Ritch clawed himself up, like a drowned man gripping a pier, and spat; the spit was all blood, tasting of iron rain.

“Move!” Lucimia tossed the word over her shoulder like a thrown knife as she ran past.

Dizziness pressed on him like fog before dawn; he watched Lucimia sprint alone and, baffled, glanced back.

That glance snapped him awake like cold water; a man-shaped, ghost-faced octopus monstrosity pounded after them, limbs whipping, lightning crawling over it like blue snakes.

“…I’m convinced.”

He pivoted and limped after Lucimia, legs like mismatched hinges.

“What is that thing?” His voice was thin, like wind through cracked reeds.

“That’s Cole,” Lucimia said, her words flat as a blade.

“What?! That’s Cole? That octopus?” Disbelief rang in him like a cracked bell. He looked again and saw nothing human, no sign of a man.

Not one human line in it—no arms, no legs, only storm and meat.

But if Lucimia said so, he took it as truth, like a sailor trusting the star.

“What happened?” His question stumbled out like a stone on a slope.

“Don’t know. Just run,” she said, breath steady like a drum.

They ran the way they had come, two shadows in a drain: a not-so-strong girl and a half-dead man, slow as mud in winter.

Behind them Cole flashed with lightning, four limbs lashing like oars, afterimages smearing like wet paint, a blue trail scrawled by speed.

He’d catch them soon; even a brush might mean death, like touching a live storm.

That wouldn’t do; they’d promised a last push, and Lucimia had more to play, like an archer saving one arrow.

She gauged her remaining mana like counting coins; she could cast one more spell and save a sliver.

“Do you know fire magic?” she asked, voice calm as still water.

“Uh.” The question hit Ritch sideways like a thrown pebble; he paused, then said, “Not fire element, but I know the Fireball Spell. Why?”

“Enough,” she said, decisive as a falling guillotine.

“What?” His confusion bloomed like smoke.

Lucimia didn’t answer right away; the only thing that mattered was not getting caught, like rabbits keeping ahead of a hound.

She tapped the ground, light as a dragonfly on a pond, and lifted off; with a thread of power she hauled Ritch up as well.

The Flight Spell moved them faster, like wind on clean wings, but Cole was faster still; they were only buying time like borrowing dawn.

As they flew, Lucimia stripped off her cloak, the fabric fluttering like a dark wave.

“Uh, what are you doing?” His worry frayed like old rope.

“Watch for the moment. When I throw the cloak, hit it with the Fireball Spell. Got it?” Her plan snapped into place like a trap.

“Okay. But what is this for?” Ritch nodded, doubt clinging like mist.

“You’ll see. Guard yourself,” she said, each word steady as a nail.

She drew them through the tunnels, no lost lamb, memory clear as a trail of chalk.

A few twists, and the main sewer opened like a throat.

She glanced back; Cole still thundered after them, his roar rolling like distant surf.

“Here,” Lucimia said, easing down at a junction where several drains met like black rivers.

The stink pooled here like a swamp; trash, filth, and sludge gathered, and the sewer gas hung heavy like trapped fog.

She meant to set that gas alight; Cole’s chase would pull him through this choke point like a fish through a net.

“Ready,” Lucimia said, a bell before battle.

Red light budded in Ritch’s hands like a coal; he was set to launch the Fireball Spell.

“Three,” she counted, her voice a steady metronome.

Two.

One.

Lucimia flicked her small hand, and the cloak arced up over the gathering point like a black gull.

Ritch’s timing was perfect, sharp as a falcon’s dive; his Fireball Spell fired the instant the cloak left her fingers.

Even as it formed, sparks skittered in the air like fireflies.

The fireball hit the cloak, burst, and the sewer gas began to swell like a lung.

Boom—!!

A pillar of fire stabbed up instant like a volcano’s spear, then a second blast followed, bigger, meaner, shaking the ground like a drum.

Flame tore through the tunnels, smoke rolling like storm clouds, and the fire surged at them like a tidal wave.

“Run,” Lucimia said, and she drove the Flight Spell harder, like a whip on a horse.

Boom! Bang! Whoom!

Explosions chained behind them like falling dominos; the fire tide hunted Lucimia like a scythe-wielding reaper.

“This is insane—can we even make it out? Will that blast and fire kill Cole?” Panic beat in Ritch like wings in a cage.

“…Don’t know. Run first. If that doesn’t kill him, I still have a way,” she said, resolve cold as iron.

Truth was, Lucimia was shocked too, awe prickling like frost; she hadn’t expected this much terror.

But a thought turned, neat as a key.

This sewer wasn’t like her past life’s; this world’s craft was rough, and air moved poorly, like a closed jar.

Even back then, tossing firecrackers into a drain could spark an explosion; here she’d thrown a stronger Fireball Spell into a powder keg.

They retraced their path fast, like a river finding its bed, and the exit rose ahead like a pale moon.

Landing, Ritch scrambled up the ladder like a rat to daylight; halfway he looked back at Lucimia, puzzled as an owl.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you coming?” His voice drifted down like a thread.

Lucimia stood on the slick floor, facing the deep, and watched the onrushing fire like a red tide; she didn’t touch the ladder.

“Hey?” Ritch called, the word light as ash.

“I’ll wait. You go first,” Lucimia answered at last, her tone cool as shade.

She fixed on the heaving blaze, heat slapping her face like an open oven; sweat traced her brow like rain.

Cough, cough—the smoke clawed her throat like thorns, and she couldn’t stop.

“Uh, my lady? Maybe fall back?” Ritch had popped out of the sewer and crouched by the wellhead like a wary crow.

Lucimia didn’t answer.

…Wait a little longer, she thought; maybe he’d come, like a shark to blood.

What was she waiting for? She was waiting for Cole, the storm’s last echo.

Soon, inside the flames, she caught a silhouette like a shadow walking out of the sun.

“I…will…kill…you…” The words rasped like gravel; a burning octopus trudged from the fire, wrapped in flame like a funeral shroud.

The lightning was gone; every inch of skin charred black like coal, and his mouth vented smoke like a kiln.

That creature—this octopus—was Cole.

He could barely form words, and his moves were slow, like a puppet in tar; he shuffled, arms rising, toward Lucimia.

Like a zombie.

Hoo.

Lucimia breathed out, breath thin as a reed; with her last wisp of mana she formed a flame arrow like a red thorn.

Whoosh! The arrow flew and found Cole’s head easy as rain finds earth.

Half the shaft punched through, and his body locked up like frost.

Then the flame arrow lit the sewer gas again, and it blew, a brief sun.

Bang!

Cole’s head burst.

This time he lost his regeneration; the octopus head shattered like pottery, and his body slumped into the fire like a felled tree.

The merciless flames took him, Devouring him whole like a hungry sea; Cole was finally gone.

…Hoo.

Lucimia exhaled, relieved, like a mountain setting down its snow.