The news of Oceanspear’s resurrection swept through Station Deep-Anchor and the Pacific Coalition Fleet like wildfire.
To the thousands of exhausted sailors, battered divers, and wounded tamers holding the line at minus twelve thousand meters, Commander Arthur Vance was no longer just an academy prodigy or a frontline medic. He was a force of living salvation. A commander who could snatch a Diamond-Rank giant beast from the jaws of rotting death while holding off an entire chimera fleet with a handful of friend beasts.
On the flight deck of the station’s main drydock, Admiral Douglas Kincaid stood before his assembled officers, his uniform straightened. His eyes burned with renewed command power. Beside him, Oceanspear floated in the staging pool. Her sapphire scales glowed with healthy, vibrant light, her massive tail gently sweeping the water.
Arthur Vance stood at the head of his squad.
Grimm sat at his right boot, his jet-black coat brushed clean of silt, his one notched ear erect. Titus rested behind them, his dark rock shell fully healed where he had plugged the hospital barge’s hull breach, his ancient jaws contentedly pulverizing another crate of dried kelp stalks. Vesper sat perched on Arthur’s shoulder. Her chin was held high in regal disdain. Meanwhile, Pip preened his golden feathers beneath his infrared heat lamp. Echo floated in his chest flask, burping peaceful bubbles:
