A sharp, wet crack echoed through the Drowned Conservatory’s lowest corridor, a sound both sickening and deeply, profoundly familiar. Vezza’s knuckles throbbed, a comfortable ache that buzzed straight up her arm. Her eyes, still gritty with sleep-deprived exhaustion, fluttered open to a scene that felt ripped from a fever dream.
She was mid-punch. Or rather, the punch had just *landed*. Her fist, surprisingly small but packed with the righteous fury of a thousand espresso shifts, was buried in the jaw of a boy who looked like he’d been carved from polished kelp and arrogance. He wobbled, a low gurgle escaping his throat before he toppled backward, splashing into the ankle-deep brine that usually served as the corridor’s permanent floor.
“Agh! My… my face-scales!” he shrieked, his voice thin and reedy, like a dying sea-whistle. He thrashed, scattering algae-slicked grime, his immaculate emerald-green robes blooming around him like a bruised anemone. His name, Vezza vaguely remembered, was something equally pretentious, like ‘Viscount Octavian of the Brine-Bloods’.
A small, bewildered figure stood frozen beside her, clutching a sodden mop like a shield. His frame was rail-thin, his tunic patched, and his dark hair clung to a forehead already sporting a blooming bruise. Laro. The name slammed into Vezza’s consciousness with the force of a rogue wave.
[DING! Salvation Spark acquired! Current Sparks: 1.]
“Salvation Spark?” Vezza muttered aloud, her voice raspy. The sudden, chirpy chime from the void of her mind was the final, dizzying piece of the puzzle. “Oh, for the love of… I actually transmigrated, didn’t I? Into *Tides of Ruin*?”
Her stomach churned, a cold dread replacing the lingering grogginess. *Tides of Ruin*. The grimdark web-novel she’d rage-quit after the protagonist died for the tenth time. And Laro. The impoverished, overworked student destined to become the world-ending villain, the one who’d summon the Abyssal Tide and drown Murro-Vell. The very boy she was now apparently defending, mop and all.
Her eyes narrowed. System tallies. Little glowing sparks. Her ticket home. To her quiet beach, far, far away from abyssal depths, snobby nobles, and future world-enders. And the quickest way to get Laro to *not* drown everyone? Shower him with so much obnoxious, suffocating affection that he wouldn’t have time to brood into villainy.
She scanned the hall. Her gaze snagged on a half-eaten, glistening golden bun lying abandoned on a nearby maintenance cart, undoubtedly dropped by some scullery hand fleeing the noble’s tantrum. Perfect.
With a single fluid motion born from years of snagging muffins before the morning rush, Vezza snatched the bun. She turned to Laro, whose wide, fearful eyes were fixed on the spluttering noble in the water.
“Eat this,” Vezza commanded, shoving the flaky, honey-drizzled treat directly into Laro’s face. He flinched, the crust nearly smushing against his bruised cheek. His scent—dust, brine, and something faintly metallic—was surprisingly potent.
Laro stared at the confection, then at Vezza, his mouth slightly agape. “W-what?”
“I said eat it,” Vezza repeated, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You look like you haven’t seen a decent meal since the last moon-cycle. Don’t tell me you’re too high-class for a stolen sea-honey roll, *scholar*.” She put a little extra bite on “scholar,” a subtle jab at the mockery the noble had likely been dishing out.
Laro’s gaze darted from her, to the treat, to the still-gurgling noble, then back to Vezza. He slowly, hesitantly, took a small, uncertain bite. A faint flush crept up his pale cheeks, his brows lifting in genuine shock, as if sugar were an alien concept.
A timid cough broke the silence. A small, anxious maid, her braided hair damp and her apron stained, scurried around the corner. It was Tilla, one of the few kind souls in *Tides of Ruin* who tried to help Laro, usually to her own detriment. Her eyes were wide with terror as she took in the scene: the noble still flailing in the brine, Laro chewing, and Vezza standing over them like an avenging sea-spirit.
“Mistress Vezza!” Tilla whispered, her voice barely a breath. “Oh, by the Deep Currents, what have you done? Lord Krillius will have your scalp! And Laro’s! You cannot cause such… such *commotion*! Not here, not now. The Academy Masters will see! They’ll throw us all into the brine-tanks with the filter-jellies!”
Vezza waved a dismissive hand. “Krillius, huh? Sounds like a glorified shrimp. He’ll live. And if he doesn’t, less trash to trip over.”
Tilla wrung her hands, her gaze darting nervously around the cavernous, dripping hall. “But… but the rules! We are just scullery staff! We can’t… we can’t touch them! They are the Valesians, the high-blooded! Grand-Preceptor Vharr himself will unleash the Deep Scourge upon us!”
Vezza rolled her eyes. Valesians. Right. More like ‘Velvet-Pillows-and-Privilege-ians’. She saw Laro flinch at the mention of Vharr. Good. The kid needed to be scared of *something* other than her aggressive food-shoving. Vharr was the real puppet master, after all, the elder who’d secretly hired Vezza’s original body to find an excuse to execute Laro. Her plan just got a little more complicated.
[Salvation Goal: 10,000 Sparks to return home!]
Vezza nearly choked. “Ten *thousand*?!”
Before she could fully process the astronomical number, a low, melodic chime echoed through the passage, deeper and far more ominous than the System’s cheerful chirp. It was the summons bell, reserved only for urgent matters. A moment later, a hushed voice, amplified by subtle sorcery, reverberated from the water-slicked walls.
“Maid Vezza. Report to the elder chambers immediately. Grand-Preceptor Vharr requires your presence.”