A local man, hunched over with age, shuffles through the streets, a well-worn stool clutched in his gnarled hands. His movements are slow and deliberate, but they are guided by the certainty of habit, each step falling in rhythm with a lifetime of repetition. Even before he arrives at his familiar spot, a crowd has already begun to gather, drawn by the ritual that unfolds every month. It is not his voice that calls them, but the unspoken understanding of tradition—this is a ceremony as old as the city itself, and they are as much a part of it as he is.
He stops at a patch of stone, its surface smoothed by years of his presence, and sets the stool down with a careful gesture. The crowd watches, some murmuring softly, others standing in quiet anticipation. With a grunt, he hoists himself onto the stool. For a moment, he wavers, his balance precarious, and the crowd collectively holds its breath. Then he steadies, his feet finding their place, and a wave of relief passes through those watching. He straightens his back as much as his old bones will allow, turning to face them all.
Behind him, the city of Stratus Heaven stretches upwards. The city sits perched atop a network of colossal platforms, supported by pylons that seem to spring from the ocean’s depths like the roots of some ancient and towering tree. Steel and coral-like stone blend together, a marriage of human ingenuity and the natural strength of the sea's bedrock, creating a city that gleams with cold, gray beauty. Bridges, winding and crisscrossing like veins, connect one part of the city to another, and from a distance, the whole structure appears to float above the waves—an unyielding testament to mankind’s refusal to yield to the unforgiving waters.
The crowd thickens, the faces of eager fishers and curious townsfolk blending into a restless sea of humanity, waiting for the ritual to begin. And as the man steadies himself on his stool, the city itself seems to loom, listening, waiting.
The old man takes a deep breath, raising his arms to the sky, and his voice rings out, sharp and commanding. “Bold fishers!” he cries, the words reverberating across the platforms and down to the dark water below. “Brave fishers! Show us your catch!” His voice grows louder with each call, swelling with the anticipation of the moment. “Today is the Reaping—when all men lay bare their catch for the world to see!”
It is the Reaping, a monthly spectacle that draws fishers from all over the region to the shadow of Stratus Heaven’s towering platforms. They come from distant harbors and hidden coves, steering their vessels to the heart of the city, where the great pylons sink into the depths. To those who stand at the base of these massive structures, the city itself is a colossus, towering over them, its full scale only visible when one pulls back far enough to see the entirety of its sprawling, labyrinthine bridges and pathways.
Stratus Heaven is a marvel of steel and coral-like stone, rising defiantly from the ocean, its platforms suspended high above the surging waves. If one were to retreat even further, beyond the platforms and through the twisting bridges, they would see that Stratus Heaven is not alone. Other cities, each a sibling to the first, stand on their own great platforms, connected by a web of bridges that stretch far across the dark waters. Together, they form the Storrich region—a place where the skies are heavy and low, the waters shadowed and deep, and the fish pulled from the waves are sometimes strange and twisted.
This is the far southern edge of Kerrasuk, a land where the sky is always brooding and the sea is restless and black. Here, the fishers know the waters well, but the waters know them too, and each catch is a gamble with the unknown. This is the Reaping—a time to lay claim to the bounty of the ocean, or to leave with empty nets and quiet shame.
The crier stands firm on his stone platform, where the massive pillars of Stratus Heaven descend into the churning sea. Around him, fishers begin to inch closer—some navigating in their weather-beaten sails, others steering their sleek Helsuks, and a few, even more daring, riding atop their sea beasts, the creatures’ dark, glistening scales reflecting the city’s pale light. Each fisher is eager, their faces alight with anticipation, their pride swelling with the hope of displaying the best catch. They jostle and elbow one another, exchanging half-teasing, half-serious taunts, each determined to prove himself superior.
The ritual unfolds as it always has. The crier’s voice booms over the crowd, summoning the fishers forward to present their catches. They leap from their vessels onto the wet stone, nets and baskets in hand, their footsteps echoing against the groaning platform. One by one, they come, eager to show their bounty and tell their stories—each catch a testament to their skill, each fish a prize they boast over. The crowd watches with eager eyes, cheering and jeering with each reveal. Those who pull in the largest hauls earn the loudest cheers, their reputations rising with the weight of their nets.
Though the air is filled with laughter and good-natured rivalry, there is an undercurrent of something deeper—something rooted in the past. It wasn’t so long ago that the Reaping was a dangerous affair, when fishers’ rivalries often spilled over into violence. A careless word or a proud boast could turn to fists in an instant, the platform becoming a battleground for bruised egos and old grudges. But the days of brawling have faded. Now, the event is almost serene, the wildness of the southern fishers restrained by the firm hand of the Empire.
Once, the Reaping was an untamed, unpredictable tradition—a testament to the raw spirit of the southern coast, where men lived and died by the sea’s whims. Now, there is an order to it, a peacefulness that suggests the south, too, has bent its knee to imperial law. The fishers, who once might have fought over the rights to the sea, now stand side by side, trading jokes instead of blows. The Empire’s influence, subtle but unyielding, has softened the edges of the south’s rugged culture, shaping it into something closer to the heartland’s ideals of civility.
Among the boisterous crowd of fishers and townsfolk, one could see the unmistakable figures of the Helecterrans and Jovians, their distinct forms scattered among the cheering and booing spectators. The Helecterrans, with their pale, almost translucent skin and elongated limbs, did not come for the fish—their people had long shunned the taste of the sea’s bounty. Yet, they were here for the thrill of the hunt, for the spectacle of skill and daring. Though they would never partake, there was something in the sight of the shimmering fish, freshly pulled from the depths, that stirred them, and they watched with rapt attention.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
In the southern reaches of the Empire, in places as remote as Stratus Heaven, other races found a kind of uneasy equality with the humans. Here, far from the imperial heartlands, the rigid lines of race and class seemed to blur, if only a little. The Helecterrans and Jovians mingled freely with the crowd, watching from the platforms as equals—but only as spectators. Even here, where the Empire’s deep-rooted prejudices felt distant, a boundary remained.
That boundary was as unspoken and immovable as the pillars holding up the cities. It had been set long ago, when Lord Koleson’s fury drowned the Helecterrans’ underwater kingdoms, pulling their proud cities into the depths. The stories of Koleson’s wrath had become legends, passed down from generation to generation, and even in the farthest reaches of the south, his shadow still loomed. Though the Helecterrans stood among the fishers now, they would never cross the invisible line that had been drawn with the fall of their kingdoms.
They joined in the cheers and shouted their approval alongside the rest of the crowd, but never with the passion of true participants. They were observers—outsiders to a tradition that, once, they might have claimed as their own.
No, a tradition that they made.
Even though the fishing culture had once been theirs, the Helecterrans no longer ventured into the waters. They had abandoned the sea that had once been their domain. No law barred them from fishing or swimming, but the stories of Koleson’s fury—the storm that had swallowed their kingdoms and their lords—served as an unspoken commandment. It was as though the wrath of the conqueror had become a divine law, one that kept them from reclaiming what was once theirs.
The waters, which had cradled their thriving cities, now stood as silent tombs, a graveyard for the kingdoms they had lost. The Helecterrans never spoke of it, but the truth was clear—they were exiles in their own world. Their home lay beneath the waves, but they would never return to it. The sea had become a boundary they dared not cross, even as they stood on its edge, watching.
And so they remained on the sidelines, relegated to mere spectators, as other races sailed and fished the gleaming waters that had once belonged to them.
Amidst the chaos of cheers, shouts, and laughter, a lone Helsuk pulls up to the lip of the cement platform where the waves crash against the stone. The boat is old and weather-beaten, its hull creaking as it settles against the platform. A sudden pop echoes across the dock as the hatch springs open, and a girl emerges, her golden-brown hair wild and tangled from the salty wind. Her skin, a deep tan made radiant by the relentless Southern sun, gleams with sweat and seawater. She moves slowly, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. Unlike the other fishers, she carries no heavy basket of fish, no trophies to hold high above her head.
The crowd takes notice, and the noise dims just a little as the girl stands there, empty-handed. Her gaze falls to the weathered boards beneath her feet. Her master’s promise echoes in her mind—the promise of a recommendation, a chance to rise above her station—if only she had brought back a catch worthy of the town crier's approval. But the waters had been unkind, and she has returned with nothing but the sting of failure.
The crier’s eyes find hers, his face softening with curiosity and disappointment. “And what of your catch, girl?” he calls, his voice gentler than it had been with the others. There’s a long silence, and the girl, feeling the weight of a hundred eyes upon her, swallows hard. Her voice, small but firm, carries over the crowd.
“I caught six hundred fish,” she says, her tone resolute despite the shame that burns her cheeks. “I swear it—I counted every one.” The claim hangs in the air, the words almost swallowed by the sound of the sea.
For a moment, there is stunned silence. Then, a ripple of amusement spreads through the crowd. The men and women around her exchange looks, their expressions ranging from bemusement to outright condescension. They smile the way one does at a child who tells a fantastical tale—indulgent, but with a hint of scorn. A few shake their heads, whispering to each other behind raised hands, their laughter low and pitying.
The crier steps down from his stool, crouching slightly to meet the girl’s gaze, his eyes narrowing with gentle scrutiny. “Six hundred fish, you say?” he asks, his tone carrying a note of amused disbelief. “And yet you bring me none? If they’ve all slipped away, then tell me—who took your catch, child?” His question hangs in the air, and the crowd leans forward, eager for her answer. His voice drops into a teasing mockery, his eyes searching hers. “Was it a corrupted sea beast that stole them away in the night?”
The crier’s words, meant to be playful, draw a ripple of laughter from the crowd. These were fishers, after all, hardened by years on the brutal southern seas, men and women accustomed to the dangers of a rough trade. They laughed easily, their humor sharp and unforgiving. But the girl’s reply, delivered with a blindingly earnest expression, wipes the smile from the crier's face.
“Yes,” she says, her voice as clear as the crashing waves. “It was a sea beast that took my fish.”
For a heartbeat, the crier is stunned. He expects her to break into a smile, to let him in on the joke, but the girl's eyes are wide with sincerity. She continues, voice steady and unwavering. “I hunted it down. I caught it.”
The crier’s brow furrows, a mixture of annoyance and disbelief crossing his face. He opens his mouth, ready to scold her for making light of the day’s serious business, for disrespecting a tradition that the people of Stratus Heaven hold dear. But before he can say a word, a commotion stirs in the crowd.
“There!” A fisherman points a rough, calloused hand toward the girl’s Helsuk, his voice rising above the confused murmur. Heads turn, eyes straining to see what has captured his attention. A second, then a third voice chimes in, pointing and shouting until every gaze is fixed on the girl's rickety vessel. The crier follows their gaze, his eyes widening as he sees it.
There, trailing from the back of her Helsuk, is a massive shadow. It floats just beneath the surface, a shape so large it seems impossible for such a small boat to have hauled it. The water ripples around it, disturbed by the slow, rocking motion of the waves. A monstrous, misshapen form—dead and tethered to the end of her vessel—slowly rises as the tide shifts, revealing the jagged outline of its body. It is a corrupted sea beast, its scales mottled and twisted, a creature that every fisher knows to fear and avoid.
The crowd falls silent, the laughter dying on their lips. The crier’s mouth hangs open, words caught and tangled. This girl—this empty-handed fisher who had claimed to catch six hundred fish—has brought back something far more valuable, something far more dangerous. The corrupted sea beast, the same creature he had mocked as the product of a child’s imagination, lies dead at the end of her line.
For a moment, no one moves. The only sound is the slap of waves against the docks and the creak of the Helsuk as it sways beneath the weight of its impossible catch. The fishers, who moments ago had laughed and jeered, are struck dumb by the sight. Shocked whispers ripple through the crowd, spreading like wildfire. The crier stares at the girl, dumbfounded, the words of rebuke still frozen on his tongue.
By the unspoken rules of the Reaping, the girl is the clear winner, her prize eclipsing every fish pulled from the depths that day. Yet, there are no cheers, no victory shouts. There is only the stunned silence of a crowd that has just witnessed the impossible—a silence that carries more weight than any celebration. The sun hangs low over the horizon, casting long shadows over the platform, and the girl stands alone, victorious but without triumph, surrounded by a sea of disbelief.
