This one flexes outward, breaking his grip through pure expansion of muscle. Storm-Singer's shock is delicious. Before he recovers, this one's tentacles pierce through his guard. Not to grab but to strike. Tentacles become spears, hardened tips driving into soft spots between his scales.
Storm-Singer howls. Blue blood clouds the water from six puncture wounds. Not fatal, but painful. Debilitating. His left tentacles go slack, nerve clusters damaged.
But focusing on Storm-Singer leaves Reef opening. He's learned from yesterday. Doesn't go for this one's throat or torso. Goes for the breeding tentacles. Knows they're sensitive, swollen with need. His suckers attach and squeeze.
Pain explodes through this one's body. Not damage-pain but sensation overwhelming nervous system. The breeding tentacles are designed for pleasure and planting, not combat. Reef's grip sends conflicting signals that make this one roar.
The roar is weapon itself. At this depth, this volume, sound becomes physical force. The water itself conveys the fury, creating pressure wave that slams both young males backward. Their eyes bleed from burst vessels. Their gills flap frantically, stunned.
This one doesn't give them recovery time.
Forty seasons teaches one essential truth: mercy is weakness.
This one releases ink. Not defensive cloud but directed streams, targeted at their eyes. The burning chemicals blind them temporarily. In their darkness, this one moves.
Speed in water comes from understanding current, not just strength. This one knows every eddy in this arena. Every place where warm meets cold creates advantage. While they flail blind, this one uses the environment itself as weapon.
Grab Storm-Singer. Drag him down toward the volcanic vent. The water temperature rises twenty degrees in ten feet. His purple scales, adapted for cold deep water, immediately rebel. He thrashes as the heat becomes unbearable, but this one holds him at exactly the point of agony without permanent damage.
“Yield,” this one demands.
“Never!”
Push him two feet closer to the vent. His scales begin to bubble. The scream that tears from him makes reef sharks flee.
“Yield!”
“I yield! I yield!”
This one releases him. He flees upward, desperate for cool water. One eliminated.
But Reef has used the time wisely. The ink has cleared from his eyes. He's positioned himself strategically, using the rock pillars as cover. When this one rises from the vent, he's ready.
His attack is desperate. Everything at once. All tentacles, full strength, trying to overwhelm through sheer fury. For a moment, it almost works. His tentacles find purchase, wrapping this one's limbs. His suckers tear at this one's scales, drawing blood.
This one could end it quickly. Should end it quickly.
But the combat has triggered something primal. The breeding tentacles are fully extended now, throbbing with need. The violence is awakening the mating frenzy that this one has controlled for forty seasons. Each drop of blood in the water adds to the biological imperative.
So this one plays.
Let Reef think he's winning. Let him get close. Let him believe his desperate fury might prevail. His face shows hope mixing with exhaustion. He's using everything he has.
“You're old,” he pants out between attacks. “Weak. She needs someone younger.”
“She had someone younger,” this one reminds him calmly, even as his tentacles squeeze this one's torso. “Her body rejected you completely. Found your touch revolting.”
Rage makes him sloppy. He overextends trying for a killing grip.
Mistake.
This one's tentacles were coiled, waiting. They explode outward, breaking his hold and reversing positions instantly. Now he's the one wrapped, captured, helpless. This one's greater reach means he cannot counter.
“Want to know a secret?” This one brings him close, face to face. “This one could have ended this immediately. Has been restraining strength to make it sporting.”
To demonstrate, this one squeezes. Just twenty percent of full power. Reef's ribs crack audibly. His eyes bulge as organs compress.
“That's two-tenths of this one's strength,” this one informs him. “At four-tenths, your spine breaks. At five-tenths, your organs rupture. At full strength?” This one squeezes incrementally harder. Another rib cracks. “At full strength, young fool becomes paste.”
