By now, death was routine.
Hooks, knives, pans—humans were endless in their creativity. Bounce saved him sometimes, Bite helped him feed, but he was still weak.
So when another hook pierced his side and yanked him into the sky, he thought it would end the same way.
Except it didn't.
This time, the hands that held him were small, soft, and trembling. He blinked water from his eyes and saw her—sunlit hair sticking to her cheeks, wide eyes full of wonder.
"…Pretty," she whispered.
Pretty. She thought he was pretty? To everyone else, he was food. To her, he was something else.
Her name was Mari.
And instead of gutting him, she lowered him into a porcelain bowl and filled it with clear water. "From now on, you're mine."
—
She kept her promise.
Every morning, she carried the bowl into the garden, crouching to watch him swim. She fed him bread crumbs, worms, even polished rice stolen from her own meals. At first he clumsily bumped them away, unsure how to use Bite properly, but Mari only laughed. "Silly fish. Eat slower."
He did. For her.
In the afternoons, she took him to the river. Dressed in her swimsuit, she would wade in, holding his bowl, then release him into the shallows. He circled nervously at first, shy of her long legs moving through the water, but Bounce always pulled him close. She cupped him in her hands and whispered, "Don't run away. Stay with me."
He stayed.
—
Seasons passed. He learned her rhythms as surely as he learned the river's current.
In spring, she brought him under cherry blossoms. Petals drifted onto his water, and she'd laugh, blowing them away gently so he wouldn't choke.
In summer, she swam freely with him, diving under and surfacing with a smile that made his fins twitch with embarrassment. "Race me," she'd say, splashing, and though he had no chance, he always tried.
In autumn, she set his bowl on the porch as she studied by lamplight. Sometimes she read aloud, her voice carrying into the water. He didn't understand the words, but he liked the way her voice curled around him.
In winter, she tucked his bowl close to the fire. "Don't freeze," she whispered, hands wrapped around the porcelain as though warming him with her palms.
He thought, If this is weakness, I can live with it.
—
Mari grew.
Her dresses became longer, her hair tied back more often. She hummed as she cooked, laughed less like a girl and more like a woman. Suitors came to call—young men from the village—but she only shook her head, retreating into her room with him.
"You're the only one who listens," she said one night, tracing her finger across the rim of his bowl. "When I talk to you, it feels real."
He wanted to answer. He wanted to tell her she was right.
Instead, he bobbed against the surface, and she laughed softly. "See? You get it."
Years slipped by. Mari celebrated her birthdays with him by her side. At seventeen, she tied a red ribbon to his bowl. At eighteen, she brought him to a festival, carrying him through lantern-lit streets. Children pointed. Some laughed. But Mari only smiled, whispering, "Ignore them. You're special."
At nineteen, she cried in her room after a fight with her parents. He pressed his face against the glass, wishing he could comfort her. She dipped her finger into the bowl, stroking his head gently. "At least you're here."
At twenty, she sat by the river in her white dress, dangling her feet in the water. "Do you think I'll ever leave this village?" she murmured. "Maybe someday I'll take you with me. To the sea, maybe. We'll swim forever."
The thought made him dizzy.
It was a lifetime. Not his, but theirs.
—
Until the day the sky burned.
The ground trembled. Screams echoed. Shadows fell across the village as the Dark Fire Dragon descended.
It was nothing like the White Dragon he had once slain by accident. This one radiated malice, its scales black as coal, veins glowing with molten fire. When it roared, the air itself cracked.
Mari clutched his bowl to her chest, tears in her eyes. "Don't be afraid," she whispered, though her voice shook.
Flames swept the village. Houses crumbled. People turned to ash. Mari stumbled, shielding him with her body as if her arms could protect against dragon fire.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, holding him tighter.
The world became flame.
His body boiled. Her skin charred. Together, they disappeared.
—
[System Notice: Host terminated. Entering long sleep. Revival in progress…]
—
He woke in the river again. Whole. Alive.
But alone.
The porcelain bowl was gone. Mari's hands were gone. Her laughter, her whispers, her ribbon—all gone.
"System!" His mind roared, louder than ever. "Bring her back!"
[Correction: Humans are not bound by Host's system. Death for them is permanent.]
The words cut through him like hooks.
He floated in silence, the current tugging him forward. His chest burned with helplessness.
"Then what's the point?!" he screamed in his mind. "Why me? Why save me, again and again, if I can't protect anyone?"
[Purpose undefined. Host remains weakest existence.]
His fins shook. "Then tell me how to change that. Tell me how to fight. Tell me how to kill that dragon!"
There was a pause.
Then:
[Condition noted. Path to strength possible. Requirements: unknown.]
"Unknown?" he spat.
[Directive: Survive. Adapt. Repeat. Through endless death, Host may accumulate growth.]
He clenched his tiny teeth. Endless death. Endless revival. If that was the path, he would follow it.
For Mari—the girl who had once called him pretty, who had grown into a woman and spent her life with him—he would bounce, bite, and suffer as many times as it took.
Resolve flared hotter than fear. Stronger than hunger.
He flicked his tail, cutting through the current.
"I'll kill that dragon."