Poplar St. (OFFICIAL WATTPAD UPLOAD)

The Blessed Heir

He was standing at the top of the tallest spire above Heracleion, as a hurricane tore through the ocean around him.

Quackity gasped, glancing around wildly at the churning sea, wooden sailing ships being tossed around by the waves like a child's playthings as lightning crackled, splitting the sky and illuminating the spire in front of him in a flash of brilliant pink light. A man with huge feathered wings as dark as the night sky stood in front of him, holding a glowing spear made of pinkish-purple crystal in one hand and Nya's trident in the other, his sodden blond hair falling out of its braid as he whirled around, piercing blue eyes wild.

Quackity froze. "Phil?"

Phil didn't reply. Instead, he brandished the spear and the trident, his pupils turning as thin as needles.

"You've lost!" He snarled, a vicious gleam shining in his eyes as he bared his fangs, night-black wings flaring behind him. "Give it up, Foolish, the city has fallen!"

Quackity whipped around.

Behind him, Foolish was crumpled on the ground, panting as he struggled to regain his footing. His skin wasn't gold; it'd turned a burnished silver, almost like sharkskin, and his eyes burned blood-red and angry as he coughed, clutching a gash in his stomach.

Glowing green blood spilled on the stones beneath him, making them shimmer where it landed and turn into solid gold.

"Give me back my fucking spear," Foolish wheezed, rising to his full height, looming over Phil like a terrifying monolith. "Or are you too afraid to make it a fair fight, old man?"

"Ironic, considering you're twice my age," Phil taunted. "Are you losing your touch?"

Foolish screeched and charged.

Phil rolled to the side, swinging the spear around and catching Foolish in his left wing with the point. Foolish howled in pain, and a blast of crackling magenta lightning sent him flying backwards.

Quackity winced as he hit the ground hard.

"I wonder if this is where our quarrels will end," Phil sneered, pacing leisurely around the fallen god. "Is this the place where I finally strike you down? Where death catches up to life? Is this where the reign of the Golden God of Storms will end?"

Foolish laughed bitterly, cradling his wounded wing. "You couldn't kill me if you tried."

"Uh, guys?" Quackity blurted, glancing around frantically. "Mind explaining to me what the fuck is going on here?"

Neither of them acknowledged him at all.

Quackity jolted. Holy shit, was this another one of those weird-ass dreams he'd been having lately—

Suddenly, out of nowhere, there was a bright flash of multicolored light, and three people landed heavily on the ground between Foolish and Phil. Quackity froze in alarm when he realized he recognized them; one of them was Eret, groaning in pain and clutching their arm—it was bleeding profusely, and strangely enough, they weren't wearing anything to hide their glowing white eyes—and none other than Karl stumbled and staggered as he landed, a panicked look overtaking him.

Damn, Karl looked like shit. He was in that familiar multicolored trench coat he was fond of under Netherite armor Quackity didn't know he owned and his battered prismatic goggles were holding his filthy and unkempt hair back, and he looked like he'd just gone through the spin cycle of a washing machine with a bag of rocks and a couple of feral raccoons.

But the most shocking part was probably the boy Karl was cradling to his chest, the little dark-haired kid with fluffy grey-speckled wings whom Quackity recognized from his dreams—