home

search

Chapter 9

  We arrived at Port Elpis—a sprawling harbor that doubled as the gateway to one of the original Hollows lying far beyond the sea. If memory serves, it’s the Hawara Hollow. Not that I was going anywhere near it today.

  My destination was the main hub of the port, where freshly caught fish were unloaded, sorted, packed, and sometimes auctioned off in chaotic morning bids. I walked in with quiet confidence, boots echoing softly against the concrete, the salt-heavy air clinging to my skin.

  At the gate stood a girl whose hair faded from pure white to midnight bck—like ink bleeding into snow. Her tail matched: split cleanly down the middle, one side bck, the other white. She spotted me and waved, her grin showing off razor-sharp teeth.

  Kalina. A Thiren, specifically a Killer Whale subtype.

  And if you know killer whales, you know they don’t travel solo.

  This entire facility? Staffed top to bottom by her pod.

  “Miss Lumina! Lady Boss is waiting for you!” she chirped, practically bouncing in pce.

  “Lead the way, Kalina,” I said, handing her a chocote bar I brought specifically for her. She clutched it like a sacred relic and beamed so hard it was almost weaponized.

  We passed through the loading docks, stepping behind the yers of machinery and crates until we reached a side entrance at the back of the hub. A stairwell waited for us—industrial and narrow—descending into the underbelly of the facility.

  As we made our way down, a pair of Killer Whale Thirens eyed me from either side of a reinforced checkpoint. Both were armed. Not that they needed weapons. One of them could fold me in half like undry, and the other… well, let’s just say she could remove your kidneys without breaking a sweat—or a bone.

  They recognized me and let us pass without a word.

  The corridor twisted a few times before we entered a b-like chamber. Cold lights flickered overhead, illuminating racks of equipment, monitors, and shelves cluttered with prototype weapons and half-dissected drone parts.

  At the center of it all sat a woman with no visible tail, and a fully mechanical left arm that clicked softly as she flipped a page of a half-burnt manual.

  Orca.

  The de facto leader of this pod of aquatic enforcers.

  Her tired eyes looked up zily as I stepped in.

  “Orca,” I greeted her with a nod.

  She exhaled like she hadn’t slept in three days and replied with her signature ck of enthusiasm.

  “Sup.”

  Honestly, if I didn’t know her, I’d assume she was just another zy researcher buried in scrap metal and caffeine.

  But Orca?

  Orca was a warlord.

  In her prime, she challenged a Navy Grand Admiral to a one-on-one fight—lost both her arms in the process, but left that same admiral half-blind with a shattered pride to match. Word on the street is they became friends afterward. No one’s sure how or why, but these days Orca’s traded her raiding days for the bck market and high-grade weapons research.

  She still looked like she hadn't slept in weeks.

  "I'm heading into a Hollow. Got orders to take down a Notorious Ethereal," I said, arms folded.

  She scratched her head like I’d just reminded her to do the undry. “So what of it?”

  Of course. She hadn’t read the intel Elf sent her—typical.

  “I need the Heat sniper rifle, a W-Engine tuned for high fire anomaly output, and a full disk set with heavy fire resonance.”

  She gave me a zy nod, reached for an energy drink, and downed it like water. “Follow me.”

  We moved deeper into her b, past racks of prototype weapons, and stopped at a machine shaped like a steel altar—six disk slots spiraling around a glowing core.

  “I knew you were coming,” she muttered, “just couldn’t be bothered to read past the first sentence.”

  I didn’t argue. With Orca, that kind of behavior was the full sentence.

  She rummaged through a shelf and chucked something at me. I caught it midair.

  Heat Wave—a brilliant crimson W-Engine, S-rank. A universal fire anomaly amplifier with serious kick. The casing was etched with spiraling vents that hummed with contained combustion.

  “You’ll like that one,” she said, returning with a box of disks. “Four pieces of Inferno Metal, two pieces of Woodpecker Electro. All S-rank. Strongest I’ve got that still py nice together.”

  She knelt beside the machine and began slotting the disks in pce.

  I carefully inserted the W-Engine into the core, where it clicked into pce with a soft chime.

  Here’s how it works: W-Engines are compact orb-like devices that act as conduits for anomaly manipution. But on their own, they’re just smart lumps of alloy. The real power comes from the Disks—each embedded with specific resonance frequencies.

  When the disks are pyed, they “sing” to the W-Engine, transferring their frequency data—kind of like feeding a soul into a machine.

  And when the symphony ends, the engine awakens.

  A low thrum filled the b. The disks spun to life, releasing a harmonized series of pulses—one by one, like an orchestra tuning their instruments. Sparks of red and violet light traced through the machine. The scent of ozone and heated alloy hit the air as the W-Engine pulsed, syncing with the rhythm.

  I watched as Heat Wave came alive, the core now glowing like the heart of a newborn star.

  "Done," Orca said, rising with a stretch. “You overload that thing, don’t come crying to me when your eyebrows vaporize.”

  “No promises,” I smirked, clipping the finished engine into the mod slot of the Heat rifle. “Thanks, Orca.”

  “Just don’t get killed. I’m not refunding that setup.”

  Orca said that, but deep down I was pretty sure I had a lifetime warranty—not because she’s kind, but because she knows her stuff doesn’t break unless you do something terminally stupid. And even then, she'd probably yell at your corpse.

  I slotted the W-Engine into Heat. The weapon shuddered softly in my grip as the frequencies settled into pce. The barrel glowed faintly, veins of ember light trailing along its spine like molten circuitry. Even the tips of my hair shimmered with reddish light—odd, considering my affinity leans more toward blue.

  But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t showing my hair anyway.

  “The combat suit’s over there,” Orca said, casually gesturing toward a rack against the wall.

  Laid out neatly was a full combat set—a sleek, modur suit with sharp lines and red-accented armor pting. A matte bck helmet with a glowing crimson visor sat on top, looking more like something a high-spec merc would wear than a lone Ethereal hunter.

  Chest pte with reinforced conduits. Arm guards with vented sleeves. Gloves with touch-sensitive triggers. Heavily padded combat pants. Red-accented boots designed for impact absorption.

  It wasn’t just armor—it was a persona.

  The moment I overheated my weapon, the red accents would ignite like veins of va, glowing and pulsing with raw energy. Visually striking. Psychologically terrifying.

  I slipped into the gear one piece at a time, feeling the weight settle across my body like muscle memory. The helmet sealed with a hiss, visor flickering to life.

  Then, I toggled the voice modutor—low, gravelly, unmistakably masculine.

  Why?

  Because Red isn’t me.

  Or at least, not the version of me the world sees walking down the street. TrustMe! is a mistake people can still connect to Lumina if they dig deep enough. But Red? Red’s a ghost. A ruthless, efficient mercenary that no one suspects is hiding under schoolgirl sarcasm and messy hair.

  Even the HAND thinks I’m a guy. Some grizzled fire anomaly specialist who hunts Ethereals for big bucks and walks away without a word.

  And honestly?

  I like it that way.

Recommended Popular Novels