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Blinding white pain.
That’s the only thing Squidward feels, the agony of burning alive condensed into a single second.
Then, the blissful feeling of nothing.
This is it, he thinks. The end.
The pie bomb had killed him.
He thinks of SpongeBob. The way he’d fallen right in front of Squidward.
Was he dead, too?
The thought lingers, heavy and suffocating.
SpongeBob.
His big, clueless grin. His unbearable laugh. The way he looked up at Squidward moments before it happened—pure, oblivious joy.
Squidward had spent the entire day trying to make things right, to atone for the fate he’d unknowingly sealed.
But in the end, it hadn’t mattered.
They were doomed together.
He doesn’t know how long his thoughts are occupied by SpongeBob before he realizes something’s changed.
He feels… cold.
It's a subtle difference from the emptiness he felt before, but it's there—just enough to unsettle him.
And then—a sound. A faint rustling, breaking the eerie silence.
Cautiously, he opens his eyes, almost startled that he still has eyes.
The sight before him is utterly unfamiliar.
He blinks, focusing on the strange, swaying plants in front of him. They resemble seaweed, yet they grow from long, sturdy green stalks, completely unlike anything he’s seen beneath the ocean.
They move with a gentle rhythm, but there’s no current, no familiar pull of the water. Just a deep, persistent cold pressing against him.
And then it hits him—
There is no ocean around him.
He looks down at his tentacles and gasps at the sight before him—his body is translucent.
His mind spins.
He isn’t in the ocean, that much is clear. Yet, he isn’t struggling for water, isn’t gasping for breath. The last thing he remembers is the unbearable, searing pain of dying.
And now… this.
Is he… a ghost?
A cold sensation seeps through him.
He slowly turns, scanning his surroundings. Towering green stalks rise around him, their leaves rustling in the… wind. The air is crisp, unnervingly dry. And the sky—vast, muted gray—bears no resemblance to the deep, endless blue he once knew.
Tentatively, Squidward steps forward. The solid ground beneath him confirms what he already suspected—he isn’t simply floating. He can stand. He can move.
But what else?
The fact that he can interact with the ground suggests he isn’t completely intangible. But is that the extent of it? Can he touch things? Move them?
His spectral tentacle curls hesitantly. He eyes the… leaves in front of him. Slowly, he reaches out, his form flickering slightly as he extends his limb toward one of them.
His translucent suckers make contact. He pauses, holding the leaf in place, waiting to see if his hand will phase through or remain solid.
Then—movement.
An orange… caterpillar, its body lined with tufts of long, fuzzy hairs, crawls out from beneath the leaf.
Before Squidward can react, one of its bristly hairs grazes his tentacle.
A sudden rush.
Squidward's world tilts, and suddenly, he’s somewhere else.
He looks down, but instead of his tentacles, there’s only a vast expanse of green—the same vibrant shade as the bamboo leaf he had been holding.
He tries to move, and an unsettling realization crashes over him—his movements are slow, segmented.
His tentacles are gone.
Instead, his body writhes.
A bolt of panic shoots through him. Absolutely not.
Another rush—faster this time, like being yanked through a whirlpool.
And then—
He’s back.
Squidward staggers as he reels from the disorienting shift. He gasps—though he doesn’t actually need to—and looks down at himself.
Tentacles.
He has his tentacles again. His translucent form is back to its original state.
He snaps his gaze toward the leaf, where the caterpillar continues crawling along, blissfully unaware of what just transpired.
Squidward stares in stunned silence, his thoughts scrambling to catch up.
He was the caterpillar. He felt it, moved as it did. And then, simply by willing it—he wasn’t anymore.
He… left.
A shiver runs through him. Oh, absolutely not.
The implications are horrifying. Not only is he a ghost, but apparently, he can slip into other living things.
Taking an instinctive step back from the leaf, he eyes the caterpillar with newfound wariness.
Then, he hears the sound of a door shutting. He whirls around, only to come face to face with a… human?
The man is tall, dressed in light green robes with long, flowing sleeves. His sharp eyes narrow in his direction, and Squidward freezes instinctively.
Then, without hesitation, the man steps forward—straight through him.
A jolt ripples through Squidward’s form, his entire essence shuddering at the sensation. He tenses, bracing for the dizzying rush, the unsettling shift into another body.
But… nothing happens.
He remains himself.
Squidward watches as the man continues walking, completely unaware of his ghostly presence. With a flick of his wrist, the man snaps open a fan and raises it to his face, his movements effortless, refined.
There’s an air of importance about him—an unspoken authority in the way he carries himself.
Squidward doesn’t know what’s happening to him, or the full extent of this bizarre possession ability he seems to have now. But one thing is clear—he’s stuck in an unfamiliar world with no answers.
He decides to follow the man.
Or at least, he tries to.
He barely takes a few steps before something pulls at him.
A sharp, unnatural tug deep in his core—like an invisible rope tightening around him, yanking him backward.
Alright. Squidward abandons that idea immediately.
Something is tethering him to this location, and Squidward just desperately hopes it’s not the caterpillar.
To test his theory, he takes a deep breath—purely out of habit, because he doesn’t need to breathe anymore—and starts walking.
One step. Two steps. Three.
He counts carefully, moving as far as he can in the opposite direction.
Ten steps. Fifteen.
At step twenty, the invisible pull tightens again, like a leash snapping taut. Squidward grits his teeth and turns around.
The moment he does, the pulling sensation vanishes.
He retraces his steps, counting again.
Step ten—he passes a shed, its wooden frame worn and slightly crooked.
Step twelve—the bamboo leaf where the caterpillar still wriggles along, oblivious.
Step twenty—the pull tightens once more.
Squidward exhales, relieved. Not the caterpillar, then.
But if it’s not the bug, then something inside that shed must be what he’s tethered to.
He walks back until he’s standing in front of the small structure. It looks old, worn from time, its wooden panels slightly uneven, as if they’ve been repaired hastily over the years.
Hesitantly, Squidward extends a tentacle, pressing it against the wood. The surface feels solid beneath his touch.
He stares for a moment, brow furrowing. He’s dead, isn’t he? A ghost! Shouldn’t he be able to phase through things?
On the off-chance that someone is inside the shed, Squidward doesn’t want to be interacting with the door like a normal, living person. Better to act like the ghost he is.
Well. Thinking got him out of the caterpillar. Maybe it can get him through the door too?
With that thought, he focuses on the idea of passing through the wood—imagining himself weightless, intangible.
And then, he takes a step forward, phasing through the door easily.
The air in the shed is heavy, thick with something he can’t quite name. Dim light filters through a high window, barely more than a slit in the wood. It barely illuminates the cramped space, casting long shadows over the neatly piled stacks of wood.
And then Squidward sees him.
A young man, hardly more than a boy, suspended by his wrists, his arms pulled taut above his head by thick, course repe. His robes—simpler, humbler than the ones worn by the man from before—are smeared with dirt and dried blood. His curly brown hair falls in tangled strands over his face, partially obscuring his features.
Faint, shallow breaths stir his chest—the only sign that he’s still clinging to life.
Squidward’s nonexistent heart lurches.
He doesn’t know who this boy is, but the scene before him makes one thing painfully clear—whoever did this wanted to make him suffer.
Squidward’s gaze lingers on the deep bruises, the raw, reddened skin around the ropes binding the boy’s wrists. The way his body sags, barely holding itself up, as though he’s been here for hours.
A slow, uneasy realization creeps over Squidward.
He thinks back to the man who had stepped out of the shed earlier—poised, graceful, exuding an effortless air of power and refinement.
That man… must have done this.
“Hey, kid,” Squidward says softly, willing himself to be heard.
The boy’s head jerks up immediately. His eyes, wide and panicked, search the dimly lit shed.
“Shizun?” he breathes, his voice trembling.
Squidward stiffens. Shizun? What does that mean?
The boy’s panic only grows. “This one is sorry—he thought Shizun left. Please, don’t…” His breath hitches, and he presses himself back against the rough wooden post as if trying to disappear.
His voice breaks into a pitiful whimper.
“Don’t hurt me more…”
Oh, Neptune.
Whoever this Shizun is—whoever the boy thinks he’s speaking to—he’s terrified of them.
And worse?
It sounds like he has every reason to be.
“I’m not your shizun, kid,” Squidward says hurriedly. He’s never been great at comforting people, but he wants—wants to soothe the boy. “I—can you see me?”
For a moment, the boy’s breathing hitches, his body tense as a bowstring. Then, slowly, hesitantly, his wide, tear-filled eyes scan the dimly lit shed.
“…Who’s there?” he whispers, voice barely above a breath.
Squidward frowns. So he can hear me, but… not see me?
He clenches his translucent hands, focusing on the same force that let him phase through the door, that let him slip out of the caterpillar’s body.
He wills himself to be seen.
The boy inhales sharply, his eyes locking onto Squidward.
Squidward isn’t sure what reaction he was expecting, but the boy doesn’t scream. Doesn’t flinch. Instead, his expression shifts from fear… to pure, open-mouthed confusion.
“What… are you?”
Well, the easiest part of that to explain is the fact that he’s dead.
“I’m a ghost,” Squidward says matter-of-factly.
The boy blinks at him. “Were you… human before?”
“No,” he replies bluntly. “I’ve always looked like this. Just, more corporeal before.”
The boy stares at him, his expression caught between confusion and disbelief.
Squidward sighs, rubbing his translucent face.
“Look,” he says, leveling the kid with a tired stare. “Where I come from, everyone is an aquatic creature. Fish, crabs, starfish, you name it.”
The boy’s brow furrows slightly, as if trying to picture it.
Squidward continues. “The only reason I even know what humans look like is because of the skeletons I’ve seen at the bottom of the ocean.”
The boy’s eyes widen just a fraction, a flicker of unease crossing his face.
Squidward rolls his eyes. “Relax, it’s not like I put them there. And anyway, I’m clearly not at the bottom of the ocean anymore.”
He pauses, glancing around the dimly lit shed before focusing back on the boy. “Speaking of which, I was hoping you could tell me where this is.”
The boy hesitates, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. He shifts slightly—though the movement only serves to chafe at his already raw wrists. A faint wince crosses his face, but he quickly schools his expression, as if he’s used to hiding his pain.
“This is… Qing Jing Peak,” he says quietly. His voice is rough, scratchy. “One of the Peaks of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect.”
Squidward stares. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it sure wasn’t that.
He crosses his arms. “Great. That explains absolutely nothing.”
The boy blinks, momentarily thrown off. “It’s… a sect for cultivators,” he tries again. “People who develop golden cores and wield spiritual energy.”
Squidward sighs. “Kid, I don’t know what half of those words mean.”
The boy hesitates, then presses his lips together as if trying to find something simpler to offer. Finally, he says, “My name is Luo Binghe.”
Squidward nods slowly. “Luo Binghe,” he repeats, testing the unfamiliar name.
After a pause, he sighs again. “I’m… Squidward.”
Luo Binghe blinks at him. “…Squidward,” he echoes, as if trying to make sure he heard correctly.
“Yep,” Squidward says. “I think your name is weird too, so let’s not dwell on that. Now, can I get you out of that rope?”
“Don’t,” Luo Binghe says, almost immediately. His voice is quiet, but Squidward can pick out the fear in it immediately.
Squidward pauses. “Kid, you’re literally tied up in a shed. Not exactly the best situation to be in.”
Luo Binghe lowers his gaze. “I… I don’t know when my shizun will return,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “If he sees that someone freed me, he’ll just punish me again.”
Squidward frowns. Again.
There’s something heavy in the way Luo Binghe says it, as if this isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.
“…Why are you here?” Squidward asks.
Luo Binghe hesitates before answering, his voice quiet, subdued. “I’m a disciple,” he says. “I’m learning to become a cultivator.”
Squidward raises an unimpressed brow. “And that involves getting tied up in a shed?”
Luo Binghe shifts slightly, the ropes around his wrists digging in further. “I… I mess up often,” he admits, eyes downcast. “So my Shizun punished me.”
Squidward stares at him. “Kid.”
Luo Binghe doesn’t look up.
Squidward gestures to the entire miserable scene. “This isn’t ‘punishment.’ This is just cruelty.”
Luo Binghe flinches at that, but he stays silent.
Squidward exhales, rubbing his temples—again, a habit, since he doesn’t actually have a functioning nervous system anymore. “Alright, listen,” he says. “I don’t know what kind of messed-up training methods you people have, but where I come from, punishment means getting yelled at by your boss, not getting tied up like a piñata and left to rot.”
Luo Binghe says nothing, his shoulders tense.
Squidward sighs. “So, what exactly did you do to deserve this?”
The boy swallows, hard. “I… I was too slow in my chores,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.
Squidward narrows his eyes. “You’re telling me,” he says slowly, “that you got beaten and tied up in a shed because you didn’t do chores fast enough?”
Luo Binghe nods.
Squidward clicks his tongue in irritation. “Yeah, okay. I already hate this guy.”
Luo Binghe bites his lip, his gaze flickering downward. “I—I was chosen,” he says, quiet but insistent. “Shizun picked me for Qing Jing Peak. There must be a reason he’s doing all this…”
Squidward gives him a long, unimpressed stare. “Right. Because clearly, beating and stringing a student up is what good teachers do.”
Luo Binghe shifts slightly in his restraints, his face uncertain. “Shizun is… strict,” he tries to reason, as if convincing himself more than anyone else. “But he’s a great cultivator. He must think I have potential—”
“Or,” Squidward interrupts flatly, “he’s just a power-tripping jerk.”
Luo Binghe flinches but doesn’t argue.
Squidward sighs, rubbing his temples. “Look, I get it. You want to believe there’s a reason for this. That it’s all part of some big lesson.” He gestures vaguely at the ropes and bruises. “But tell me something—does this Shizun of yours ever explain why he’s punishing you?”
Luo Binghe hesitates. “…No.”
“Does he ever actually teach you how to improve instead of just hurting you?”
Silence.
Squidward raises a brow. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Luo Binghe doesn’t move for a long moment. His lips press together, his fingers twitch slightly where they hang in the restraints.
“…But I still want to learn,” he says at last, his voice quiet but steady. “Even if it’s hard.”
Squidward exhales. Great. A kid with a stubborn streak. Just his luck.
Walking a little closer, Squidward crosses his arms. “Well, you might be stuck here, but I’m a ghost. No rules, no obligations, and I definitely don’t answer to some self-important Shizun.” He tilts his head. “So, tell me, kid—if I can’t untie you, what can I do?”
Luo Binghe seems to consider it, his expression unreadable. A long silence stretches between them before he finally whispers—
“…Just don’t leave.”
—
Squidward doesn’t leave.
He doesn’t think he could, even if he tried—but that doesn’t matter. He’s never tried to leave.
Luo Binghe needs someone in his corner. And Squidward—well, Squidward might have even grown to like being that person.
It’s not like he has anything better to do. He’s dead.
Somewhere, in the deep recesses of his mind, he thinks that maybe, somehow, helping Luo Binghe can redeem him.
For the person he failed.
For the person he killed.
But everything comes to a head at the Immortal Alliance Conference.
Luo Binghe faces down a monstrous demonic beast, his sword shattered, his body barely holding together. And then—something inside him cracks open. A power buried deep within him surges, roaring to life, giving him the strength to tear through the beast with his bare hands.
The moment the battle ends, the air changes.
Shen Qingqiu steps forward, sword drawn, his expression dark with something colder than anger.
“Demon,” he spits. “How dare you hide yourself on my Peak. In my sect.”
Luo Binghe, still shaking from exhaustion, staggers back, eyes wide with fear. “Shizun—please—I didn’t know—“
His words change nothing. Shen Qingqiu doesn’t listen.
Blade raised, he advances. Step by step, he forces Luo Binghe back—closer and closer to the great, gaping chasm that splits the earth open in the middle of the Immortal Alliance Conference.
And Squidward knows.
Knows that he can’t stay a passive observer anymore.
They agreed, long ago, that it would be better if no one else ever saw or heard Squidward. Luo Binghe had one other friend on Qing Jing Peak, but she wasn’t someone he could trust with a secret like this.
So Squidward has stayed hidden. Quietly supporting Luo Binghe through every unjust punishment, every cruel and unusual torture.
But now—
Now, Squidward refuses to stay silent.
“Stop!” he yells, his voice carrying across the clearing as he wills himself to be seen, to be heard.
Both men turn toward him.
Luo Binghe’s expression is pure, unfiltered shock—shock and fear, like Squidward’s sudden presence will only make things worse.
But Shen Qingqiu?
His expression twists the moment his eyes land on Squidward. There’s no confusion, no hesitation—only sheer, burning hatred, as if Squidward’s very existence is an insult.
Squidward barely has time to process it before Shen Qingqiu moves.
The man’s sword flicks in his direction, a pulse of spiritual energy surging toward him.
Squidward feels it—an unnatural force pressing down on him, grinding against his very being, trying to erase him from existence.
He stumbles back, his form flickering violently, pain—real, unbearable pain—arcing through him like lightning.
For the first time since dying, Squidward feels something dangerously close to mortal fear.
“Shizun, no!” Luo Binghe lunges forward, but Shen Qingqiu doesn’t stop.
His eyes remain fixed on Squidward, his grip tightening on his sword. “A wretched spirit clinging to this world,” he sneers. “No wonder the boy has been so pathetic.”
Squidward grits his teeth, forcing himself upright despite the agony.
“Oh, I’m pathetic?” he snaps. “You’re the one throwing a kid into a literal abyss!”
Shen Qingqiu’s gaze darkens. “He’s a demon. His very existence is a stain on my Peak.”
Squidward glances at Luo Binghe—at the way he flinches, at the raw betrayal in his eyes.
Something inside Squidward snaps.
“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You took him in, you raised him, you trained him, but the second he shows any sign of being different, you throw him away.” His voice sharpens. “And you call him the monster.”
Shen Qingqiu’s lip curls in disgust. “You know nothing.”
“I know enough,” Squidward fires back.
For a long, tense moment, Shen Qingqiu says nothing.
Then, his grip on his sword tightens. “Then you can follow him into the Endless Abyss.”
And with one swift motion, he shoves Luo Binghe over the edge.
Squidward doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t think.
He just leaps in after Luo Binghe.
—
Squidward stares at the beast circling Luo Binghe’s broken body.
The sheer size of it is overwhelming—shadows curling unnaturally around its hulking form, glowing eyes locked onto its prey. Luo Binghe, battered and barely conscious, doesn’t move.
He had expected to feel something when he crashed into the ground of the Endless Abyss, mere seconds after Luo Binghe, whose body landed with a sickening thud.
But there was barely anything at all.
Just a faint jolt, like the breath being knocked out of him—if he were still alive to have breath.
He had tried to rouse Luo Binghe.
But Squidward was no doctor. He didn’t know what to do about the bones jutting out at unnatural angles or the deep bruises already forming beneath torn skin. He hovered uselessly, frustration curling in his chest.
Then, as he watched, something shifted.
Beneath Luo Binghe’s skin, bones began to move.
Not in the way broken things should—not naturally. They snapped back into place, realigning on their own, muscle knitting itself together with an unsettling slowness.
Squidward froze.
What the hell?
It took him a moment to process what he was seeing. Luo Binghe was healing himself.
Not instantly, not perfectly—his body still looked wrecked, his breathing still shallow and ragged—but it was happening.
So.
Squidward exhaled, forcing himself to wait.
Luo Binghe just needed time.
Time he might not have, with this beast still circling him.
Squidward takes a deep breath—habit, nothing more.
He hasn’t tried using his possession ability since he accidentally activated it that first day. He had thought about it, just a few hours earlier, when Luo Binghe was facing the monstrous beast at the Immortal Alliance Conference.
But then—Luo Binghe’s demonic powers had unsealed, and he hadn’t needed Squidward to step in.
Now, though?
Luo Binghe is unconscious. Vulnerable. And this creature—whatever it is—won’t wait forever.
Squidward clenches his spectral tentacles.
This time, he has to do something.
He runs toward the beast, one tentacle outstretched, and touches it.
The rush is just as disorienting as he remembers.
It’s like being yanked through water at impossible speeds, like his very essence is unraveling and reforming all at once. His vision blurs, his senses twist—for a split second, he’s nowhere, suspended in a vast, shapeless void.
Then—
Impact.
He lands—or, rather, he settles into something massive, something wrong.
A heavy weight presses down on him, muscles coiled tight with unnatural strength. His vision sharpens, but it’s different—distorted, shadowy, as if he’s seeing through something else’s eyes.
And then, he feels it.
The hunger.
A deep, gnawing emptiness curling at the edges of his mind, urging him to tear, consume, destroy.
Squidward shudders. Oh, great. I'm inside a man-eating monster. Fantastic.
For a moment, the beast’s instincts claw at him, fighting his presence. It’s like trying to hold back a raging current with his bare hands.
But Squidward has dealt with worse customers.
With a deep, steadying breath—not real, but it helps—he pushes back.
The beast fights him.
It’s like trying to wrestle a storm into submission—chaotic, wild, and completely out of control. The creature’s instincts lash out, trying to reject him, to crush him beneath its hunger, to drown him in the sheer, overwhelming urge to consume.
But Squidward grits his teeth and pushes back.
He forces himself deeper, latching onto something—whatever controls this thing. Its movements, its thoughts, its will. It bucks against him, its muscles twitching involuntarily, but he refuses to let go.
His vision sharpens—shadows blur and settle into clarity. He sees through its eyes now.
Luo Binghe, broken but breathing, lying helpless beneath them.
And just like that, the instinct to attack—the urge to finish the hunt—surges again.
No, Squidward snarls, slamming down on the thought with all the force he can muster. Not happening, buddy.
The beast shudders, its claws scraping against the stone as its body locks up. A snarl rumbles from deep within its chest, but its movements are wrong now—hesitant, jerky, like a puppet tangled in its own strings.
Squidward grins, sharp and satisfied.
Gotcha.
Slowly, carefully, he tests his control. He flexes a clawed hand—massive, deadly, but under his command now. He shifts his weight, feeling the powerful muscles ripple beneath him.
It’s not perfect. The beast still resists, its instincts pressing at the edges of his mind, trying to take back control. But Squidward has enough.
Enough to turn its attention away from Luo Binghe.
Enough to do something useful for once.
He forces the beast’s hulking frame to circle back, positioning it between Luo Binghe’s unconscious body and the abyss beyond. If anything else lurks in this wretched place—if anything dares to come near—then they’re getting a face full of claws and fangs.
The beast growls, trembling under his command, but it obeys. Its massive limbs plant themselves firmly, shadows curling around its form as it looms over Luo Binghe, its presence a silent warning to anything watching from the darkness.
Squidward’s grip inside the creature’s mind wavers, the strain of maintaining control pressing down on him like an unseen weight. The monster wants to hunt, to consume, to tear into flesh—but Squidward forces it to stay put, forces it to become a wall instead of a weapon.
He glares into the void beyond, daring anything to try him.
Luo Binghe needs time to heal.
And Squidward?
He’ll make sure he gets it.
—
He doesn’t know how much time passes before he senses movement behind him.
A slow, pained shift. A quiet intake of breath.
Then—
“Squidward?”
Luo Binghe’s voice is weak, disoriented, but alive.
Relief washes over Squidward for all of half a second before the beast’s throat rumbles with an involuntary groan.
Oh, hell no.
Squidward slams his control down harder, gripping the creature’s mind with everything he has. The beast bucks against him, instincts surging at the sound of prey stirring nearby. Hunger claws at the edges of his thoughts, demanding, urging—
Squidward crushes it. Not today.
He forces the creature to stay still, muscles locking in place like iron bars. No twitching, no turning, no indication that Luo Binghe is anything more than a rock in the distance.
He will not let this thing so much as look at him.
Squidward exhales slowly—calm, focused, controlled. He can’t exactly talk like this, so first, he needs a plan.
He needs to get out of this thing.
Focusing, Squidward forces the beast to move.
Its massive limbs lurch forward, muscles straining against his command, but he doesn’t let up. Every instinct in the creature’s body screams to resist, to turn back, to hunt.
But Squidward has dealt with enough stubborn, insufferable forces in his existence to know how to dig in.
He makes the beast run.
The heavy thud of its footsteps echoes through the Abyss, each stride eating up vast stretches of ground. Squidward clenches his focus tighter, praying the ten-step rule still applies—even when his steps are this long.
If he’s right, then in a few strides—
A jolt yanks at his core.
The same unnatural pull as before—his tether snapping tight.
Yes, Squidward thinks in victory.
He lets go.
The moment he releases the beast, his vision twists, his spectral form yanked backward at an impossible speed—like being reeled in by an unseen force. The world blurs—shadows warping, time twisting—
And then—
He’s back.
Standing right where he was before. Right next to Luo Binghe’s body.
The beast?
Now far in the distance, its momentum carrying it even further before it realizes—before it understands what happened.
Squidward doesn’t waste a second. He spins toward Luo Binghe, running to him as his body flickers from the strain of possession.
Luo Binghe blinks up at him, still dazed, still weak, but his eyes widen in recognition.
“Squidward…?” His voice is rough, barely a whisper.
Squidward exhales—part exhaustion, part relief.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m here.” He crosses his arms, glancing toward the distant, retreating figure of the beast. “And I just saved your life, so you better wake up fully before I have to do it again.”