Heretical Fishing: A Cozy Guide to Annoying the Cults, Outsmarting the Fish, and Alienating Oneself

As Rocky soared through the darkened sky, he reconsidered his life choices.

He’d been launched dozens of kilometers into the air, the very world turning into a vast circle beneath him. At first, he’d been filled with joy—he had never graced such heights. The moment he began to descend, however, realization washed over him.

Though he’d been flung higher than ever before, it hadn’t been by his beloved mistress.

This should have been something they experienced together. Instead, his first time into the stratosphere had been experienced with the help of a human male. He had betrayed his spiky mistress, even going so far as to make his body aerodynamic so he went higher and higher. Rocky, for perhaps the first time in his life, experienced self-disgust.

He was a dirty, disloyal crab, and he knew not how many waves would need to crash over his mighty carapace before his sins were cleansed.

There were no distractions to be found in the sky, even the wonder of his height nothing before the weight of his betrayal, and the longer he fell, the more he was propelled into despair. How would he tell her? What could he possibly do to regain her trust? Which evil force had concocted the perfect trap for him to fall into and betray his beloved…?

Tropica came into view below him, so small that he could barely make it out. When he spied the headland, only a portion of Fischer’s home poking out from the vast stone formation, Rocky had his first devious thought for the day.

This, he decided, was all Fischer’s fault.

Though Rocky would never tell him, Fischer was the strongest of them all. If he had been there to combat the one called Nathan, Rocky would never have been tempted by the throw of another. It was Fischer who had caused Rocky’s betrayal. Cementing this belief into his vastly superior mind, Rocky changed course. He angled his body, letting the wind flow past him. Within seconds, he had doubled in speed, rocketing downward.

Ficher’s crime demanded retribution; Rocky would deliver it.

Bubbles of justice trailed from his mouth as he pictured the destruction in his mind, even Fischer’s System-made house having no hope against his immaculate carapace. A wind flew past, causing him to spin chaotically, but it didn’t matter—he would change course again and rocket back toward his target.

In his tail spin, however, he noticed something curious.

There was a group of people sitting beneath the giant tree that Lemon had helped create. It was a gathering he recognized. The cultists that he’d been molding into obedient followers sat in meditation, arrayed in a circle that called to Rocky’s very soul, the landing spot too perfect to ignore. It was a grander entrance than he could have ever imagined, and each time he rotated and caught sight of it again, he felt even more drawn in.

He could ignore the call no longer.

As much as Fischer needed to be punished, Rocky would have to find another way to enact retribution. He splayed his legs outward, using them to steer toward the tree. With his worries forgotten, Rocky pulled himself into a ball, streamlining his body and gathering speed once more. He retracted his eyestalks and his vision went black, even those small appendages standing in the way of peak velocity.

When he hit the ground, it was with the force of a meteor, the thump so loud that his everything shook.

Fragments of sand and dust flew in all directions, his majestic body leaving a crater in the earth. He sat still for a long moment, the fine hairs within his statocyst not properly detecting sound, leaving only a high-pitched tone that rang through him. As the dust began to settle, Rocky’s senses returned, and he unfurled his limbs, standing dramatically slow to give the humans time to show their respect.

The cultists were all prone, pressing their faces into the sand and flattening themselves as much as their weird, fleshy bodies could.

“Holy frack,” an unknown voice said, making Rocky turn the speaker’s way. “Maybe you were right about the crab form, Joel…”

He immediately agreed with the woman’s assessment, as Joel had no doubt praised his body. But then he realized the woman was standing, as was the man beside her. Indignation boiled within Rocky’s shell, and he took a step forward.

“Bow down!” Joel yelled, both desperation and reverence lacing his words.

The two, both blinking their stupid meaty eye coverings, slowly acquiesced—too slowly, by Rocky’s estimate. He scuttled forward, raising his claws high in preparation for a good whack. When he was before them, though, something reached out and touched his core, halting his claws as they descended. Not comprehending the twin sources of chi, he cocked his carapace to the side, studying them.

The two before him... they were close to ascension.

It was a curious find, and he was just considering the implications when someone dared interrupt his thoughts.

“Forgive them, Sergeant Snips,” Joel said. “They are not aware of your majesty.”

Rocky whirled, furious at the cultist for mistaking—nay, disrespecting—the name of his spiked mistress, but before his claw lashed out, he recalled that the cultists believed he and Sergeant Snips were the same being. After his fall and the discovery of two soon-to-be cultivators, his thoughts were muddier than a mangrove swamp. Rocky blew slow, calming bubbles, knowing he needed every ounce of his vast intellect to decide what to do with the two humans.

He was just about to turn their way and consider them once more when another source of chi leaped out toward his awareness. He stared at Joel, disbelieving, and he quickly spun in a circle, sensing the abdomens of every other cultist. They were all close to ascension. His mouth undulated noiselessly as he tasted their chi.

Their power tasted like his and his spiky mistress’s own cores...

It wasn’t exactly the same, but they definitely held a touch of crab, as if they were the water in which a crabby individual had been living. Now that he knew what to look for, the other strangers had a pinch of it too. It was even weaker than the cultists, but it was definitely there.

As Rocky continued taking them all in, another devious plan began to form.

He pictured a cast of cultivators under his command, their essence closely aligned with that of a crab. Rather than be loyal to Fischer, they would be loyal to him, and by extension, Sergeant Snips. He could use these weird and ugly creatures to craft a faction of superior form. It could be both the punishment for Fischer that Rocky had been looking for, and something to keep Fischer’s growing power in check.

He stood tall, erecting his body out as these grand plans played out in his mind.

Come, he hissed, walking toward the ocean.

After a few steps, he glanced behind himself, not having heard any footsteps.

They were all still prone, pressing their faces to the ground.

Releasing a slew of very pissed-off bubbles, he sprayed them with sand. When they looked up, he resorted to using human communication, beckoning them on with a wave of his mighty claw.

The entire time they made their way toward the ocean, Rocky’s thoughts of grandeur were the only thing stopping him from hitting one of his foolish followers.

***

As lord Tom Osnan Sr. set the cart down, he wiped sweat from his forehead.

“Thank you, lord,” the merchant said, bowing low.

Tom nodded at the man, grateful that at least someone was treating him with the requisite respect. As detestable as it was to drag the cart along like a lowly beast, traversing the worn roadway at speed required precise steps, leaving little room for his thoughts to wander.

Now that he was still, his mind burst into action like a lover scorned, eager to point out every mistake and imperfection.

Fischer’s visage, his smirk dripping with self-satisfaction and the surety of a man that knew he would win. The blast that had come from him, pure and unaspected, yet stronger than any other. Tom’s slaves, his hand-curated cultivators, had been freed. Worst of all, the decimation of the grove, which his family had watched over for generations. Its nurturing essence had been stolen, never to be returned.

It made his chi boil.

It roiled through his body, growing faster and faster. It demanded an output, something primal within him waking up. He swayed. His fists clenched. His vision blurred as he took a step toward—

Slap.

Lord Tom Osnan Sr. blinked, his cultivation base momentarily stunned.

“You are not a child, Tom,” Augustus admonished. “Put your rings on and control yourself.”

“Yes, my king.”

He reached a shaky hand into his pocket and removed them. With each iridescent-stone ring he returned to his fingers, a fraction of his power was sealed. It made him feel as though a bird caged, the sensation unwelcome after having been able to spread his wings and soar.

“Thank you for the reminder,” he muttered, lowering his eyes. “You are as wise a friend as ever.”

Augustus scoffed. “I am your king and nothing more.”

“Yes, my king.”

As Augustus walked away, Tom stared back in the direction they’d come from. On the distant horizon, dark clouds milled, standing in stark contrast to the clear skies above. They were already halfway to Theogonia, and loathe as he was to admit it, Tom pulling the cart had been a good idea.

Though he was also a revered lord of Gormona, the only other cultivators present were the king, queen, and princess Tryphena. Looking at it through that lens, rather than that it was an unjustified punishment, eased some of the turmoil within Tom. Not all of it, of course, but it helped.

As an added bonus, Augustus had seemed more himself with each passing day. The broken man sitting atop Gormona’s throne had been almost as shocking as their utter defeat, and despite Tom feeling victimized by his old friend, he was still glad to see Augustus return to his confident self.

With these conflicting emotions not at all dulled by his rings’ suppression, he wandered over to join the others. The merchant Marcus was preparing their lunch as the royals lounged, and Tom sat down near them, taking care not to sit close enough for Augustus to raise an eyebrow at his impropriety.

“So,” Penelope said, fingering her wedding ring, “would you mind telling us about the corruption again, Tryphena?”

Tom tried to hide his interest in the question. Despite being the king’s closest confidant, he had never been permitted to return to Theogonia after the war.

“Of course, mother,” the princess replied, nodding respectfully. “Which aspect would you like me to elaborate on?”

“As we traveled today, I was thinking over your comments from last night. You said the corruption felt more muted than ever while you were under the effects of the Cult of the Alchemist’s new potion, yes?”

Again, Tryphena nodded. She waited for the queen to continue.

Penelope chewed her lip for a moment, considering her words. “How much more muted, would you say? I’ve experienced Theogonia’s corrosive essence before, under an earlier version of the alchemists’ concoction, and it was still too much to withstand after a matter of hours.”

“It’s… not perfect,” Tryphena admitted. “But it was much better than any other time I’ve visited. I could stay within the city’s bounds for days at a time, and I would only have to leave for an hour for my core to return to normal.”

Tom swallowed and examined his fingernails in an attempt to appear indifferent to the conversation he desperately wanted to record. His spies had recovered information about the Cult of the Alchemist’s actions in Theogonia, but he’d never heard something so concrete.

“And you were able to traverse the city center?” the Queen asked.

“Yes. As I said, there was nowhere in the capital that I couldn’t—”

“Enough,” Augustus Reginald Gormona declared. “Leave the rest of the conversation for this evening when present company is no longer listening.”

Despite Tom’s plant-aspected chi, fire burned within him at the clear disrespect.

“Father…” Tryphena said with exaggerated calm. “I think it may be best to include lord Osnan in our planning. I know that his failure was monumental, but we are essentially challenging the heavens. We might need to rely on him if we—”

“He has nothing of value to add,” the king interrupted, then spun toward Tom. “Right, Osnan?”

Tom took a long moment, fighting back his urge to lash out at the continued derision. “As you say, my king,” he eventually said, his words clipped.

“There you have it. Until he can atone for his failure, he need not be involved in any planning.”

Tryphena’s gaze drifted Tom’s way, her eyes unreadable before she returned her attention to Augustus. “Yes, father. Please forgive my impropriety. I didn’t intend to question your judgment.”

Augustus nodded, and as they slipped into silence, Tom’s self-control warred with his desire to attack his oldest friend.