The flesh melted in his mouth, surging through his body like a raging torrent. Pain erupted, as if millions of needles pierced him, worse than the fish's cuts. Calen screamed, kneeling at the boat's center, his cries aimed at the sun. The agony drowned his senses; his vision and hearing faded. Unnoticed by Calen, a small silver ring gleamed at the Demon Angler Fish's pearl base, oddly out of place. Any adult might've questioned it, but Calen, weakened by hunger and ignorance, didn't see it before. As he screamed, his blood dripped onto the ring, and it vanished in a bright flash upon contact.
"Identified species: Human," a soft female voice spoke in his mind, cutting through the pain. "Initiating Emperor Project…" But Calen, numbed by pain and agony, didn't hear it.
Soon, the torment began to subside. The torrent of energy calmed, gently fusing into his body. His shriveled, hunger-worn skin filled out rapidly, fatigue lifting. "Eat more of the demon fish's flesh," Calen heard a soft female voice say.
"Oh, okay," Calen replied, dazed. He didn't know the voice's source, but it had eased his pain and strengthened him. Questioning it now seemed foolish. He cut another piece of flesh, just like the first, and ate it; then he consumed three more. Sitting cross-legged at the boat's center, he let the voice work its magic.
Fifteen minutes later, Calen brimmed with energy, feeling he could crush A Demon Angler Fish with one punch. Yet, a thin barrier seemed to block the energy, like a bottleneck. "You are going to awaken," the voice warned. "You may feel some pain."
The word "awaken" sent a jolt through Calen, both mentally and literally. He knew of awakening—only one in a hundred humans had a physique suited to harness Aether, becoming an awakener. But not all survived the ordeal; it was a coin flip, with a fifty percent chance of death. As a child with his father, he'd dreamed of awakening, but after his father's loss, survival and hunger consumed him. Typically, humans awaken between the ages of fifteen and nineteen, with rare cases occurring later in life. Yet this voice was forcing an awakening in him, not yet fourteen—a windfall after two years of suffering.
Pain flared in his chest, his head throbbing. It was bearable compared to the earlier agony. He endured, time blurring. When he regained his senses, the sun was setting, signaling night's approach. "It's around four," he estimated. "I have two hours to return." It was one o'clock when he hooked the fish. The past three hours felt surreal. Once a scrawny, starving boy, he was now an awakener. His village of eight thousand had only ten awakeners, including the chief, showing their rarity.
Calen tested his body. His senses sharpened; he felt minute details within ten meters, except underwater. Every splinter on the boat was vivid. Turning inward, he sensed his body like a humanoid hologram, detailing every part's status. Near his heart, a small, milky white ball pulsed. "This must store Aether, the awakener's power source," he thought. As he tried to sense his brain using his new abilities, he felt like his senses were being blocked at a closed door, preventing him from feeling his brain. "I guess you are not allowed to do that," Calen thought. Flexing his fingers and muscles, he felt no separation between the energy and his body. It was fused, moving like his muscles, a seamless extension of his will.
Calen, now fully regaining his senses, recalled the female voice that had eased his agony and guided his awakening. "Senior? Are you there?" he asked the empty air, cupping his hands before his chest and bowing low. He spoke tentatively, wary of offending a being so powerful it could awaken someone like him with ease.
He held the posture for several minutes, but no reply came. The silence convinced him the mysterious entity must have departed after triggering his awakening. To such a being, helping him was likely a trivial act, a fleeting gesture on their path, unworthy of lingering for his gratitude.
The more Calen pondered, the more this seemed plausible. He bowed again, deeper this time. "Thank you, Senior, for this opportunity," he said solemnly. "I will never forget this immense favor." Whether he was being heard or not, he felt compelled to speak the words, a debt acknowledged to the void.
He straightened and surveyed the boat. Blood—his red, the fish's blue, and a purple blend of both—smeared the deck, a grim tapestry of their battle. The Demon Angler Fish lay sprawled in the center, its pearl dimmed, its lifeless bulk a testament to his victory.
Calen glanced at the sun, now dipping toward the horizon. "I need to return to the village soon," he muttered. "Being an awakener doesn't make me immune to the night. Every fish goes frenzied after dark, and I don't even know how to use Aether yet."
He moved to the boat's stern and knelt by the motor, a communal relic provided by the village. Free for anyone to use, it had to be returned to the port after each trip. Not valuable in itself, the motor required Aether to recharge, a task managed by the port's keepers.
Calen activated the motor, and it hummed softly, a low pulse of energy. He steered the boat toward Sunset, the village's distant silhouette calling him home. From its faint outline, he gauged that he was about twenty kilometers out. Usually, he stayed within ten kilometers, but the fish had dragged him this far during their hour-long struggle. "I should reach the village before sunset," he murmured.
Soon, he drew within a kilometer of Sunset. He glanced skyward. There, a magnificent mass of land floated, crowned with buildings and trees, its jagged underside resembling an inverted mountain. It hovered five hundred meters above the sea. Below, four large red buoys with tall pillars marked the port's entry, anchored in the waves. With sunset nearing, several boats were already waiting in a queue for entry.
As Calen approached the line, he noticed the other boats' occupants. Many carried bristlemouth fish and other small catches. Some boats carried adult men, others women, and one had a middle-aged man with a boy of seven or eight years old. No boat carried more than one adult. It was said that multiple adults in a small boat could attract hunting demon fish. Even couples fished in separate boats, never sharing.
As Calen joined the queue, the others noticed him. He hadn't considered his appearance, but to them, he was a gruesome sight: a teenage boy bathed in blood and grime, clothes tattered. It spoke of his ordeal on the sea. The blood-soaked dagger he gripped in one hand while steering with the other only heightened the image.
The boy in the boat ahead clutched his father's pants, hands trembling with fear. The middle-aged man, troubled within, saw a boy who looked as if he'd been swallowed by a demon fish and clawed his way out. He gently stroked his son's head. "Shh, it's okay, it's okay," he soothed.
His gaze lingered on Calen, then shifted to the boat. Blood—red, blue, and purple—pooled in a grisly mess. In the center lay a two-foot-wide demon fish, its saw-like teeth stained with red blood, a white pearl sprouting from a stem on its head. Despite stab wounds riddling its lifeless body, it radiated menace.
"Demon Angler Fish," the man whispered, recognizing it instantly. He recalled one found years ago—a dried corpse with shriveled skin and a thin frame, only its teeth still gleaming. This one was plump and fresh, its glossy eyes unfrozen, blood still wet.
He looked at Calen again, his eyes now holding both fear and respect. The other adults in the queue shared similar reactions. They knew hooking such a fish was rare, and common practice was to cut the line to save one's life, not fight to catch it. Yet the boy before them had done both.