January 3, 2026 — 03:00 PM | Wave 2 — Time Remaining: 15 Hr 00 Min
The "Wilton Torpedo" was a masterpiece of desperate geometry, a vessel of singular vision that was, quite unfortunately, never intended to withstand the kinetic impact of a prehistoric leviathan.
Gilbert Wilton sat atop the narrow sliver of pine, his posture—at least in his own estimation—possessing the stoic dignity of a maritime commander. He adjusted his weight, causing the wood to groan. The four blue barrels beneath him hissed, their synthetic hides suffering under the chemical assault of the acid rain that continued to sizzle against his exposed, pasty skin.
He no longer possessed his glasses. The world had dissolved into a blurry, impressionistic smear of grey smog and Abyssal crimson.
"Indeed," Gilbert wheezed, his voice carrying a nasal, pseudo-intellectual weight as he squinted into the gloom. "It appears my ocular assistance has been reclaimed by the depths. A minor setback for a mind of my caliber, though the lack of high-fidelity visual data is... most regrettable."
Suddenly, the water thirty feet away didn't just ripple; it suffered a violent structural displacement.
An abnormally large dorsal fin, jagged and encrusted with the rusted copper scales of some industrial nightmare, broke the surface. It moved with a silent, ponderous momentum, cutting through the dark water toward the raft with the inevitability of a logic-gate.
"Hmph," Gilbert grunted, though his pulse was currently thundering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "An uninvited guest. Perchance a localized mini-boss seeking an audience with the Representative? Clumsy creature. It has clearly failed to account for my tactical positioning."
He tried to paddle. He dug his hands into the water, his fingers clawing at the murky, oil-slicked runoff. But his constitution was a ruin. The hours spent in the "laborious" task of resource gathering had left his muscles feeling like overextended rubber bands. Every pull of the brine sent a spark of agony through his lower back.
"Stamina... is at a premium," he gasped, his breath a wet rattle.
He didn't look like a hero. To the thousands of viewers currently witnessing the live feed, he looked like a frantic, waterlogged beetle trying to avoid a descending boot.
[LIVE FEED: UTAH SECTOR CHAT]
SLC_Savage: "Look at him go. He's doing the 'Sophisticated Doggy Paddle.' 🐶🏊♂️"
Gamer_God_69: "He's literally not moving. The current is doing 100% of the work. The 'Mob' is about to close the gap in 3... 2..."
Utah_Momma_Jen: "Cover your eyes, kids! The big fish is about to have a very greasy lunch! 🧼🫣"
Gilbert felt the vibration first. A low-frequency hum that rattled the loose change in his cargo shorts. The fin didn't bite. It didn't lunge. It simply collided with the side of the narrow raft with the momentum of a falling skyscraper.
CRUNCH.
The "Wilton Torpedo" stood no chance against the mass of the beast. The sliver of wood flipped instantly, the blue barrels popping out of their lashings like champagne corks.
"GAH! A BLATANT HITBOX ERROR!"
Gilbert was launched into the air. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, he felt weightless—a brief "Aerial Displacement"—before the freezing, acidic lake claimed his bulk.
SPLASH.
He went under. The water tasted of copper, rot, and spent fuel. He thrashed, his mouth filling with the dark liquid, his lungs screaming for the oxygen he'd wasted on his self-congratulatory inner monologue.
He surfaced, gasping for air, his hair matted to his skull like a drowned rodent. He flailed his arms, his fingers searching frantically for the frames that usually perched on his nose. They were gone. Lost to the lightless abyss.
"I am... in the water," Gilbert whimpered, his "gentlemanly" voice cracking. "A most unrefined development. The 'Drowned' status effect... it is approaching a critical threshold."
But as he bobbed in the waves, a strange thing happened. He didn't sink.
Despite his lack of athletic prowess, despite the weight of his sodden cargo shorts and his waterlogged 3XL shirt, Gilbert Wilton remained afloat. His natural "buoyancy"—a direct result of a lifestyle fueled by high-fructose corn syrup and sedentary devotion—acted as a biological life-preserver.
He bobbed on the surface like a massive, pale buoy of sheer entitlement.
Gilbert spit out a mouthful of murky water, his vision a hazy mess of shadows and light.
"Madam Malenia!" he bellowed, his voice carrying a desperate, nasal authority over the roar of the rain. "I require assistance! Your Master has... suffered a maritime displacement! The 'S-Rank' protagonist is currently adrift!"
A few yards away, through the smog, he saw the blurry outline of a raft. It wasn't his "Torpedo"—it was a medium-sized platform of lashed-together pallets that Malenia and Courage had managed to stabilize.
Malenia stood at the center. She was holding Courage, the pink dog shivering so violently he looked like a vibrating motor. She was stroking the dog's ears, her golden fingers moving with a gentleness she never deigned to show the man who summoned her.
She turned her eyeless helm toward the sound of the screaming. She didn't leap into the water. She didn't dive to rescue him. She let out a long, heavy huff of air—a sound of profound, weary disappointment.
"Still thou drawest breath, master of filth?" she murmured.
She used her tattered scarlet wings to generate a small, localized gust of wind, maneuvering the pallet-raft toward the bobbing Representative.
As the raft drifted closer, Gilbert's fear began to warp into its usual, toxic state of "intellectual appreciation."
The water was cold, yes. But it was also transparent.
From his position in the water, looking up at the raft, the perspective was exactly what he'd spent thousands of hours analyzing in the more "mature" archives of his basement. The rain had soaked Malenia's armor-cloth. The scarlet fabric of her cape was heavy, clinging to her golden greaves in a manner that highlighted the "craftsmanship" of her character model.
'Indeed... look at that... anatomical fidelity,' Gilbert thought, a thick string of viscous saliva escaping his lip and mixing with the lake water. 'The "Low-Angle" shot. The environmental triggers have turned this into a "Wet T-Shirt" contest with a literal Goddess of War. The Dev-team... they possess a truly refined palate for such aesthetics.'
He reached out, his hand slapping the side of the wooden pallets.
"I am here, My Dear Malenia!" Gilbert wheezed, his face breaking into a greasy, heavy-lidded smirk. "The 'Rescue Event' has been triggered! Now... be a dear and pull me up. I require... significant physical support to regain the deck. Perchance you should... dismount into the water to provide a boost? For the sake of 'Team Synergy'?"
Malenia looked down at him. The air around the raft grew ten degrees colder.
"Hold onto the edge, creature," she commanded, her voice like a sharpening stone.
"Pardon me? Pull me up! There is ample space beside you for a man of my station! We could... share the warmth. It would be a 'Cozy' environment for a tactical debrief!"
Gilbert made a move to haul his bulk onto the pallets, his stomach jiggling as he gripped the wood, but Malenia's golden boot landed on the edge of the wood, inches from his fingers.
"There is no room for thy rot on this vessel," she hissed. "The beast is frightened. Thy presence would only increase his distress. Thou shalt remain in the depths, tethered to the wood. That is my final decree."
Gilbert's jaw dropped. "If the unintelligent mongrel gets off, there would be more than enough surface area for—"
He stopped. He looked up at Malenia's helm. Even without eyes, the silence she projected was deafening. It was the silence of a woman who was seconds away from turning him into a red smear in the brine.
"Y-yea, quite right. As you wish, My Lady," Gilbert stammered, his pride stinging worse than the acid rain. "I shall... adopt the 'Support Role.' But you should be aware... I observed something. Something quite massive. A Kraken, perchance."
Gilbert clung to the side of the raft, his chin resting on the rough wood. The water reached his chest, his 3XL shirt ballooning around him like a dark, sodden cloud.
He tried to think of something—anything—to mitigate the nerve-racking sensation of the void beneath his feet. But the tension was a physical weight.
Every now and then, he felt it.
Something smooth, thick, and incredibly muscular brushed against his stomach. Then his legs. Then his chest.
It wasn't a shark. It didn't have scales. It was a tentacle—the size of a redwood tree, covered in suckers that felt like cold, wet vacuum seals.
"Ah! H-Hnngh!" Gilbert let out a high-pitched, involuntary whimper.
It didn't hurt. It wasn't crushing him. It was... exploring.
The tentacle swiped slowly across his midsection, the suction cups leaving little "pop" sounds as they detached from his pale skin. It felt like a giant, cold tongue tasting him through the polyester of his shirt.
"Madam Malenia!" Gilbert shrieked, his face turning a shade of white that matched the foam of the lake. "I fear... I fear this creature beneath us is taking liberties! It is touching the 'Critical Zones'! Can't you do something about it? Use your blade! Clear the aggro!"
Malenia didn't draw her blade. She sat in the center of the raft, her back to him. She was focused entirely on Courage. She was running her fingers through the dog's pink hair, petting him softly as the dog whimpered into her cape.
"The beast of the deep is not hungry, master of rot," she said, her voice calm and disinterested.
"How can you be so certain?! It is... it is investigating my thigh! It is attempting a 'Grapple' move!"
"If it were hungry, thou wouldst already be a memory," Malenia murmured. "It is merely playing with its food. Like a feline with a flightless avian. For now, thou art its plaything. Be grateful for the distraction."
"Oh... WAIT WHAT?!"
Gilbert's eyes bulged. He looked down into the murky water, imagining the massive, industrial-looking eye of the Kraken watching him from the dark.
"I am its plaything? I am the 'Entertainment' for a common mob?! Madam, you must descend and dispatch it! Immediately! Use your 'Ultimate'! Nuke the entire biome! I care not for the friendly fire!"
He felt another tentacle wrap loosely around his ankle. It pulled slightly, dragging his foot down into the dark, then released it with a playful flick.
"It is... it is teasing me!" Gilbert wailed. "This is a 'Bad Ending' route! I refuse to be the 'Hentai' protagonist for a Rank-S mollusk!"
"My Dear Malenia! I insist you do something! Though I must confess the sight of your rain-slicked form has left me rather... inspired."
Gilbert's panic was reaching a fever pitch. He tried to haul himself up again, his doughy arms shaking with the exertion, but the weight of his sodden clothes and his own lack of "Athleticism" kept him pinned to the water.
Malenia stood up. She turned toward him, her scarlet cape tattered and dripping.
"I cannot," she snapped, her voice cracking like a whip.
"Why not?! You are the Blade of Miquella! You have dispatched Gods! This is merely an oversized invertebrate!"
"Look at the sky, creature!" Malenia yelled, gesturing with her golden arm at the orange, smog-choked clouds. "The rain is a poison. The water is a tomb. I am already struggling to maintain my form while drenched in this filth. To dive into that lightless abyss... to fight a titan in its own domain while my rot is diluted by this acid... it is a fool's errand."
She leaned over the edge, her helm inches from Gilbert's face.
"Thou art the Master," she hissed. "Thou hast the '200 IQ'. If the beast wishes to play, then play. Provide the distraction while I navigate this vessel to high ground. That is thy tactical contribution for the afternoon."
Gilbert stared at her. He looked at the water dripping off her chin.
He felt the tentacle again. This time, it curled around his waist, squeezing just enough to make his jiggling stomach ripple beneath the shirt.
"I... I am the bait," Gilbert whispered.
[LIVE FEED: UTAH SECTOR CHAT]
SLC_Savage: "THE BAIT. HE IS LITERALLY THE BAIT. 🎣💀"
Gamer_God_69: "Malenia just told him to 'Play' with the Kraken. This is the greatest 'Sanction' in the history of the genre. 📈📈📈"
Utah_Momma_Jen: "At least he's finally being useful! Go, Gilbert! Be a good toy!"
Vile_Virtue: "Look at the water. There's a second eye rising. It's not alone. 🍿🌊"
Gilbert looked out across the lake. A second, massive, tractor-tire-sized eye broke the surface fifty yards away. Then a third.
"This is bullshit," Gilbert whispered.
The tentacle around his waist tightened, pulling him six inches deeper into the water.
"Madam... I fear I am beginning to have a 'Bad Feeling' about this sub-quest..."
The Kraken let out a low, vibrating rumble that made the entire raft shake. And beneath the water, Gilbert felt the cold, wet touch of a dozen more tentacles rising to join the game.
Gilbert Wilton, the Representative of Utah, bobbed in the dark, acidic water. He was wet. He was cold. And he was currently the favorite toy of the most dangerous predator in the biome.
"Ikuze...?" he whispered.
The water began to churn. And the first of the tentacles began to pull.