The Thalassomare Festival (Boss Fight)

The silence that remained after the fall of the Frog-Dagon was unnatural. The amphitheater, still covered with sea salt statues, seemed to hold its breath. Not a wave could be heard from the port. 

Not a breeze from the sea.

Then, a crystalline voice rose from the top of the stands.

"Великолепный..." (Magnificent) You've managed to transform my prelude into an interesting interlude.

The shadows parted. Anastasia Vodnikova descended as if walking on the notes of an invisible score. Her figure was slender, her skin blue with pearly highlights, and her hair, as long as a night river, trailed foam behind it. Her green eyes shone like underwater beacons, and her liquid silk dress looked like a wave caught in motion.

The air was filled with salty perfume and the echo of an invisible choir.

Isolde stepped forward, sword in hand.

"Anastasia Vodnikova…"

The rusalka smiled with cruel grace.

"Oh, the count's little daughter. What a delight to see that even in this alien ocean you come to play a supporting role in my opera."

Vera clenched her fist.

"Opera? Is that what you call reducing human beings to pillars of salt?"

Anastasia inclined her head theatrically.

"Дорогой (My dear), every tragedy needs its scenery. They didn't die… they became part of my stage. Isn't it an honor to have their suffering immortalized?"

Sylphidia swallowed, her spear barely trembling.

"You're sick…"

Lucien, with the composure he rarely displayed, lowered his chin in a grave gesture.

"No, Goddess of Inspiration... she's worse than sick. She's a madwoman convinced that pain is art and beauty."

Anastasia opened her arms. A wave of salt and foam rose behind her, forming a chorus of crystalline silhouettes that sang without mouths.

"Точно (Exactly). And now... let the real show begin."

The salt statues began to move, as if the opera had come to life. Each petrified figure vibrated with the voice of the rusalka, a hypnotic chant that pressed upon the minds of the group.

Isolde frowned, resisting the tide of notes.

"We will not fall for your... charade."

Anastasia descended to the center of the amphitheater, spinning in a pirouette as graceful as it was inhuman. Every movement of hers made the waves of the harbor crash harder against the walls of Thalassomare.

"So, дорогие зрители (dear spectators)... fight. Resist my final aria." She smiled with sharp teeth, ready to tear. "And let me decide who deserves to be applauded... and who will be immortalized in salt."

The watery chant rose, slashing like blades. The battle against the Rusalka of Sorrow had begun.

The amphitheater shook with the echo of the waves. Anastasia's voice, soft at first, spread like poison in the air. It was a chant in Russian, deep and melodic, that seemed to rise from the depths of the sea.

"Слушайте… и утоните во мне…" (Listen… and drown in me…)

The salt statues decorating the place began to tremble. One after another, they fell from their invisible pedestals, advancing like choirs of living marble. Each step they took creaked as if the ocean were petrifying around them.

Vera stepped back for a moment, gripping her staff tightly.

"They're... they're humans trapped in that state!"

Anastasia twirled around with the grace of a ballerina.

"Да, дорогая моя… (Yes, my dear…)" she said with poisonous sweetness. ​​"Their voices nourish my music. Their bodies, my scenery. Don't you see? They are already part of eternity!"

Isolde swung her sword, slashing at the first statue that dared to approach. The figure crumbled into shards of salt that dissolved into foam.

"I won't let you use any more lives for your spectacle!"

The chanting grew shrill. Anastasia raised her hands, and a torrent of salt water erupted from the ground, carrying razor-sharp shards with it.

"Пляшите, маленькие куклы!" (Dance, little puppets!)

Lucien leaped back, barely avoiding a slashing jet of water. His former solemn tone vanished, but not his wit.

"My God! Even her attacks have a rhythm. It's a damn water ballet!"

Sylphidia emerged from Vera's flute, creating a gust of wind that deflected the next wave.

"Then let's attack to the beat. If she turns this into an opera... we'll tear the stage apart!"

Isolde nodded and gave the signal.

"Split up! Don't give her the chance to catch us all in her song."

The statues surged forward like an off-key choir. Vera recited an incantation, unleashing a beam of light that tore through several salt figures in a brilliant flash. Sylphidia charged forward, thrusting with her wind-wrapped spear.

But Anastasia barely seemed fazed. She turned again, her every movement carrying a ripple that followed the cadence of her voice.

"Ваша борьба это лишь пролог…" (Your struggle is nothing more than a prologue…)

A beam of concentrated water shot toward Vera. At the last second, Isolde blocked with her sword, deflecting the jet that would have pierced the priestess. The blow knocked her back several meters, leaving a mark of burning salt on the blade.

Lucien, panting, raised his quill as if it were a sword.

"If she wants a spectacle... I'll write her a tragedy!"

He ran to the center, feigning a clumsy shot to distract. Anastasia arrogantly ignored him until a scroll unfurled from her sleeve, releasing a minor fire seal that erupted at her feet. The water churned violently, and for the first time, the rusalka's perfect face showed irritation.

"Наглец!" (Senseless!)

The scream reverberated like thunder. The choir of statues exploded in a guttural unison that nearly knocked them off their feet.

Isolde resisted with gritted teeth, the rusalka's voice piercing her like needles.

"Watch out! That voice... it's not just magic, it's mental poison!"

Vera covered her ears a second too late, staggering. Sylphidia held her in midair, furious.

"Ayato and the other half of the group will be hearing this too! We have to stop it now!"

Anastasia opened her arms, as if receiving the applause of an invisible audience.

"Финал близок…" (The end is near…)

Anastasia Vodnikova's singing continued to envelop the amphitheater like a poisonous mist. Each Russian word drew water from the cracks in the floor, sending up a torrent that spiraled like a watery stage.

Isolde stepped forward, sword raised, and shouted:

"If this is your aria, Anastasia…!" Her eyes shone with determination. "I will be the note that breaks it!"

"Танцуйте… утоните во мне…" (Dance… drown in me…)

Isolde blocked another onslaught of water with her sword, but her boots sank into the mud that had formed beneath the artificial tide.

"We can't defend ourselves forever!"

Lucien, soaked to the bone, lifted a seal with the desperation of an actor forgetting his script.

"If we keep this up, we'll run out of breath before she does!"

Sylphidia tried to hold Vera in the air, as the priestess could barely maintain her concentration with the oppressive chant.

"Her notes are draining us! It's as if she wants to drown the mind before the body!"

Anastasia spun with cruel grace, fanning her soaked skirt like a foaming fan. A dozen salt statues rose in unison, raising their arms like an obedient choir.

"Ваше дыхание… ваш страх… всё моё…" (Your breath… your fear… it’s all mine…).

A burst of compressed water slammed into Isolde, knocking her against the broken steps. She fell to her knees, spitting salt water.

"Isolde!" Vera screamed, trying to run toward her, but a liquid wall blocked her path.

Lucien gritted his teeth.

"No... we can't lose her now..."

Anastasia bowed as if greeting an invisible audience.

"Пора финала…" (It's time for the end...).

The water in the amphitheater suddenly rose, forming a titanic circle that threatened to fall and engulf them all. The rusalka raised her hands, ready to unleash that killer wave.

At that moment, a voice echoed from the edge of the amphitheater:

"Hey, 'cabaret siren'! Didn't anyone tell you your concerts suck?"

A black object shot out and pierced the rising wave. It was a mixture of gunfire and a sharp blade produced by a red thread that made contact with the water, splitting it in two as if the shadow itself had opened a path.

Anastasia looked up, surprised.

"Что?..." (What...?)

From the top of the steps, Ayato calmly descended, sword in hand, his silhouette etched in the water's reflection. His eyes showed neither mockery nor fear: only the cold hardness of a hunter.

Beside him, Fatima appeared, gracefully spinning, unfurling a crimson thread that twisted in the air like a live whip.

"Sorry for the delay, mes amours..." she said with a flirtatious smile. "You know, I had to choose the right clothes to fight a diva!"

Sylphidia, soaked and exhausted, nearly fell over in shock.

"Appropriate clothes?! We're going to drown, and you're thinking about fashion?!"

Fatima pulled a makeshift fan made of threads from her neckline and winked.

"A lady should always die in style, mon cherie... although, of course, I prefer not to die at all."

Ayato sighed, resting his sword on his shoulder.

"...Focus on fighting, Fatima."

Isolde, still panting, managed to get to her feet.

"Ayato...! Finally!"

The hunter looked down at Anastasia, whose elegant countenance stiffened, as if the air itself had changed tone.

"Так это ты…" (So ​​it's you...)

The rusalka's voice trembled for the first time.

"Your concert ends here."

Ayato charged forward, his sword slicing through the water as if tearing a curtain. Fatima danced beside him, leaving behind a trail of glittering threads that twisted and untwisted like improvised weapons.

"Как дерзко…" (How insolent…) Anastasia spat, no longer with the same melodious tone.

Isolde rejoined, raising her sword to cover the rear, while Vera and Sylphidia tried to compose themselves. Lucien, his robes dripping, couldn't help but smile as if witnessing the climax of a tragic play.

Ayato slashed diagonally, forcing the rusalka to retreat. Fatima, in a nimble leap, extended a thread that solidified into a makeshift scythe, aiming straight for the diva's neck.

The blow missed its target.

With a guttural roar, Anastasia erupted in a swirling spray of foam. Her skin cracked with dark blue marks, her hair snaking like living seaweed, and her once angelic face hardened with the ferocity of a sea predator.

"Я .. твой кошмар…"  (I… am your nightmare…).

The Infernal Tyrant left behind her diva disguise and emerged in all her monstrosity: a Sea Gorgon with a scaled female torso and a sea serpent's tail, long arms ending in wet claws, and a halo of saltwater snakes hissing like live vipers.

Sylphidia immediately backed away.

"What the hell is that?!"

Vera pursed her lips.

"A fallen siren... turned gorgon. Her song is no longer to seduce, but to destroy."

The creature roared, and a giant wave erupted from the amphitheater, rising like a wall, threatening to swallow the entire group.

Ayato swung his sword into the ground and unleashed a dark ripple that split the wave in half, though the impact pushed him back several meters.

Fatima twirled in the torrent, her threads forming a makeshift club.

"Danse Maudite!" she shouted, slamming the creature's head into a barrage of successive blows that echoed like war drums.

Anastasia barely flinched; her claws responded with a brutal sweep that sent Fatima sprawling to the ground, gasping but still smiling.

"Боже мой... (My God...) now that's rude!"

The Sea Gorgon reached out, and new statues of salt emerged from the stands: motionless warriors with frozen expressions of horror, now coming to life to join the offensive.

Lucien clicked his tongue.

"An opera with a chorus... of course."

Isolde stepped forward, her sword glowing with white light.

"We will not let this aberration sweep us away. Formation!"

The team regrouped around Ayato and Fatima. The battle was no longer an elegant duel of edge against steel: it was a chaos of foam, stone, and shadows, a brutal assault against the Gorgon who reigned in that pseudo-sea castle.

The wave rose again, higher than before.

Ayato, soaked, gritted his teeth.

"If we remain defensive, she'll sink us all. We have to attack her together."

And with that beat, the real fight against Anastasia Vodnikova began.