Aphros didn't press him further. She had already come to understand a certain truth: Klein sometimes asked questions that seemed completely meaningless, and the answers were often not for her to hear, but served as some kind of test she didn't yet understand.
A damp, cold sea breeze swept across the deck.
Ophelia walked up from behind and stopped at Klein’s right, standing shoulder to shoulder with him.
She didn't speak.
But her left hand, clad in a fingerless leather glove, silently emerged from beneath her cloak, her fingertips lightly brushing against the back of Klein’s hand.
It was a feather-light confirmation.
Like a silent inquiry: Are you alright?
Klein’s fingers twitched almost imperceptibly, his knuckles brushing back against her fingertips.
—I’m fine.
The contact lasted less than half a second. The busy sailors on deck were none the wiser, and even Aphros hadn't noticed.
“She didn't react.”
Klein spoke, his voice a low murmur, audible only to the person beside him.
Ophelia’s gaze turned toward Aphros.
At that moment, Aphros was crouching at the edge of the deck, trying to touch the thin stream of water flowing from a drainage hole. Her center of gravity was unstable; one hand gripped an iron ring on the railing tightly while the other reached out cautiously—the moment her fingertips touched the water, she pulled back like a startled animal, paused for a moment, and then tried again.
She repeated this three times.
The water carried the salty scent of the deck as it spread along the cracks in the wood. Aphros chased one of the rivulets, and the moment her finger touched the waterline, she recoiled as if burned.
She tilted her head, staring intently at her wet fingertip.
She seemed to be wondering why this water didn't bite her like it did in her memories.
...
“Mr. Klein.”
A deep voice came from behind.
Klein turned around.
Princess Diancie’s adjutant was standing at the top of the ladder leading to the lower cabins. He was a man in his early forties with a gaunt, lean face, high cheekbones, and eyes that held the coldness of someone who had spent years scrutinizing others. The imperial military emblem on his epaulets was polished so brightly that it outshone the luster of his boots.
Throughout the voyage thus far, he had remained by the Princess’s side like a shadow, never once speaking to Klein.
This was the first time he had initiated a conversation.
“What can I do for you?” Klein asked.
The adjutant stepped onto the deck, stood still, and gave a standard imperial military salute. His movements were stiff and precise, like some kind of clockwork mechanism.
“I am Lohr, Her Highness’s accompanying adjutant. I have been stationed inside the cabin until now and was unable to witness the... remarkable methods you displayed on the west coast. It is truly a regret.”
He spoke at a steady pace, each word sounding precisely tailored. But when he mentioned “regret,” his tone rose slightly, carrying a hint of arrogant skepticism.
Klein gave a polite smile. “Merely insignificant tricks.”
“You are too modest, sir.” Lohr took two steps forward, his gaze passing over Klein to land on the other side of the deck.
Aphros was still there, tirelessly playing with the water. The sea breeze had tousled her hair, leaving a few wet strands stuck to her pale cheeks.
Lohr retracted his gaze and finally got to the point.
“Rumor has it that you used alchemy to create a pair of human legs for that... mermaid.”
“Correct.”
“If I may be blunt,” Lohr said, staring into Klein’s eyes as his tone grew more forceful, “in the existing alchemical literature of the Empire, there has never been any record of such forbidden techniques.”
Klein remained silent.
Lohr waited for a few seconds, and seeing that the other man had no intention of defending himself, he directly stated his intent: “I wish to observe them up close. I want to confirm exactly how those legs differ from a normal person’s—this is so I may submit a detailed report to Her Highness.”
That last sentence was a professional form of pressure.
He wanted to convey: This isn't my curiosity, but the Princess’s will.
Klein tilted his head slightly.
“You’re asking the wrong person, Mr. Adjutant.”
Lohr was stunned.
“Those legs belong to her now,” Klein said, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather. “You should go ask for her permission.”
Lohr opened his mouth, looking somewhat bewildered.
In his mind, Aphros was merely a “work” created by Klein, or perhaps an expensive “alchemical construct.” It was only natural to ask the creator if one could inspect the results; he had never considered seeking the opinion of a “tool.”
But Klein’s stance was very clear.
It wasn't a confrontational stubbornness, but a matter-of-fact logic—as if this was simply the way things were, requiring no explanation.
Lohr was silent for a moment before finally nodding. “In that case... I will ask her.”
He turned and walked toward Aphros.
Klein didn't stop him.
Ophelia leaned against the mast with her arms crossed over her chest. Her golden pupils constricted into thin slits in the sunlight, locking onto Lohr’s back like a bird of prey watching its quarry.
Lohr walked up to Aphros and leaned down, trying to make his expression look less stiff. He even deliberately lowered his voice—a social tactic he was used to employing outside of interrogation rooms.
Aphros was holding up a wet finger, watching a drop of water slide across her knuckle. Hearing the movement, she looked up.
Her gray-green vertical slit pupils stared directly at Lohr.
“Miss,” Lohr began, “may I inspect your... legs?”
Aphros blinked.
There was neither shyness nor anger in her eyes, only a pure sense of confusion.
“Why?”
She looked down at her own legs, then at Lohr’s legs encased in military trousers.
—The function seems to be the same.
She turned her head and looked toward Klein in the distance.
Klein was leaning against a mooring post, looking as if he were staying out of it.
When he caught Aphros’s gaze, his lips moved slightly.
He made no sound, only a mouth-shape.
—Refuse.
Only then did he call out, his tone light: “Whatever makes you happy. You decide for yourself.”
The hint came first, the authorization second.
Aphros retracted her gaze and looked at Lohr again.
“No.”
Lohr didn't process it immediately. “...What?”
“I am unwilling,” Aphros repeated, her tone completely level. She wasn't throwing a tantrum; she was stating a decision.
Concise and blunt.
Like an iron gate slamming shut in his face.
Lohr remained crouched there awkwardly, his face turning slightly pale from this unpredicted rejection.
He looked back at Klein, who gave him a polite but cold smile.
—I told you, ask her.
Lohr stood up and brushed off non-existent dust from his knees.
He didn't leave immediately.
He stared hard into Aphros’s eyes. Her vertical slit pupils met his gaze calmly, without the slightest flinch.
Lohr gave a slight nod, reining in his emotions.
“...My apologies for the intrusion.”
He turned around, the sound of his military boots on the deck heavy and steady. When he reached the cabin entrance, he paused for a moment as if recording something in his mind before vanishing into the shadows.
Aphros watched him leave.
Then she looked at Klein.
“Did I do it right?”
Ophelia answered for him.
“Perfectly.”
Although Aphros didn't smile, her tense shoulders relaxed.
She looked down to examine her own legs, then looked in the direction Lohr had vanished, as if chewing on this newly learned power.
“Refusal,” she murmured softly. “That is stopping others from doing what they want to do, right?”
Klein thought about it. “More or less.”
“Then...” Aphros’s pupils shifted slightly. “What if someone refuses me?”
Klein watched her.
“That depends on the situation—you’ll understand in time.”
Aphros nodded solemnly, as if carving this rule into the depths of her soul.
Ophelia spoke in a low voice: “Was that adjutant simply curious, or...”
Klein looked at his palm. “Hard to say. Perhaps it’s just the paranoia of a career soldier.”
“I hope so.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Heavy footsteps echoed from below the deck, growing distant until they finally vanished into the creaking of the hull against the water.
Aphros crouched down again and continued observing the small stream of water.
This time, she let her fingertips remain in the water for a long time.
The water gathered into silver lines along the back of her hand, flowed over her wrist bone, and finally dripped off.
She watched the droplets fall onto the deck, quickly absorbed by the thirsty wood.
The wind gusted, and the last trace of moisture vanished.
“The water is gone,” she said.
No one responded, but she didn't mind.
The sea breeze slammed into the sails, and the sound of ropes striking the mast grew rapid.
The ship’s speed was increasing.
...
...
The news came suddenly.
Just after three in the afternoon, The Voyager was cutting through an unusually calm patch of sea at cruising speed. Klein was leaning against the railing, flipping through a book of imperial maritime charts borrowed from Diancie’s cabin, cross-referencing known deep-water zones on the west coast.
Aphros was sitting on the deck by his feet, her legs crossed—a posture she had recently learned—focused on using her fingers to pick at a dead iron nail embedded in a gap between the boards. Ophelia stood on the other side, her left hand tucked into her cloak and her right resting on her sword hilt, her gaze fixed on the horizon.
The three of them were doing their own thing, none of them speaking.
Diancie’s voice came from the direction of the stern, breaking the silence.
“Something’s happening.”
Klein closed the chart book.
Diancie strode onto the deck from the cabin ladder, clutching a communication stone that was still flickering with a faint light. Lohr followed closely behind, his hand resting on the short sword at his waist.
“Nelisa just sent word,” Diancie said quickly. “About forty nautical miles to the southeast, a coastal fishing boat has been attacked. The fishermen first contacted the Silver Scale Chamber of Commerce’s nearby contact point, and Nelisa forwarded it to us.”
She handed the stone to Lohr, who looked down to record the coordinates.
Klein asked, “Is the fishing boat still holding up?”
“It was when she sent the message.” Diancie paused. “We should still make it in time.”
No more discussion was needed. Diancie turned to the helmsman, her voice rising half a pitch: “Full speed, east-southeast, forty nautical miles.”
The helmsman repeated the order. The sails were pulled taut by ropes, and the moment a wind-based magic crystal was embedded into the array’s eye, the deck shook violently. The Voyager’s speed surged, its prow splitting the seawater as white waves churned along both sides of the hull.
Aphros was thrown off balance by the sudden acceleration and hurriedly grabbed a nearby pillar to steady herself. She looked up at the busy sailors and guards around her, then at Klein.
“Is there going to be a fight?”
Klein looked down at her.
“Possibly.”
“Can I watch?”
“I wouldn't suggest you get close to the railing.”
Aphros nodded, very obedient. Then she silently gripped the pillar tighter.
Twenty minutes later, the sailor in the crow’s nest was the first to sound the alarm.
“Two o’clock!”
Everyone saw it.
It was an abnormal patch of sea. The waves were moving in the wrong direction—not pushing in from the distance, but swirling inward around a central point like a giant funnel swallowing the surface.
At the center of the vortex, a wooden fishing boat was tilted and half-submerged in the water.
No—not half-submerged. It was being dragged down.
Several gray-brown tentacles emerged from beneath the water. The thickest one was as wide as The Voyager’s main mast, coiled around the fishing boat’s keel. The hull had already been crushed and deformed; the sound of wood splintering could be heard from hundreds of meters away.
Klein glanced at the patterns on the surface of those tentacles—there were dense suckers, but their arrangement didn't match any cephalopod he knew. The edges of the suckers had hook-like horny protrusions, their color close to rusted iron.
It wasn't a native species of this sea.
Diancie had already taken her position at the bow for command.
“Load.”
The gun ports on both sides of The Voyager opened one by one, revealing cannon barrels lined with runic circuits. These weren't cannons in the traditional sense—no ammunition magazines, no fuses. The inner walls of each barrel were engraved with layers of activation arrays, powered by the ship’s central mana core.
Lohr stood half a step behind Diancie, holding a telescope for her.
“Distance?” Diancie asked.
“Four hundred yards, closing.”
“Enough. Starboard first and third batteries, fire.”
The command was relayed instantly. Two gunners pressed their hands against their respective array cores, and the crystals lit up with a deep blue light.
Two magic beams shot from the muzzles, trailing a low hum as they cut through the mist over the sea.
Direct hits.
The moment the beams plunged into the water, the illuminated surface revealed part of the creature’s silhouette—massive, bloated, and irregular in shape, looking like several different creatures had been haphazardly stitched together.
An explosion erupted underwater.
The shockwave sent a massive swell fanning outward. The nearest wall of water rose over thirty feet above sea level, carrying severed fragments of tentacles as it crashed straight toward the already precarious fishing boat.
The boat capsized.
The entire vessel was tossed up by the wave, flipping half a turn in the air like a dry leaf before slamming back into the sea hull-up. Several black dots were thrown from the boat—the fishermen.
“...” Diancie’s expression didn't change, but her fingers tightened around the railing.
Lohr lowered the telescope and reported in a steady voice: “Target hit. Three tentacles severed. The main body is still submerged. The fishing boat has capsized; at least four people are in the water.”
Silence fell over the deck for a moment.
Klein walked to the bow and stopped beside Diancie.
“The monster isn't dead.”
“I can see that,” Diancie replied curtly.
The light beneath the water was fading, but the abnormal vortex not only failed to stop but began to spin even faster. The severed tentacle fragments tumbled in the waves, a thick dark liquid seeping from the cross-sections—as the liquid hit the sea, the direction of the surrounding swells immediately shifted.
The fishermen in the water were being sucked toward the center of the vortex.
Diancie didn't hesitate.
“Launch the boats!”
Rate on N.U.
