"We have bestowed upon it a name: Abyssal Shanty."
Archbishop Lorenzo, Date Unknown.
Darkness. Cold, endless darkness. It might have lasted a second or an eternity—the man had no way of knowing. He didn't remember much. Not his name. Not where he was. Not even that he had a body to call his own. And somehow… that was enough. There was a strange comfort in forgetting, a release from all the burdens he couldn't name.
The world around him offered a peace he had never known, though he didn't know why it felt right. It seeped into him, filling every fiber of his being with contentment. Hardship was a word he couldn't place, and yet the absence of it made him feel whole.
Until "she" spoke.
Claim what is rightfully yours.
My blessings shall aid in opening those doors.
Ignite.
Give him who stands in your way terrible fright.
A Shanty of Dominion you shall hear.
Shielding you from both cold and fear.
The words struck him like a bolt. A memory surfaced—sharp and uninvited. He was Francis. Bartender Francis. Camila's soon-to-be husband. And he was supposed to be dead.
The stanza wasn't new. He had heard it before. Night after night, it had haunted him like a specter. Yet even in death—or whatever this was—the insistence remained, refusing to release him into quiet oblivion.
So much for peace.
Then, slowly, awareness returned. The void's whispers sharpened his senses. He drifted from the timeless slumber into a deep, uneasy sleep. And finally… he woke.
He half-expected to wake in his new bed, Camila beside him, offering warmth and comfort. But the room was wrong. Foreign.
At least I kept my life.
The memory hit. His wedding was in a few days. He had to move, had to act. But his body refused. Something invisible held him in place.
"Wow. Look who's awake," a feminine voice said from the side. "I wouldn't bother if I were you. My powers of restraint are… second to none."
"Who are you?" Francis asked instinctively, still unable to turn his head.
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" she replied in amusement. "You're the one who showed up at my doorstep. Well… swam."
"I… I did drown, didn't I?"
"Yeah. You did. And now you're not. Congratulations. But seriously—who are you?"
"Francis. No last name. Last thing I remember… drowning near Saint Agnes. During a storm." He gave up struggling. She could have killed him long ago, assuming he had even been alive.
She didn't answer immediately. She paused, studying him as if weighing his words.
"Alright," she said finally. "Looks like you're telling the truth." Her invisible hold lifted. Francis blinked, flexed his fingers, looked around—nothing obvious was restraining him.
Am I really alive?
He then looked at the woman, and his heart skipped a beat. Camila was by far the prettiest woman he had ever seen. Her long lashes, freckles, and big eyes gave her an unmatched charm. And that's without mentioning her complexion and hair that he adored a lot. It was a wonder what she saw in him.
This woman wasn't that. Her dark orange hair, freckles, and piercing green eyes were alluring in their own way, true, but they didn't radiate charm; they radiated danger. Like a tiger of old, ready to pounce on its prey at any moment. Her age was hard to guess—youthful features, yet a demeanor and attitude of someone who had lived a thousand years.
"I'll consider that a compliment," the woman said with a chuckle, nearly causing him to jump.
"How—"
"I divined it," she said flatly. She offered no further explanation, and he didn't ask.
"Before I divulge anything else, I need you to drink this," she finally said, pulling a cup seemingly out of nowhere.
"What's that?" he asked, wary.
"Do you really think you're in a position to ask, my dear bartender?"
Yep. That settles it.
She wasn't human. He had to either comply or die. And thus, he gulped the light blue drink.
To his surprise, nothing happened—save for his tongue complaining about the terribly bitter taste.
The woman, seemingly pleased by his compliance, took the empty cup from his hand, set it on the desk beside her, then looked at him again.
"Congratulations on becoming a Submerged. You're now as good as dead."
If the former revelations were a drizzle, this one was a thunderstorm. The kind that made one drown.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked.
"You'll know soon enough. But more importantly, your reaction shows you're no stranger to this. Anything I should know about?"
Cursing the reactions that betrayed him, Francis divulged everything. "There's this woman in my hometown. Valeria, she calls herself. Extraordinary. Beat two dozen men in a row without so much as breaking a sweat." His words earned him a raised eyebrow.
"What else?" she asked, now leaning forward with keen interest.
"She has this weird habit of bathing bare in seawater every day. Does that mean anything?"
The woman didn't hide her reaction. "A Deacon of the Demise Shanty. They need such baths to prevent their bodies from turning into a pile of flesh."
"A pile of… what now?" Francis asked, horrified.
"Yeah. Who would've expected the sea to be charitable?" she replied, mockingly. "The Shanty of Demise is solid. It provides Rejuvenation, Dissipation, and Observation at a lower level. Though higher levels aren't that impressive. Communication and Dematerialization? Nothing to admire."
"Huh?" Francis asked, exhausted by her cryptic words.
"Oh, right, new kid," she said with a sigh. "Your friend can basically control ice, sense the ripples of supernatural abilities, and possesses a physique better than most."
"What about me?" Francis asked, almost instinctively.
The woman closed her eyes, taking a moment before replying. "You, my child, are destined for greatness," she said, confirming his theory about her age. "But just to be sure… what did you hear during your Descension ritual?"
Francis recited the full shanty. Confusion flickered across her face. "Both Ignition and Intimidation in one go? That doesn't make any sense."
"Huh?" he asked, exhausted as ever.
"Most Submerged gain one Stanza per Descension. You gained two—that's… revolutionary," she said, sincerity breaking through her usual reserve for the first time today.
"Those powers being?" he asked, beyond tired of her stalling.
"You have control over flames and the ability to stun weaker opponents momentarily."
The mention of fire triggered a vague recollection. He glanced at his right hand—and froze. The ruby ring was now devoid of a gem.
"This ring gave me the ability to use fire before the… Descension," he shared. The woman's eyes opened for a fraction of a second, but she quickly hid it.
"This implies a Reverend could theoretically become a Saint if they wielded a Divine Instrument of the same Shanty while Descending. Revolutionary indeed," she mused, lost in thought. "Still… don't get ahead of yourself. You're merely a small fish in an infinitely vast ocean."
Her words did little to soothe him, yet in a strange way, they reassured him. Reassured him that he was, indeed, a dead man walking—in more ways than one.
"Why are you telling me all of this?" he asked, confusion gnawing at him.
"Because the potion you drank will turn you into a pile of flesh and blood the moment you utter anything about my existence," she replied casually, dropping his heart straight to the floor.
"It'll what?!" Terror gripped him fully.
"Oh, relax!" she chided. "You have nothing to fear as long as you keep me a secret."
"What if they use metaphysical means to get the information out of me?" he added, voice trembling.
"My dear Francis, a Dominion Saint with no Anti-Divination is a Divine Instrument in the making."
The second revelation hit harder than the first. "You're a Saint? As in… someone with six Stanzas?" Then he remembered her previous words. His shock doubled. "Dominion? You mean… we're of the same Shanty?"
The Saint laughed—a hearty, almost absurd sound that didn't match her predatory presence. "You new Submerged are a delight to be around. One piece of information is all it takes for you to reach the verge of a heart attack."
Francis' mind swam. The weight of the conversation nearly made him collapse again. Then he recalled the one question he'd wanted to ask from the start. "May I… know your name?" he asked politely, even though there was no need for that, one leak and he'd leak from all sides.
She smiled. "You may call me Saint Agnes."