Cocoon

Morning arrived the next day.

Klein was shaken awake by a stray beam of light. The curtains weren't fully drawn, and a bright line sliced across his face, trailing from his left eyelid to the bridge of his nose. He rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. After a few seconds of muffled silence, he realized the texture of the pillow was just too good—worlds better than that hard thing on the ship.

It was soft. It was dry. It didn't smell like the sea.

This was the first time in many days that he had woken up in a proper bed.

He rolled back over and stared at the ceiling for a long while before slowly sitting up. As he moved his shoulders, a tingling sensation spread through his joints—it wasn't painful, but rather the feeling of a body that had been tense for too long at sea finally remembering it could relax. He raised his hands, interlaced his fingers, and pushed forward, his wrists letting out a series of satisfying pops.

Comfortable.

He rubbed his face and finally scanned the room.

One of the windows was halfway open. The sea breeze, carrying the morning's dampness, drifted in, causing the curtains to billow rhythmically. Ophelia was sitting in a chair by the window, one leg crossed over the other, leaning slightly forward as she gazed outside.

The morning light caught her profile. Her golden hair was untied, spilling over her shoulders and draping down the back of the chair. She wore a simple white shirt—likely part of the change of clothes Nelisa’s people had prepared—with wide sleeves rolled up just above her wrists. Her left hand rested on her knee, where the fine, dense black scales reflected a dull luster in the morning light, contrasting sharply with the white fabric.

Klein watched her for a few seconds.

His gaze slid from the ends of her hair to her profile, then down to that hand resting on her knee. The light traced a thin outline along the edges of the scales. He noticed that, compared to before they boarded the ship, the color of those scales seemed to have faded slightly. Not by much, but he could tell.

Ophelia turned her head.

The movement wasn't particularly fast, but it was precise—she hadn't just "discovered" Klein was awake; she had known the moment he sat up and simply hadn't turned around immediately.

“Awake?”

“Yeah.” Klein rubbed the back of his head, a few tufts of hair sticking up. “How long have you been up?”

“Over an hour.”

“Over an—” Klein glanced at the position of the sun outside and paused. “You got up before dawn?”

“Force of habit.”

Klein didn't press further.

He just mentally reviewed the events of the previous night: after arriving at the guest room, he had showered, changed, and sat on the bed. He had intended to talk to Ophelia for a bit, but the moment his rear hit the mattress, he was out. The last image he had was of Ophelia reaching out to pull the corner of the blanket over his shoulder, her fingertips perhaps brushing his forehead—though he might have just imagined that in his daze. After that, there was nothing.

“Did I just pass out immediately last night?”

“Yes.”

“...How fast?”

“From the moment you sat down to when you closed your eyes, about three breaths.”

Klein fell silent for a moment.

Three breaths. He had originally wanted to say something to her—he couldn't remember what now, but regardless, he hadn't even managed to get the first word out before he was gone. He lamented inwardly, feeling a bit pathetic, but the debts of the body were not something one could talk their way out of.

Deciding not to dwell on the subject, he climbed out of bed barefoot and walked to the table to pour himself a glass of water. He took a sip—it was cold but clean, without any hint of salt. After getting used to the rusty-tasting freshwater on the ship, this sip was practically sweet.

The surface of the water reflected a small patch of light from the ceiling, wobbling before settling into a flat mirror.

“What do you plan to do today?” Ophelia asked.

Klein set the glass down and wiped the moisture from the corner of his mouth.

“First, I’ll check on Aphros’s condition, then I’ll find a place to set up my alchemy tools. I need to start working on what I promised her.”

He paused.

“Human legs.” His tone slowed down as he weighed his words. “To be honest, I’m not entirely confident yet. A mermaid’s physiology is vastly different from a human’s... it’s not something a simple transformation spell can solve. But since I promised, I can't keep putting it off.”

Ophelia stood up from her chair, walked to the table, and poured herself a glass of water as well.

“You certainly seem to care about her affairs.”

Her tone was flat. It was a statement, not a question.

But Klein heard it anyway—or rather, it was an intuition honed from spending so much time with her. With Ophelia, the flatter her tone, the more turbulent the things beneath it. It was like a lake; the calmer the surface, the deeper the water.

He gave her a sidelong glance.

“What, jealous?”

The words were half-joking, half-testing. He was prepared for her to say "No" or "You’re overthinking it," providing him an easy out to drop the subject.

Ophelia held her glass, looking down at the water.

The surface reflected the light from the window and her own blurred silhouette.

Several beats passed.

“A bit.”

Klein’s mouth opened slightly, then closed.

He really hadn't expected that answer.

It wasn't that Ophelia couldn't get jealous—of course she could; she wasn't made of stone. But hearing those words from her mouth, without any embellishment or buildup, was as blunt as a weather report. It was precisely this frankness that left Klein momentarily speechless.

All his prepared deflections were rendered useless.

The room fell silent for a couple of seconds.

The curtains billowed in the wind once more before settling back.

In the distance, the faint sound of waves hitting the shore could be heard, rhythmic and patient.

Klein cleared his throat and changed his tone. “Well, Aphros’s matter isn't so urgent that it needs to happen today. How about I first—”

“I am not the type to make a scene,” Ophelia interrupted him.

She took a sip of water, her voice returning to its usual tone, perhaps even steadier than before. “Do what you promised to do. I was simply answering your question.”

The last sentence wasn't heavy, but it was enough to make her point clear: I might be jealous, but I won't let it stop you from doing your work—and since you asked, I answered honestly. That’s all.

Klein stared at her profile for a while.

He looked at the way she held the glass—her right hand gripping the body, fingers long and joints distinct, her grip not forceful but steady. He looked at her downcast eyes—her eyelashes were long, casting shadows on her cheekbones that trembled slightly with her breath. He looked at the way her lips pressed together when she said "I am not the type to make a scene"—she was serious, even a bit stubborn.

Even while jealous, she still had to lay out her reasoning perfectly.

Acknowledging her emotions, yet never allowing them to cloud her judgment.

This woman.

He walked over.

It wasn't just walking; it was more of a lean—only two steps of distance, the edge of the table brushing his waist. He reached out and pinched Ophelia’s cheek between two fingers, giving it a gentle tug.

Ophelia’s movements froze.

Her glass was still at her lips; the water wobbled, nearly spilling a drop.

Her eyes lifted to stare at Klein, her golden pupils reflecting his face—hair messy, collar askew, looking like he had just woken up. She didn't dodge, she didn't swat his hand away; she just let him pinch her.

“Pinched enough?” she asked after a few breaths.

Klein didn't let go; instead, he gave another little pinch. The skin beneath his fingertips was even softer than he had imagined.

“Nice texture.”

The tips of Ophelia’s ears turned a slight shade of red—just a touch, very faint, spreading from the lobe to behind the ear, as if stained by the morning light. She tilted her head—not to dodge, but to subtly brush his fingers off her face with the movement.

“Go do your work.”

“In a moment.”

Klein answered, but he showed no intention of leaving. His hand reached out again, aiming for her cheek once more.

This time, Ophelia was prepared. She tilted her head back an inch, just enough for Klein’s fingertips to brush past her face, catching nothing but air.

“Don't be reckless. It’s still morning.”

Her voice was very low, the end of it trailing off into a breathy whisper. She paused as soon as she said it—the moment the words left her mouth, she realized they sounded a bit off. Mentioning "morning" made the subtext go sideways.

Klein, however, didn't bite. He pulled his hand back, leaning it against the edge of the table as he tilted his head to look at her. After a quiet beat, he asked a completely unrelated question.

“Ophelia.”

“Yes?”

“Why is your skin so smooth?”

The hand Ophelia used to hold her glass stopped.

She turned to look at him, her brow furrowing slightly as her lips moved, as if she were trying to judge the intent behind the question.

“You—”

“I’m asking seriously.” Klein coughed, raising his right hand with his index and middle fingers together. “I swear.”

“...”

“Don't get angry yet, just listen.” Klein’s speech sped up, cramming the words in before Ophelia could change her expression. “You’ve trained with a sword for so many years. I know you have callouses on your hands—that’s normal. But you don't have them on your soles, or your knees, and certainly not on your face. You’re a battle qi user, not some lady raised in a greenhouse. Logically, it shouldn't be like this.”

He paused there, his gaze unconsciously sliding down half an inch.

It lingered for about a breath.

Then he quickly pulled it back.

Ophelia noticed. She never missed things like that.

“Where were you just looking?”

“The tabletop.”

“The tabletop is at the level of my chest?”

“...This table is indeed very much a table.”

Ophelia’s gaze weighed on him for two seconds.

She didn't really intend to pursue it—dwelling on it would only make things more awkward, and based on her understanding of Klein, once he started talking nonsense, it meant he had already admitted he was in the wrong. Pushing further would only make him say even more ridiculous things.

In the end, she would likely be the one losing out.

She set her glass down, her finger tracing a circle around the rim. As her fingertip slid over the porcelain, it made a very faint humming sound.

“The strengthening of the body by battle qi is all-encompassing.” Her tone returned to normal, as if she were explaining common knowledge. “Skin toughness, healing ability, resistance to damage—none of it is comparable to an ordinary person. Even if I suffer an external injury, as long as it’s not particularly deep, it will heal in a day or two without even leaving a scar.”

Klein nodded. He knew this; the physical constitution of high-level battle qi users far exceeded that of normal people, and epidermal repair was just one of the most basic aspects. But knowing it was one thing; touching it with his own hands was another—the gap between theory and physical sensation was sometimes more impressive than the theory itself.

“So general wear and tear leaves no trace,” Ophelia said, turning her right hand over to show her palm. The morning light fell on it; from her wrist to her fingertips, the skin was impossibly clean. “Hands are the exception. The friction from the hilt is daily, the direction is fixed, and the force is concentrated. Sometimes the repair speed of battle qi can't keep up with the rate of wear, and callouses remain.”

As she spoke, she pinched the base of her palm, where there was a thin patch of hardened skin. One wouldn't even notice it without looking closely; its shape followed the curve of her palm, like an extremely thin shell that had been worn into place.

Klein reached out, pulling her right hand closer to look. His thumb pressed against the callous, rubbing it back and forth—the force was light, a testing motion, as if he were confirming the texture.

Ophelia didn't pull her hand away.

Her fingers curled slightly in his palm, whether it was a subconscious reaction or something else.

“Besides here, there is also the web of the thumb.” She opened the space between her thumb and index finger to show him. “These two spots are the primary points of force when gripping a sword. No amount of maintenance helps.”

Klein’s thumb moved over, pressing against the callous on the web of her thumb. It wasn't thick, but the hardness was distinctly different from the surrounding skin—the surrounding skin was so smooth it was almost slippery. The contrast was exceptionally clear beneath his thumb, like a coin sewn onto a sheet of silk.

“What about the left hand?”

Ophelia’s movements hitched slightly.

The pause was so brief that an ordinary person wouldn't have noticed, but Klein’s fingers were still resting against her right wrist, and the beat of her pulse was half a beat faster than before—he felt it.

She lifted her left hand from her knee. The black scales extended from the back of her hand to her wrist, gleaming with a dull luster in the morning light. Each scale’s edge pressed against the start of the one below it in a tight arrangement, like some ancient suit of armor.

“The left hand... used to have them too.”

She turned her palm over. The scales didn't cover the palm, but the skin texture there was already different from the right—it was smoother, finer, even the ridges of her fingerprints were shallower than normal, as if something from beneath was pushing them flat bit by bit. There was no trace of a callous.

“After the pollution, the callouses on my palm disappeared.” Her voice had no fluctuation, as if she were stating the results of an experiment that had nothing to do with her. “The scales are repairing and reconstructing the skin tissue, wiping away the original traces in the process.”

Klein didn't respond.

He let go of her right hand and turned her left hand over. His finger traced a light line across her left palm—from the base to the fingertips, slowly and carefully, as if confirming something.

The texture of that skin was indeed different from the right. It was even smoother and finer, but beneath that delicacy was a layer of cold, faint hardness that didn't have the elasticity of human skin. It felt like the membrane of a snake before it sheds—beautiful and glossy, but with something else underneath.

Something that didn't belong to her.

His thumb lingered on her palm for a breath.

Then he let go. The movement wasn't fast, but it was definite.

The room fell silent for a few breaths. The sea breeze lifted a corner of the curtain, the light shifted, and then it fell back into place. The cries of a few seabirds came from outside, sounding distant and muffled through the glass.

Ophelia withdrew her hand and placed it back on her knee. The fingers of her left hand curled unconsciously—the path his thumb had traced across her palm seemed to still hold a bit of warmth.

After a while, she spoke. Her voice was low, half a beat slower than before, as if each word were being held in her throat for an extra moment before being released.

“If you want my right hand to become... like that as well.”

She paused. Her fingers unconsciously rubbed the callous on her web of the thumb, repeatedly, as if confirming the hard skin was still there.

“I can do it. If I use battle qi for full repair, these callouses would disappear in a single night. It’s just that before... I didn't feel there was any necessity.”

The end of her sentence trailed off into almost nothing.

The last few words—"any necessity"—practically slipped through her teeth. Before, she hadn't felt it was necessary because those were the hands of a knight; callouses were the proof of her swordplay, and she didn't need to erase them for anyone.

But now.

After these hands had been held, inspected, and touched inch by inch by another person.

The phrase "no necessity" wasn't so certain anymore.

Klein looked at her lowered eyelashes.

They were long, casting a small shadow on her cheekbones. She didn't look at him as she spoke; her gaze was fixed on her right hand, on the thin callous she was repeatedly rubbing.

He suddenly understood what she was saying.

She wasn't talking about callouses.

She was asking him—do you prefer that? That smoother version, the one that fits the image of a "woman's hand"?

A person who wouldn't hesitate for half a second on a battlefield was now pushing words out one by one, trailing off at the end.

“It’s not necessary,” he said.

Ophelia’s eyelashes fluttered.

Klein stuffed his hands into his pockets, his tone as casual as if they were discussing what to have for breakfast.

“In fact, leave those hands to me tonight.”

Ophelia looked up.

Her golden pupils reflected the light from the window and his half-backlit face. Her expression didn't change, but something in her eyes was stirred by his words—like a small pebble dropped into a pool, the ripples so fine they were almost invisible, yet they were certainly spreading.

“I’ll give you a hand treatment.” Klein held up a finger and wagged it. “The results will definitely exceed your expectations—it might even be better than your own repairs.”

Ophelia watched him for two seconds.

The curve of her lips was very slight, not quite a smile, just a softening of the lines. But there was something moving in those golden eyes—she was performing an Ophelia-style evaluation and filing of every word he said, eventually reaching a conclusion.

“Fine.” She picked up her glass and took the last sip of water. Her throat moved as she swallowed. “I look forward to it.”

She set the glass back on the table. The porcelain met the wood with a soft clink.

Then she stood up. Her pace didn't slow as she passed Klein. The hem of her shirt brushed against his arm, bringing with it a faint breeze—a light scent mixed with the morning dampness and that subtle, indefinable fragrance of hers.

Klein let out a short laugh behind her.

“Don't worry.”

He watched her back as she pushed the door open. His gaze lingered for a moment on her golden hair spilling over her shoulders—the ends curled slightly, resting against the collar of her white shirt, swaying gently with her steps.

The door closed just as he finished his last word. It closed steadily, without slamming, the sound of the latch clicking into place crisp and clean. But the speed was just a fraction faster than a normal closing.

That fraction was just enough to give her away.

Klein stood facing the closed door for two seconds. A smile slowly spread from the corners of his mouth to his eyes, finally turning into an expression that was part helpless, part triumphant.

She runs away the moment her ears turn red.

Every single time.

He looked down at his right hand. Two different sensations lingered on his fingertips—the hardness of the callous on the web of her thumb, rough and warm; and that unnatural, non-human smoothness on her left palm, cold and fine, with something beneath it that he hadn't yet fully understood.

The two sensations overlapped, slowly fading from his fingertips.

He clenched his hand into a fist and turned to find his clothes.

There was quite a lot to do today.