Naming

The mermaid's gaze slid from Klein’s face down to the wooden planks of the railing, then followed the hull downward to where the land-dwellers stood.

Her eyes finally stopped on Klein’s boots, staring for several seconds.

“Legs... why?”

Klein lifted a foot to give her a clearer look.

“The continent is land. Soil, stone, grass, and occasionally mud. There’s no water for you to swim in, so you have to rely on these two things to walk.”

The mermaid nodded, her expression very serious.

She looked down at her own tail.

That fish tail swayed slowly from side to side beneath the water, the luster of its scales shattering into pieces with the ripples. She looked for a long time—so long that Klein thought she had zoned out.

“I do not have legs,” she looked up, her voice slightly softer than before. “Does that mean I cannot leave with you?”

As she asked this, her tail fin stopped moving underwater.

It ceased its swaying.

Klein noticed this detail. If a fish doesn't move its tail in the water, it can only sink. She was indeed sinking—her shoulders were already submerged, with only her neck and head still above the surface. But she didn't move to correct her posture.

“Not necessarily.”

Klein’s voice pulled her attention back. The mermaid’s tail began to move again, and her body floated back to its original position.

“Just because you can't grow legs doesn't mean I can't build a pair for you.”

The mermaid froze. Her mouth opened slightly, revealing neat teeth—the upper canines were sharper than a human's, but not significantly so.

“Build?”

“Yes,” Klein said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing tomorrow's weather. “Alchemy. Altering the limb structure of a creature is technically feasible as long as I understand your physical composition. The process might be a bit long, but it’s not impossible.”

He didn't go into detail.

Limb transmutation was considered a small branch of human transmutation.

Although the major project of human transmutation was strictly forbidden, certain small branches were viewed as beneficial medical research in some cases, and many restrictions were relaxed.

Limb transmutation was one of them.

Of course... if all else failed, there was always Information Alchemy.

This was the source of his confidence when he said it could be done.

The mermaid was silent for a while. The only sounds on the water were the waves lapping against the hull and the faint splashes occasionally made by the shadows swimming beneath.

“The cost?”

When she spoke, her tone had changed. It wasn't the flat, unpracticed delivery from before; there was a new layer to it—caution.

“I mean,” she paused, her brow furrowing slightly. The movement was still unfamiliar, and the way her eyebrows pulled together was asymmetrical. “Do I need to give something in return?”

Klein almost let it slip.

He really almost said it.

The thought popped into his head so quickly it surprised even him—Give me your voice in exchange.

A classic trope. The wicked sea witch, the innocent little mermaid, a voice for a pair of legs, and then bubbles and tragedy. If the stories he’d read in his previous life had consciousness, they were probably lining up in the back of his mind to applaud.

He had even thought of how to phrase it to make the line sound more dramatic.

But he took one look at the mermaid’s expression and crushed the thought.

She was genuinely worried. On that face still marked by a sense of rawness, the lines between her brows were tight, even if they were crooked. A being who had nothing was seriously calculating which of her only possessions she could offer up for trade.

Forget it.

“No need.” Klein pushed back those messy memories from his past life and shifted his posture against the railing. “Consider it an added bonus for agreeing to cooperate with my check-ups. You help me with my research, and I help you solve the leg problem. A fair trade.”

The mermaid’s brow relaxed. The relaxation was also asymmetrical; the left side smoothed out first, and the right side followed half a beat later.

“Thank you,” she said.

Then she added another sentence.

“You are a good person.”

Klein didn't mind; instead, he cracked a joke. “Of course. My actions have always been those of a gentleman in every regard.”

Naturally, no one in this world could understand his current sense of humor.

The mermaid nodded very seriously, her grayish-green eyes showing no sign of getting the joke.

She took him completely at his word.

The mermaid asked when they would depart.

Klein wasn't in a hurry to answer; he first ran through things in his mind.

The original purpose of this voyage was to collect samples of anomalous creatures and figure out how many types of things had been decompressed from the sirens and how widely they were distributed.

So far, he had recorded over a dozen types of cognate organisms underwater—crustaceans, mollusks, fish-like creatures. The data was enough for a preliminary round of analysis.

As for the one in front of him—a living specimen with self-awareness, capable of communicating in full sentences, and possessing her own entourage—to be honest, the weight of this find was greater than everything else combined.

Don't bite off more than you can chew.

If they continued wandering the sea, they might catch a few more strangely shaped fish at most. But by taking her back, there was so much more they could do.

He turned to look at Ophelia.

“We’re going back.”

A single word, with no extra explanation. Having partnered with him for so long, Ophelia didn't need him to break down the “why” and “what to do afterward.”

Ophelia nodded.

The battle qi shield on her left hand retracted by half. The golden light began to recede from the stern, but the parts at the bow and sides remained—they were leaving, but they still had to stay on guard.

Klein walked to the stern and began adjusting the rigging. He tied the knots deftly, finishing in just a few moves. The wind was blowing from the southeast, and they would have a tailwind on the return trip. Good luck.

The mermaid watched him work from the water, her head turning left and right with his movements. The range of her neck's rotation was still a few degrees larger than a normal person's.

“Do you need me to do anything?”

“Just swim along with the ship; don't fall behind.” Klein tightened the last rope and wiped the salt from his hands. “Do you swim fast?”

The mermaid’s tail flicked underwater, and she slid two meters back before gliding forward again. She barely made a splash.

“Faster than your ship.”

She didn't mean it as a boast; she was simply answering the question. But Klein could hear it—this girl had a natural confidence in her abilities in the water. It wasn't something she’d built up; it was etched into her underlying template.

“Fine.” Klein patted the railing. “Then you can lead the way if you want. Head east, and once you see the coastline—”

“She doesn't know the way,” Ophelia interjected from behind.

Klein’s hand froze in mid-air.

Right. She didn't even know where this was. Letting her lead was no different from letting someone with no sense of direction be a guide.

“...Just swim along with the ship,” he repeated.

The mermaid didn't laugh at him. Instead, she nodded cooperatively and backed away a distance to give the ship room to turn around.

The dark blue shadows underwater moved with her, their formation holding steady. Their circling radius shifted from the hull of the ship to her.

The bow turned toward the east. The sails filled with wind, the waterline dipped two inches, and the ship began to move forward at a steady pace.

Standing at the stern, Klein took one last look at the sea behind them.

The mermaid followed at the starboard rear of the ship, her speed perfectly controlled—neither too fast nor too slow—maintaining a distance of about ten meters. The cognate organisms were scattered further out, forming a loose escort formation.

The distant sea was a hazy gray.

When he withdrew his gaze, Ophelia walked up beside him. The two of them stood side by side, neither speaking.

After a while, Ophelia said, “Were you just about to tell her to trade her voice for legs?”

Klein’s footsteps faltered.

“...How could you tell?”

“The corner of your mouth twitched, and then you swallowed the words.” Ophelia’s gaze was fixed on the sea ahead, her tone flat. “I don't know what kind of messy things are going on in your head, but I recognize that expression.”

Klein was silent for two seconds.

“I just thought the scenario was quite fitting.”

“What scenario?”

“Nothing, just a story.” He waved it off. “If you’re interested, I can tell it to you later.”

“Fine. It's a deal.”

The wind poured in from the southeast, carrying the salty scent of water and the warmth of the sun. The sails were full, and their speed was much faster than when they had arrived.

The mermaid followed beside them, quiet and calm. She didn't speak again, nor did she sing.

She only occasionally looked up at the backs of the two people on the ship before withdrawing her gaze and continuing to swim.

...

The ship wasn't moving very fast.

The wind was sufficient, but the draft was a bit deep—Klein suspected it was because the group of cognate organisms was swimming beneath the ship. They were churning the water into a mess, making the resistance much greater than normal.

The mermaid clearly didn't have such troubles.

Her posture in the water was so relaxed it felt unfair. To her, the ship's speed was no different from being stationary. She followed at the starboard rear for a while, then likely grew bored and began circling the ship.

One lap. Two laps. Three laps.

With every lap, she would pop her head up at the bow or the stern to glance at the two people on deck, confirming they were still there, before diving back underwater and flicking her tail to glide silently to the other side.

Klein leaned against the base of the mast, chatting idly with Ophelia. The content wasn't important—mostly about turning in the preliminary data to the Silver Scale Chamber of Commerce upon their return and deciding on a placement plan for the living specimen. Routine, trivial matters.

The mermaid didn't dive down on her fourth lap.

She leaned against the side of the ship, her arms resting on the railing and her chin on her forearms, listening quietly.

Klein noticed her but didn't interrupt his conversation. The mermaid didn't interject either; her grayish-green eyes darted back and forth between the two of them like she was watching a play.

She waited until the conversation between Klein and Ophelia reached a natural pause before she spoke.

“You two have a very good relationship.”

Klein turned to look at her.

The mermaid’s expression was calm, but her tone rose slightly at the end, carrying the awkwardness of someone who had just learned a new phrase and was eager to use it.

“Are you lovers?”

Klein nodded, then corrected himself. “Husband and wife.”

The mermaid blinked.

“Husband and wife is different from lovers?”

“Similar, but husband and wife is a step further.” Klein thought about how to explain it. “Lovers are still confirming their relationship. Husband and wife have finished confirming it and intend to stay together forever.”

“Forever?”

“Yes.”

“How long is forever?”

“Until death.”

The mermaid’s mouth opened and closed. She digested the concept for a few seconds before turning to look at Ophelia.

Ophelia felt the gaze and lifted her eyelids slightly.

The mermaid looked back at Klein.

“Until death,” she repeated the words, her pronunciation slow, as if tasting the weight of the syllables.

Then she sank a bit into the water until only her eyes and forehead were visible. Her long hair spread out across the surface, and her voice came up muffled from beneath the waterline.

“I am envious.”

Klein asked, “Envious of what?”

The mermaid emerged from the water and tilted her head in thought. The act of “thinking” was very earnest—her brow furrowed slightly, and her gaze fixed on a non-existent point in the air, as if she were searching through a dictionary that had barely been started.

“I do not know,” she said finally.

She wasn't being dismissive. She truly didn't know.

She could feel the sensation—a certain stirring that occurred when she saw the two of them together—but she didn't have a label for it in her vocabulary yet. It was like a newborn seeing a color; they know it is something, but they cannot name it.

The deck was quiet for a while. The sea breeze made the sails snap.

The mermaid spun a circle in the water and flipped over to float on her back, belly up, her tail fin lazily slapping the surface. The cognate organisms immediately adjusted their formation, changing from a circle to a fan shape to give her space.

She stared at the clouds in the sky for a long time.

“Should I have a name?”

The question came suddenly, but it made sense upon reflection. A sentient being with self-awareness would eventually reach this step.

Klein wiped the oil from his fingers.

“If you want one, you can just pick one for yourself.”

The mermaid flipped back over and braced her hands against the railing, staring at him with those grayish-green eyes.

“I do not even know what the land looks like. How can I pick one?”

“What does a name have to do with the land?”

“It matters,” the mermaid said very seriously. “Your names both sound interesting. Klein—that is a kind of thing, right? And Ophelia—that name sounds very beautiful when spoken. My name should also be beautiful, but I do not know what kind of words count as beautiful.”

She paused.

“I only know how to sing. I do not know how to pick names.”

Klein was left speechless by this logic. He reached up to scratch the back of his head, his attitude sincere. “I’m not very good at it either. Naming things isn't on my skill tree.”

The mermaid’s face scrunched up.

The movement was still uncoordinated, with her nose and eyebrows all bunching together at once, making her look a bit comical. But the meaning was clear—she still wanted a name.

Thus, both of their gazes turned toward Ophelia at the same time.

Ophelia was standing at the stern. The sea breeze blew her blonde hair across her face, and she reached out to tuck the stray strands behind her ear, meeting the two sets of eyes directed at her.

One was from the deck, and one was from the water.

Though the angles and expressions were different, the “I’m leaving this to you” rapport was surprisingly consistent.

Ophelia’s fingers paused on the tips of her hair for a beat.