The girl with red hair(75)
The demon's hand passed straight through the brick.
Not like air, but like something thinner.
Like fog that knew how to scream.
It didn't bounce off.
Didn't resist.
His thick, blood-caked fingers slid through it—and something changed. I could see it.
One of the bricks—the one from the cathedral—grew smaller, shrinking with every pass.
The other—fog-born and cursed—bulged, pulsed, like it was swelling with hunger.
It took me a second to realize it:
He wasn't just touching the brick.
He was taking something.
From me.
Every time his fingers passed through it, the brick lost something.
**I** lost something.
Not pain, not blood.
Something deeper.
Something heavier.
A memory?
A promise?
A piece of my name?
I couldn't tell, but I felt it—like watching a shadow peel off your soul.
And that's when panic finally punched its way through the numb.
I jumped back.
Not a strategic step.
Not a clever dodge.
I flinched like a cornered rat, every instinct screaming that if he touched it again, I'd stop being "me."
That something final would go missing.
The demon didn't hesitate.
Didn't pause.
He lunged—ripped toward me with a speed that didn't fit a body that size.
His hand closed around my wrist like a bear trap.
I felt the bones shift.
Then crack.
Pain shot up my arm, white and electric, and my knees almost buckled.
He wasn't looking at me.
He didn't even **see** me.
His eyes were locked on the brick, glassy and wet, like someone looking at their god.
Or their first love.
Or the last hit of a drug that kept them human.
It was the most pathetic, obsessed look I'd ever seen.
Made the biggest simp in the universe look like an unbothered pimp.
And then—just as his other hand started to rise, slow and trembling, inches away from taking it from me—
**Boom.**
A blast hit his back.
I kid you not—
A fucking water bullet.
That's right.
This world just went elemental.
Pokemon-tier moves.
Water bender type shit.
The hit staggered him.
He grunted—loud, low, more confused than hurt—but he stumbled forward, loosening his grip just enough for me to yank my wrist away.
And then I saw it.
He rose.
From the sea.
From the chaos.
From the blood-muddied waters that still boiled with the corpses of the demon's crew.
The merman.
He vaulted out of the ocean like a missile—cutting through the air and crashing down onto the deck with a force that made the ship groan under the weight. Chains creaked as he moved.
The whole vessel tilted.
Wood creaked.
Loose chains slid.
And I swear I felt the keel dip lower.
His entrance wasn't subtle.
It wasn't graceful.
It was deliberate.
He landed in a crouch, muscles coiled, tail twitching, droplets rolling off his skin in slow, sunlit streaks.
His scales caught the sun—blue and silver with a hint of gold.
It wasn't just beautiful.
It was dangerous-beautiful.
Like a sword carved out of ocean and lightning.
And he wasn't looking at me.
Nope.
He was looking at the brick.
Not with madness—not like the demon.
Not like the crew that had torn themselves apart.
No.
He looked at it with reverence.
With purpose.
Like he recognized it.
Like he had waited for it.
His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths.
His hands flexed, claws sliding out and back in like knives testing the air.
The demon turned around, finally noticing the interruption.
He growled low.
Sounded like a storm throat-clearing.
And for the first time—
They stood on equal ground.
The demon.
The merman.
Two creatures carved from nightmare and myth.
One soaked in blood and madness.
One shining with sea-born wrath.
And both wanted what I had.
Both wanted the brick.
And me?
I stood between them—bleeding, broken, grinning like an idiot.
Because this?
This was exactly what I needed.
Two monsters, one relic, and me in the middle.
It was about to be a holy war on a floating coffin.
And this- this was my one ticket to complete the ritual.
Or die trying.
Hell, what was the difference at this point?