Morning came wrapped in fog and loudspeakers.
Hull Khelt's decks thrummed with the shift-change bell as Gin stepped off his skiff, gear bag over one shoulder, dented oxygen tank clanking against his thigh.
"First order of business," he told the empty dock. "Don't die. Second order: fix you."
He patted the skiff. It creaked like it believed him and also thought he was an idiot.
The entertainment ring still smelled like stale smoke and spilled spirits. As he turned past the bar, he nearly tripped over the man slumped across the threshold.
Same guy from last night—the one who'd half-warned, half-insulted him. Now he was sprawled against the wall, one boot hooked on the doorframe, snoring like gravel in a pipe. An empty barrel sat beside him like a loyal dead dog.
Gin hesitated, then crouched. "Hey. You're sort of… obstructing the doorway."
No response. Just a louder snore.
The door banged open against the man's foot. The barman leaned out, saw the scene, and groaned. "Oh seas. Not you trying to save him too."
"I wasn't— I just thought maybe we should move him before someone breaks a neck."
"How much do you think he drank?" the barman asked.
Gin eyed the barrel. "…some."
"Three barrels of some," the barman said.
The man on the ground mumbled something and tried to punch the floor. He missed.
The barman's face softened despite himself. "Hasn't put himself under like this in a long time. Couple years, at least. Then you show up, all bright-eyed and freedom-drunk…"
"My eyes are only moderately bright," Gin said.
"…and he starts drinking like he wants to burn out whatever's left inside." The barman nudged the man's boot back in. "Name's Jakkon Mirefell. Best beast-hunter Khelt's got. Or worst, depending on whether you ask the monsters or his liver."
Gin blinked. "He's a beast-hunter?"
"And Floodborn," the barman added quietly.
His gaze sharpened. "You probably reminded him of something."
Gin's chest tightened. "Didn't mean to."
"Relax, pirate. His disasters are his own. He'll be fine by evening." The barman clapped him on the shoulder. "Go earn your Rimark. The sea's not killing that one in his sleep; it missed its chance."
Gin gave Jakkon one last look—half legend, half wreckage—and headed for the diver bays.
The Hydrarchy salvage boat squatted in its berth like a metal loaf—broad, ugly, paid for. Divers queued along the dock. Gin joined them, adjusting Vexa's old suit and the battered tank he still hadn't replaced.
His dive-axe hung at his hip: short-hafted, with a slabby crescent blade made for chewing through doors and hull plates. The back edge was blunt and thick for hammering; the spine carried a saw-notch and a prying hook. Tarred rope wrapped the handle, dark and ridged under his glove, worn smooth where Vexa's hands had gripped it for years.
A dockhand with a clipboard looked him over. "Farcast. First time in Khelt's salvage zones?"
"First time in a salvage zone with printed rules," Gin said.
The dockhand snorted. "Rules keep you alive. That and not being stupid." He tapped his clipboard. "You're on the morning run. Khelt takes thirty percent of salvage value, plus processing fees. Boat's cut is ten. Equipment rental is fixed, oxygen resupply is extra. You fall overboard, we charge retrieval."
Gin squinted. "…You charge—"
"Hydrarchy policy." The dockhand shrugged. "You want to take your own skiff into the zone, you can pay the private-entry fee."
"I saw that number," Gin said. "It hurt my feelings."
"Then use ours." The dockhand stepped aside. "Next."
He boarded.
Inside was winches, cable, oxygen racks; no wasted space, no comfort. He was checking the bent corner of his tank when a small voice said, "You know that thing looks like it wants to explode, right?"
He turned.
A girl sat opposite, boots swinging. Twelve, maybe thirteen. Dive suit patched with the same stubborn neatness as shipyard work. Goggles crooked around her neck. Expression already settled into "you're wrong."
Gin smiled. "Good morning to you too."
"It's not good morning," she said. "It's already noon. And that tank's going to rupture if you breathe near it."
"I like to live dangerously."
"You like to live stupidly. There's a difference."
He grinned. "You related to that shipwright in the sanctioned yard? Old, grumpy, not exactly customer-friendly..."
"That's the one," she said. "I'm Tamsin."
"Gin."
She appraised him like a bad weld. "First time under with Khelt?"
"Yeah. I've done dive work on Hull-9."
"That backwater?" She snorted. "You're going to think this place is paradise until you see your pay stub."
The engine rumbled to life. The boat eased out, leaving Khelt's stacked hulls behind. The sea opened—deep, dark, humming with teeth.
Tamsin tugged on her gloves. "Rule one: if the captain says out of the water, you're out. Rule two: if the salvage clerk says something's worthless, he's lying. Rule three: don't untether without a plan, or you'll be chum in a trench."
"Got it," he said. "Follow rules. Don't be stupid. Don't trust clerks."
"You might not die," she said.
He liked her.
The wreck field was a graveyard: twisted buildings slumped together beneath gray chop. Anchor dropped, cables sang, and the captain bellowed grid assignments.
Helmet on, suit sealed, Gin stepped off the side with the others. The world shrank to bubbles and green-blue silence. His tether hummed down the line.
At depth limit, he clipped to a guide cable between two wrecks. Rusted metal rose around him like drowned towers.
The tether tugged gently at his waist. Safety. Rules. Khelt.
"End of the leash," Gin murmured.
Tamsin's rule three echoed in his head.
Don't untether without a plan.
He unhooked anyway.
The water changed—emptier, colder. No line. No pull. Just his weight, his lungs, his axe.
He kicked toward a torn old-world hull, half-buried in silt. Name scoured off, dignity long gone. Perfect.
He worked through buckled plating with the axe, its weight comforting in his hand. The blunt back hammered; the hooked spine levered metal aside. Chips of rust spiraled away like orange snow.
Inside, dim corridors, floating chairs, ropes like ghostly vines. He followed the faint gleam of metal to an engine room: crushed but still an engine room. Diesel block ruined, but pumps, mounts and gearing... those could be reborn on his skiff.
He worked fast, muscles settling into the rhythm of chop and pry. Each swing made his ribs hum, the microbes inside him waking like they smelled opportunity.
"Chill," he told his bones. "We're treasure hunting, not fighting."
They thrummed, amused.
Soon his coral-rope net bulged with parts, tugging at his belt. Enough to wake his skiff's heart. He should have gone up.
Then something glittered deeper in the wreck.
Curse his curiosity.
He squeezed through a bent hatch into a sideways room. Shelves, scattered trinkets, small gold shapes half-buried in silt.
Gin's eyes widened. "Okay. Maybe we do need gold."
He drifted forward—
—and froze.
Eggs. A clutch of pale, leathery orbs, quivering faintly.
Between him and them, something huge uncoiled.
A long-necked shark: torpedo body welded to a serpentine neck, jaws lined with jagged plates. Cloudy eyes fixed on him. Scarred, old, coiled above its nest.
Gin's bones shivered.
Hunt, they whispered.
"Not helpful," he thought. "We only have one tank. We don't pick fights with mothers."
The shark flared its gills, tasting him. Neck drew back a fraction.
He could retreat. Lose the gold. Live.
He also pictured the thrill of fighting a strong opponent… and drinking its blood.
He cursed into his regulator. "We do this my way— no drowning me in whatever thirst you've got. Deal?"
His bones pulsed.
Close enough.
He moved.