubbornness Holland had seen in the girl. Like father, like daughter.

Holland sighed through his nose and pulled a battered pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He slid one between his teeth, the stale scent of tobacco filling the space between them.

"I have a responsibility to everyone on this ship," Holland said, his voice low, rough. "You understand that. I can't endanger them all for the sake of a handful of lives."

Arthur's jaw clenched. "I'm not asking you to. I only need a small boat to get me to shore. That's it."

When Holland didn't answer, Arthur's control finally snapped.

"Goddammit!" Arthur shouted, his voice raw. "If you won't give me a damn boat, I'll swim there myself! I don't care if there are sea monsters below us—I'll dive right into their jaws if that's what it takes. But if you think you can stop me from trying to save my daughter, you're going to have to kill me first!"

The words had barely left his mouth before a sound rolled over them—deep and thunderous, a resonant boom that drowned out every other noise.

It wasn't the crack of rocks or the roar of lava.

It was something alive.

A guttural cry that stretched out over long, heavy seconds, vibrating through the very air around them.

Bootsteps pounded up the deck behind them. Holland didn't need to look. Matthew had roused the crew. He could hear them coming, hurried voices thick with unease.

"I'm sick of asking this, but what the hell was that sound?" Hector growled from behind.

Almost as if answering him, a streak of fire shot skyward from the blazing summit of the mountain. It arced high, growing larger as it streaked toward the coastline. The closer it came, the more its form sharpened into focus—massive, terrible, its vast wings spread wide, cutting through the smoke-tinged sky with ease. 

The great bat-like wings folded inward as the colossal figure tucked into a dive, the glow of its body brightening, fierce and crimson. Its long, jagged form looked like a black stone riven with molten cracks, glowing red-hot along its joints and seams. Four reptilian eyes—each burning with a predatory gleam—gleamed atop a narrow head shaped like the tip of an arrow.

Even from this distance, the scale of it was undeniable. It was larger than the Washington—four times over, if not more.

It stops above Kyushu dock. 

Its jaws parted, revealing rows of blade-like teeth.

And then came the fire.

A torrent of searing flame erupted from its throat, an unstoppable cascade that washed over the Kyushu docks in a blink. It was less a breath than a cataclysm—buildings vanished beneath a wall of fire, metal hulls of docked warships glowed white-hot before collapsing into molten heaps. Steam hissed violently as seawater boiled on contact. Within moments, the entire harbor was an inferno.

On the deck of the Washington, no one spoke. No one breathed.

They simply stared.

"What the actual hell is that thing?" Hector was the first to shatter the silence.

"A dragon…" Arthur whispered the word like a prayer, reverent and hollow.

Hector barked a bitter laugh. "First the light. Then the sea monster. Now a goddamn dragon? You expect me to believe this crap? You think the legends of Kyushu's gods are real?"

"Sometimes," Holland muttered, taking a drag from his cigarette, "legends are born from truth."

He exhaled slowly, turning to face the tight cluster of crew members gathered on the deck—every face pale, every eye wide with disbelief.

"I've seen something like this before," Holland began, his voice steady despite the weight of what he was saying. "As you've just witnessed, it's beyond dangerous. When creatures like this awaken from their slumber deep within the earth, the heat they produce can trigger volcanic eruptions. Their bodies generate intense energy, and their respiratory systems create gas mixtures that, when expelled, ignite into flames—flames hot enough to melt steel in seconds."

The crew exchanged glances, faces twisted with fear and disbelief.

"As captain of this vessel, I bear responsibility for every soul aboard," Holland continued. "And the logical choice, the safe choice, is to sail on—leave this behind."

Arthur's gaze cut to him, sharp and accusing.

Holland blew smoke into the cold sea air.

"But that thing—dragon, god, whatever it is—it will burn Kyushu to ash. And once the fires here die down, it'll search for more fuel and somewhere warmer. Maybe it'll head for the Tokyo Archipelago. Maybe it'll cross to the Siberian plains. Maybe it'll go west, all the way to Africa. And everything in its path—every ship, every settlement—will be reduced to cinders."

A heavy silence fell over the crew.

"Our mission was to explore the uncharted reaches of the world," Holland said, flicking the half-finished cigarette overboard. "But what's the point of discovery if there's no one left alive to know what we found?"

Hector frowned deeply, tension knotting his jaw. "What are you saying, Holland? You seriously think we can fight that thing?"

Holland didn't answer.

But the look on his face was enough.

The crew began to murmur, uneasy glances exchanged under the pale emergency lights. Fear was thick in the air—fear, and something deeper. A terrible understanding.

"You said you've encountered a creature like that before—back when you were still a hunter, before you met me, right?" Matthew asked, his voice tight with urgency. "So how did you kill it then?"

Holland narrowed his eyes, his mind drifting back to the distant past, to a different battlefield under a different situation. "Its outer shell was made of dense, heat-resistant rock—hard as steel and heavy as hell. We lured it into an enclosed area, flooded it with water, and let its own weight drag it under. It drowned."

Matthew winced, but it was Hector who spoke first, his voice clipped. "And how the hell did you bring it down from the air this time?"

Holland shook his head. "The one I fought before was still a juvenile. It couldn't fly. Wasn't nearly this big either."

"Well, aren't you one lucky bastard," Hector sneered. "So, genius, what's your big plan for this one? Gonna charm it out of the air? Because in case you forgot, our sub's got no heat-seeking missiles, no surface-to-air anything, and our rocket launchers couldn't hit a barn door, let alone something flying at that altitude."

"And let's not forget," Matthew added grimly, "there's a goddamn sea monster lurking near the surface right now. I think even trying to move the ship is a death wish at this point."

A heavy silence fell over the deck as both men turned their gazes to Holland—along with every crew member on board. Eyes full of expectation. Fear. Hope. Waiting for the captain to give them a plan, a miracle, a reason not to lose their minds.

But Holland had nothing to give.

The image of the wounded crew in the infirmary flashed in his mind, their torn uniforms, the blood-soaked bandages. Their lives had been in his hands—and some he hadn't managed to save. The thought twisted in his chest.

He couldn't take anyone else to their death.

"I'm not telling you all this because I want you to fight with me," Holland finally said, his voice even, calm against the tension pulling taut around them. "I'm telling you so you understand."

"Understand what?" Hector growled, his patience fraying.

"That I'm not coming with you any further." The words cut through the air like a blade. "And since I didn't die in the line of duty, the captain's will holds no authority. I want you all to choose a new captain and keep heading for Alaska."

For a moment, it was as if the entire deck froze.

Hector's mouth fell open in shock. Matthew's eyes went wide, disbelief written plain across his face. If the situation wasn't so dire, Holland might've chuckled.

"What the hell are you talking about?!" Matthew spluttered.

"I'm taking a small boat," Holland replied simply. "Arthur and I will head back to Kyushu. He's going for his daughter. I'm going to kill that dragon."

The word dragon hung in the air, heavy and ludicrous.

"Alone? You're seriously gonna try this alone? You even got a plan?" Hector demanded, nearly shouting.

Of course he didn't have a plan.

Everything he knew about the dragon—everything—came from her. Just like everything he'd learned about the true nature of this world. But until he saw it with his own eyes, until he knew…

"The plan," Holland said with a small, wry smile, "is to save this world. However I can."

It was absurd. It was suicidal. And yet, no one spoke. Hector glared at him like he was out of his mind. Matthew just stood there, wide-eyed, as though trying to figure out if this was some kind of bad joke.

And then, slow but deliberate, a pair of hands began to clap.

The sharp sound echoed across the silent deck, startling everyone. The crew turned in unison, heads swiveling toward the source—a young man stepping forward through the gathered crowd, his soft green hair catching the faint light.

"Trying to fix the world's biggest problems all by yourself," the boy said, a wide, almost childlike grin spread across his face. "That's… honestly, pretty damn admirable."

Holland's eyes narrowed, his instincts bristling. There was something wrong—off—about this kid.

"How the hell did you get out of your quarters?" Holland demanded, suspicion lacing every word.

"That doesn't really matter," Satoru replied smoothly, his voice carrying an unsettling calm. "Throughout history, humanity has always recognized the problems it faced—and often, it even knew the solutions from the very start. If we'd managed resources wisely, wars over land and wealth wouldn't have happened. If we controlled reproduction, overpopulation wouldn't plague us. If we consumed food in moderation, ecosystems wouldn't collapse and no one would starve."

He paused, scanning the silent crew before continuing, "But despite knowing all this, the problems still exist. Do you know why?"

When Holland offered no answer, Satoru smiled and pressed on, "Because no one ever sees it as their problem. Every person is driven by their own desires. Everyone thinks, 'If it's just me, just this once, it won't matter.' And that mindset—that—is why nothing ever changes."

Satoru turned toward the crew, their faces a mixture of confusion and unease. "I bet some of you are thinking right now, 'How could we possibly fight something like that? Shouldn't we just leave this to the military or someone else more qualified?'"

Holland's patience snapped. "And what's your point?"

The boy's smile widened, eyes gleaming with a strange delight. "I'm here to commend you, Captain Holland. Because while everyone else is waiting—hesitating—you're the only one who's willing to stand up and fight. Even though you have no plan, no certainty of success, you're still ready to risk it all. That's rare."

"Listen here, you little punk," Hector growled, stepping forward, his face flushed with anger, veins bulging at his temple. "We're not just sitting around either. But charging at that dragon—without a real plan—would be nothing short of suicide. Wouldn't it make more sense to report this to the governments, get them to mobilize before we all go throwing ourselves into the meat grinder?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered crew, like a tide shifting in the boy's favor.

Satoru's grin didn't falter—it grew sharper.

Holland narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing every twitch of the boy's expression. What the hell is his angle? The kid had risked breaking out of confinement just to stand here, rambling about philosophy and pushing the crew to think. Why? What did he stand to gain?

"You're all missing the point," Satoru said, his voice lilting with amusement. "That thing—it's not the guardian god of Kyushu."

The boy gestured toward the burning shoreline, where flames licked the heavens, casting violent shadows against the towering mountains. The blaze reflected in Satoru's ice-blue eyes, making them shimmer with an unnatural light.

"Now," he said softly, "if I told you I know how to kill that thing… would you still hesitate?"

A breathless silence swept over the deck.