Merran's body convulsed once, twice his breath ragged like torn sails fighting the wind. His eyes widened as if seeing something only he could. The medics shouted for more pressure, for light, for anything to keep him tethered, but his lips began to move.

Captain Roan crouched beside him, gripping the edge of the cot. "Stay with me, Merran! Tell me who you're working for!"

The merchant's pupils flicked wildly, as though chasing ghosts that weren't there. His voice came out in cracked whispers, barely a thread of sound.

"Hollow… Nine…"

Roan's brows furrowed. "What? Speak up!"

Merran's throat seized; he coughed, spitting red, but kept forcing the words through clenched teeth. "They… they promised… safe… trade routes… protection from the tides… b-but… they lied…"

Roan leaned closer, his breath steady even as tension rippled through his frame. "Who are they? This 'Hollow Nine'? A cult? Smugglers?"

Merran's eyes snapped toward him, pupils shaking like shattered glass. "N-not smugglers… gods in masks… they… they feed on…" His words caught in a gasp; his whole body spasmed. "...souls… waves… darkness beneath…"

The medic looked up, alarmed. "Captain, his pulse—!"

But Merran wasn't listening anymore. His stare went distant, his voice collapsing into a whisper that wasn't quite human anymore. "They're watching… right now… in the tide…"

Then his body went still. His fingers twitched once, as though trying to grasp something unseen, before falling limp.

A single drop of Bloomwater rolled from his lips and hit the floor.

The medics froze. Roan didn't move. The sound of the sea outside soft, rhythmic, felt wrong, as though it echoed Merran's last words.

Finally, Roan exhaled, slow and cold. He reached out and closed the merchant's eyes with two fingers.

"Hollow Nine…" he murmured under his breath. "Never heard of them."

He stood, his boots heavy on the stone, voice firm but haunted. "Get his body wrapped and sent to the Matron. I want every name he's ever traded with on my desk. If this 'Nine' exists, we'll dig them out."

But even as he spoke, a faint tremor shivered through the tide-cell walls—like the heartbeat of something deep below the water, listening.

Outside, the waves sighed.

After Merran died…

The meeting hall was tense dimly lit, the air heavy with the salt of the storm still raging outside. The long table was cluttered with sea charts, bloodstained reports, and the cracked remains of Merran's compass, now a grim reminder of his last words.

Khael sat near the end, his fingers tapping slowly against the table. Rael leaned against the wall, arms crossed, silent but sharp-eyed. Lira's gaze was distant haunted by the echo of the shard's pull and Juno and Kaen stood nearby, both still carrying faint traces of battle fatigue.

Captain Roan broke the silence first, his voice low and edged.

"The merchant's dead. Heart failure though I'd call it fear that killed him. But before he went, he said something… something called 'The Hollow Nine.'"

The words hung in the air like a curse.

Elder Moe leaned forward, the old man's face drawn but alert. "Hollow Nine, you say?" His eyes narrowed, the memory stirring. "Perhaps those bastards are the same who unsealed and stole that fragment.

Captain Roan frowned. "You know of them?"

Before Moe could answer, Elder Neria raised a hand. The candlelight glimmered in her eyes ancient, knowing, and yet untouched by the years. Her voice carried both grace and gravity.

"Hollow Nine…" she repeated softly. "I hoped I would never hear that name again."

Everyone turned toward her.

Khael's brow furrowed. "Elder Neria… you know who they are?"

Her gaze drifted not to the table, but to the horizon beyond the hall's window, where the sea churned under a broken moon.

"When I was young," she began, "I served under the Echo Keepers. We safeguarded fragments of the ancient seals—artifacts meant never to be touched again. One night, a man came to us. His eyes were veiled by something unnatural. He spoke of freedom… of unbinding the tides, of giving 'voice to the forgotten gods beneath the foam.'"

She paused, her fingers tightening faintly on her cane.

"He called himself one of the Hollow Nine. And when we refused him, the sea itself turned against us. I lost my comrades that night."

The hall fell silent. Even the storm outside seemed to quiet, as though listening.

Captain Roan's jaw set. "So they've been around for decades… cultists then. But what do they want with fragments"

His question cut through the room, yet no one dared to answer immediately. The air was thick suspicion, fear, and something far older curling through it like smoke.

Elder Neria's eyes drifted toward Khael. The flicker of the candlelight caught her irises ageless and piercing, as though she could see through the calm mask he wore.

"I don't know…" she murmured, though her tone carried the weight of doubt.

Khael's hand tightened on his knee beneath the table.

(I do know… It's to revive the Dragon Slayer of the Old Era… the one who drowned the gods and nearly tore this world apart. They seek to rebuild the age that should've stayed buried. But if I tell them that, they'll know I'm not from here… they'll start asking questions I can't answer.)

He exhaled slowly, raising his gaze to the others.

"Elder Moe," Khael said evenly, "the fragment that was stolen… who took it? What did they look like?"

Elder Moe leaned forward, his barnacled fingers pressing against the soaked wood of the table. Water dripped from the scales along his forearms, glimmering faintly beneath the lantern's light. His voice was low, like the groan of a deep reef shifting.

"I saw them once, from the cliffs near the old shrine. A white-haired man… and another—broad-shouldered, hair dark as the deep sea. The second bore the mark of a black whale tattooed across his back."

The room went still. Even the waves outside seemed to pause.

Neria's eyes widened slightly, her composure fracturing for the first time.

"The Black Whale sigil… Elder Moe, are you saying they were from that tribe?"

The old fisherman nodded grimly.

But before he could continue, a sudden tremor of air cut through the silence. Rael's voice—low, sharp, trembling broke from the shadows.

"What did you say… about the white hair?"

All eyes turned to him. The firelight carved his face into something almost unrecognizable eyes gleaming with barely contained fury, jaw locked tight enough to draw blood.

Elder Moe frowned, studying him carefully.

"I said he had slicked-back white hair, boy. Why—"

He didn't finish.

Rael's hand twitched, his Shinrei bursting to life in wild, untamed arcs crimson light lashing like veins of lightning across the floor. His breath came ragged, his aura shaking the walls.

Khael shot up from his seat. "Rael!!!"

But it was too late, Rael's rage flooded the hall, his thoughts screaming louder than the storm.

(Slicked-back hair… that's him. Seirath. That bastard is really the perpetrator)

Captain Roan's hand went to his sword, but Neria held out her arm, stopping him. Her expression was not fear but understanding. The kind that comes from old wounds still bleeding beneath the surface.

Khael moved closer, his own Shinrei stirring faintly, not in challenge but in grounding, an anchor in the storm of vengeance radiating from Rael.

"Calm down," he said quietly. "Not here. Not now."

Rael's breath heaved; his aura cracked, then slowly dimmed, the red light receding like a tide.

Silence. The storm outside answered in thunder.

Elder Moe exhaled, the old scales along his neck rippling. "That look in his eyes… same as his brother. Same blood. Same fire."

Khael turned his gaze back to the table, his thoughts heavy, burning behind a calm mask.

(The Hollow Nine… the Black Whale tribe… and Seirath Eluron. The story's pieces are falling into place. But if this world is repeating the script I know—then the worst is yet to come.)

To be continue

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