-77

  Greg’s lungs burned like someone had swapped out the air for industrial-grade sandpaper, and every breath felt like dragging razors over his insides. His whole chest was one big bruise wrapped in sea salt and the damage numbers, even low, just kept fucking blinking.

  -11

  -5

  -5

  -3

  -3

  -1

  -1

  Seawater and vomit kept fighting over which one got to choke him first, and he wasn't even sure which tasted worse anymore. Probably the vomit.

  Trying to make his way towards Leviathan had ended him slapped with a wave full-force, sputtering and stuttering for breath as dirty seawater went down the wrong holes.

  He nearly froze as a half-digested mouthful of birthday cake and half-chewed hotdog almost slipped past his teeth, choking it back down. D-definitely the vomit.

  He couldn’t stop coughing, couldn’t stop moving.

  Moving meant living. Pausing meant giving the world time to rearrange itself into something that made sense, and right now? Making sense would probably make the universe realize that he should probably be dead up against a thirty-foot water lizard with a grudge against oxygen-breathing organisms.

  His vision kept flickering with damage indicators—little red numbers dancing in his peripherals—and he was actively choosing to ignore all of them. It was like trying to play a game with every notification turned on, just a pure headache.

  Except the headache was blood loss and panic, and the game was Don’t Get Killed by a Walking Natural Disaster.

  He didn’t need his powers to tell him he was screwed, no Analyze, nothing. His eyes told him enough of all that.

  Greg mentally flipped open his attribute menu while his eyes darted through the chaos around him. His current loadout wasn't cutting it. Not against Leviathan. Not against a monster that treated physics like suggestions and armies of capes like tissue paper.

  18 to STR. 16 to SPD. 11 to VIT. 5 to INT.

  He didn’t really need brains right now. Brains didn’t help when your opponent was literally breaking physics over its knee and honestly, brains were overrated when they ended up outside your skull anyway.

  The recalibration hit him like a caffeine overdose mainlined directly into his eyeballs—his muscles flexed harder, his legs pumped faster, and his bones creaked like they were trying to outgrow his skin. Adrenaline flooded his system and his eyes widened and he felt a rush through him like several level-ups at once.

  "This is fine," he whispered, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached. "Birthday stuff. Just my luck. Sweet sixteen and never been f—" He cut himself off as another coughing fit doubled him over, more seawater stuck in his lungs spattering onto the already soaked pavement.

  The landscape around him was… wrong.

  The city he’d lived in his whole life wasn’t supposed to look like this. Rain fell like liquid artillery—solid walls of water smashing down and turning every street into a fragmented lake. He barely recognized the Boardwalk—just jagged wood and debris churning in the floodwater.

  His feet hit the water, literally pounding the waves as he darted across the surface, damn near skimming over it like Leviathan, each stride carrying him forward as he kept his momentum and split the brackish water apart in his wake..

  He wasn't using Surface Adhesion.

  He didn't need it, not with a perk that meant surface tension was his friend as long as he didn’t slow down. It was less than half his top speed, sure, but he knew with this shaky water and the raw physics of it that, without the perk, he'd be moving so much fucking slower. The golden light lacing his limbs shimmered in the rain, flickering whenever he jumped or kicked off the wreckage of a car.

  He didn’t want to think about the names the armband kept spitting out. It was background noise now—white static of death tolls and failure metrics that made his chest tight. Every name was a person. Every person was someone who'd shown up to fight a monster and lost. Every loss was—nope. Not thinking about th-Fuck!

  Thirty feet of muscle and water and claw, no face, just eyes like radioactive slits in the middle of a moving storm, blurred past him, Greg swallowing a mouthful of poisonous water and nearly throwing up again. The monster moved faster than anything that size had the right to—leaping from building to building, tail smashing down like a judge’s gavel, every impact sending out pulses of water that could turn people into a fine red mist and the chunkiest of salsas.

  Greg moved on instinct, cutting left and boosting himself skyward with a burst of compressed air from his palms. He landed on a billboard that had somehow stayed upright, and crouched low to catch his breath. Blue eyes, waterlogged and stinging with saltwater, tried to recompile the monster’s trajectory, but he couldn't help but keep blinking as the rain blasted him in the face.

  He saw Legend cutting through the storm, a beam of light searing toward Leviathan’s torso. The monster moved—no, it just wasn’t there anymore. Leviathan didn’t dodge like a person—it just burst from point A to point B like.

  The sickest thing... the absolute sickest thing about it was that Leviathan didn't seem much faster than him, or at least how fast he could move if he even slightly pushed it with Reinforcement, but it was just so fucking big and doing that...

  It just wasn't fair.

  Greg launched himself again, wind hammering into his back to give him a boost. He landed behind a burnt-out sedan and tried to breathe through the pounding in his ears.

  “Okay,” he whispered to himself. “New plan. Don’t get hit. Don’t try to hit. Be really annoying.” Like a mosquito. A mosquito with fire powers and terrible life decisions.

  He caught sight of another cape—some guy in green-and-white armor—dragging an unconscious woman toward higher ground. The man was struggling, his leg clearly injured, and the woman looked bad—blood matting her blonde hair to her skull, her costume torn along one side. Greg didn't recognize either of them, but it didn't matter. He bolted over, barely managing to not trip on a stray length of rebar that seemed specifically designed to impale unwary heroes.

  "Need a lift?" Greg panted, already crouching to grab the unconscious cape. His voice came out steadier than he felt, which was something. Not much, but something.

  The armored guy looked at him like he was half-impressed, half-desperate. His helmet was cracked along one side, and blood trickled from beneath it. "You can carry her?"

  Greg nodded, forcing a grin that felt more like a grimace. "I can carry a car. She'll be fine. I'll be fine. We'll all be fine." He did his best to ignore that those last three sentences were said more to himself than the guy in front of him.

  He hoisted her onto his shoulder—careful not to jostle her bleeding leg—and pushed off, vaulting over the wreckage with a boost of wind. He landed on a rooftop, gently setting her down next to a makeshift medic station where a group of Wards were gathering the injured. A girl in a yellow raincoat gave him a thumbs-up.

  One save down. Too many to go.

  He heard a roar—no, not a roar, a wall of noise, like an entire ocean had just decided to vomit at once. Leviathan had slammed his tail down hard enough to create a crater, sending water rippling in concentric circles.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Greg flinched, and the air around him warped as he instinctively shielded himself with a bubble of compressed wind, a mana barrier directly in front of it as wide as he could make one. The debris pelted him but didn't break through even as a twisted shard of metal bounced off his barrier, spinning away into the chaos.

  His armband buzzed.

  Litew8 deceased. CD-5.

  Rigur down. CD-5.

  When he saw a small shape clinging to a floating car door—just a kid, maybe eight or nine—he didn't think. He just moved. Bolted forward, launched himself over a burst pipe geyser, and hit the water running. The kid looked up, eyes wide with terror, soaked to the bone and trembling so hard it was visible even through the rain.

  "Hey!" Greg shouted, trying to sound reassuring and failing miserably. He probably looked like a madman, covered in blood and seawater, golden light flickering around his limbs. "Gonna get you out of here, okay? Super quick trip, frequent flyer miles included, no extra charge for the screaming!"

  The kid didn't say anything, just stared at him like he was some kind of alien.

  Greg didn't blame him. If roles were reversed, he'd probably be doing the same thing, wondering what kind of lunatic makes jokes while the world was almost literally ending. This kind, kiddo.

  He lifted the kid onto his back, crouched low, and leapt, using wind to cushion the fall as he landed back on the sidewalk. The kid's arms were wrapped around his neck tight enough to choke, but Greg didn't care even as he kept his Surface Adhesion tight to his back. Better than him falling off.

  "Got another one!" he called out, depositing the kid with the evac team—a mix of PRT officers and volunteers with emergency blankets and first aid kits. One of them nodded, wrapping the child in a silver thermal blanket that crinkled with every movement.

  He felt weirdly detached, like his brain had decided this was just another game level—save the NPCs, don’t get hit, boss battle imminent. It was easier than thinking about the reality that he might not see tomorrow.

  Leviathan moved again, crashing through a line of capes with brutal efficiency. One of the larger Brutes—a guy covered in steel plates—tried to grapple him, only for the monster to slam him into the ground so hard the asphalt shattered.

  Greg’s head snapped toward the sound of tearing metal. A car door spun toward him, and he ducked, letting it skim past his shoulder and embed itself in the concrete behind him with a sound not too dissimilar to that of the world'sword's largest staple gun.

  "Note to self," he muttered, forcing his legs back into motion, "don't piss off Leviathan. Or if you do, make sure you're faster than whoever's standing next to you."

  Pronger deceased. CD-5.

  Stronk down. CD-5.

  Chiaro deceased. CD-5.

  Mana surged in his hand, flowing tight and fast into his palm as the blue energy ignited going from magical to fiery. In a half-second, Greg held a fireball in his hand, the thing small and dense, more like a compressed bomb than a flame really.

  Which, accordingaccoording to DnD, was exactly what the third level spell was.

  Let’s fucking gooooo! With a baseball throw worthy of at least three world records in speed, he launched the fireball flying at the giant water-croc. It hit Leviathan’s shoulder and splashed off like rain hitting a window. The blond couldn't deny that he was both a little disappointed and relieved that the monster didn’t even look back.

  Fuck! Greg shot forward, blasting full-speed into the chaos. Okay, maybe a bigger blast next time or s- The thought died in his head, brain freezing slightly as he spotted something in front of him.

  A group of capes had formed a loose perimeter around a building that was somehow still standing—three stories of brick and metal that looked sturdy enough to survive at least another hit or two. Greg recognized Bastion, the leader of the Boston Protectorate in green and white armor standing as tall as he could. The cape was pushing back, hands glowing with energy as he did his very best to maintain a barrier against the worst of the water.

  "Wh-White Knight! You’re White Kn-Knight, right?" Bastion yelled his way, the man’s teeth gritted as his layered barriers continued to strain as much as he was against the waves.

  “Huh?” He heard the man, sure, but he was surprised that the older cape recognized him.

  Bastion didn’t say anything else, attention locked his way, until another barrier formed in front of him and the water began to deflect away. The cape stood up straight, shaking water off him in the most useless effort Greg had ever seen, before he fully turned around to face the young blond cape. “Look, no time. We need runners to bring people in! Can you handle it?"

  There was no hesitation, none at all.

  Getting told to do what he already was, sure why the fuck not?

  "On it!" White Knight was already scanning the area and it didn’t take long for him to find a group huddled in the second-floor window of a partially collapsed building across the street. Five people, maybe six, waving frantically at the heroes below. The building's first floor was completely flooded, the water churning with debris that would shred anyone who tried to swim through it.

  He didn't hesitate.

  He launched himself into the air, wind propelling him forward, and landed on the narrow ledge outside the window. The glass was already broken, jagged shards still clinging to the frame.

  "White Knight Taxi, for all your royal rescue needs.” Was the grin on his face a little forced? Sure, it fucking was, but he was a hero. That was the job. "Next stop: slightly less dangerous location."

  The room was far from filled, only two women and three children inside and shuddering, all of them soaked and terrified damn near out of their minds. One of the women stumbled forward, a cut across her face that looked like it was just barely deep enough to be a problem. Jesus.

  "Oh thank god," she breathed, relief flooding her face. "We thought—we didn't think anyone would—"

  "All part of the service," Greg interrupted, not to be rude but simply to get them to focus on the now. "I can take two at a time. Who's first?"

  The children went first—a pair of twins, maybe seven years old, clinging to each other like they'd fall apart if they let go. Greg wrapped one arm around them, used the other to control his descent as he jumped back to street level. The kids didn't make a sound the whole way down, just stared at him with wide, shocked eyes.

  He deposited them with Bastion, then went back for the rest. Two more trips and everyone was safe inside the makeshift shelter. Greg didn't wait for thanks. He was already moving again, looking for the next rescue, the next moment where he could do something other than think about how utterly outmatched they all were.

  His armband buzzed and buzzed and kept fucking buzzing.

  2Tone deceased. CD-2.

  Raeth deceased. CD-2.

  Another wave hit—smaller this time, but still enough to knock him sideways. He stumbled, righted himself, kept moving. His feet found purchase on the broken ground, and he pushed forward. Always forward. Because forward was where Eidolon was, and Eidolon was supposed to know what he was doing, and right now Greg would give anything to be around someone who knew what they were doing.

  Legend carved geometric patterns through the storm clouds, each beam splitting into dozens more mid-flight—not just light but concentrated destruction that vaporized raindrops and left smoking tunnels through the deluge. Where his attacks struck buildings, they didn't so much damage as surgically dissect, cleaving concrete and rebar with mathematical precision..

  Eidolon hovered at the eye of his own impossible storm, reality fracturing around him like glass under pressure.

  "White Knight," a voice called, and Greg turned to see a cape he vaguely recognized—Rauss, one of the Protectorate's sonic manipulators. "You're with us. Suppression team. Keep Leviathan's water echoes contained while the heavy hitters go in."

  "Got it," Greg shot back, unable to help himself. "Fight water with wind. Not like that might cause more trouble logistically... but, sure."

  Rauss gave him a look that was half exasperation, half resignation. "Just follow my lead. And try not to get killed."

  "That's the plan," Greg said, forcing another grin. "Been not getting killed my whole life. I'm a professional at it."

  Rauss didn't smile back. Just turned and moved toward the front line, gesturing for Greg to follow.

  A-Pok deceased. CD-2.

  D-Coy down. CD-2.

  Svarovski deceased. CD-2.

  Eidolon rose higher, hands glowing with power. The air around him warped, twisting with energies Greg couldn't begin to understand. Legend floated to his right, Alexandria to his left—the Triumvirate united against the monster that threatened to drown their world.

  "NOW!" someone shouted, and the world exploded into motion.

  Capes surged forward from all sides, powers flaring in a kaleidoscope of color and effect. Blasters opened fire from rooftops, their attacks converging on Leviathan like a laser light show with teeth. Brutes charged in from ground level, fists and weapons raised. Shakers warped the battlefield, creating zones that slowed or redirected the monster's movements.

  Greg moved with his group, wind gathering around his hands as he prepared to do his part. Suppression. Containment. He could do that. He had to do that.

  Leviathan coiled like a spring, its massive frame condensing as if gravity had doubled around it.

  Then in a blur of gray-green violence, it unfolded, faster than anything had the right to move, each footfall leaving craters that instantly filled with churning water.