Lohr shook the water from his hair. His military uniform clung to him uncomfortably, but he couldn't be bothered by that now. His boots were filled with seawater, making a squelching sound with every step.
“Your Highness, status report on the personnel.”
Diancie stood by the command platform. She watched him approach, her lips trembling as if she wanted to say something, but she ultimately only answered his question.
“The captain is severely injured and hasn't woken up. The other three have minor injuries—choking on water and scrapes—nothing life-threatening.”
Lohr gave a short nod.
He scanned the deck. The three fishermen were settled in a sheltered spot on the port side, with sailors wrapping them in blankets. The young man who had been rescued first was no longer vomiting, but was shivering in a corner. The other two were in slightly better condition, at least able to sit up.
The ship’s doctor wasn't there.
Lohr scanned the area and found him near the stern on the starboard side. The doctor was kneeling on the deck, his hands still pressed against the chest of the old fisherman—the captain. The faint glow of healing magic had mostly dimmed.
Lohr walked over.
A trail of water followed his boots across the deck.
“How is he?”
The ship’s doctor looked up at him.
“Stabilized, for now,” the doctor said, his tone heavy. “There are two bleeding points in the lungs. I used magic to forcibly block them, but it’s not true healing—healing spells can't reach that depth. If I withdraw my mana, it could relapse at any time. There’s also shock damage to the liver, and it’s still seeping. I can only slow it down; I can't stop it at the source.”
He paused.
“He’s barely hanging on. If follow-up treatment doesn't keep up, he’s still in trouble.”
Lohr looked down at the old fisherman.
The old man's face was deathly pale, with dried bloodstains still lingering at the corners of his eyes and nostrils. His chest was rising and falling, the rhythm shallow and unsteady.
When he had grabbed this man underwater, the body had been as limp as a wet rag.
Lohr stood there for a moment.
He didn't say anything else, simply nodding to the doctor before turning to leave.
The next person he was looking for was easy to find.
Klein was still standing where he had been, leaning against the railing and facing the sea. The monster had already sunk back into the depths, leaving only the wreckage of the capsized fishing boat and the waves gradually returning to normal. However, Klein’s gaze remained fixed on that patch of sea, never wavering.
What was he looking at?
Lohr wasn't sure. Perhaps he was observing the monster’s descent, or perhaps he was thinking about something else. Regardless, that posture was not the reaction a normal alchemist should have when facing a deep-sea monster.
Lohr walked up and stood two steps behind him.
Seawater dripped from his hem, forming small puddles on the deck.
“Mr. Klein.”
Klein didn't turn around. “Yes?”
Lohr organized his words. But he realized he didn't have much to organize—he wasn't good at beating around the bush, especially when he had just fished someone out of the sea and his ears were still ringing.
“Your alchemical skills are impressive, sir,” he said. “I assume you might have a solution for the current situation.”
Only then did Klein turn around.
“What kind of solution do you want?” Klein asked.
Lohr frowned. The question felt nonsensical.
“...What?”
Klein set the maritime chart collection he had been clutching onto a mooring post on the railing, patting away the salt residue on the cover.
“I mean,” his tone was casual, as if discussing a multiple-choice question, “do you want a way to kill that monster, or a way to treat the wounded?”
Lohr’s mouth opened, then closed.
The wind on the deck rushed into his soaked collar, sending a chill down his spine.
Lohr gathered his emotions.
His ears were still buzzing, and the metallic taste in his mouth hadn't quite cleared. Water dripped from his uniform—drip, drip—sounding particularly sharp on the quiet deck.
But he still managed a thin smile.
“Mr. Klein, I am a greedy man.”
The answer was self-evident.
Klein looked at him for two seconds and laughed. The smile was relaxed, completely at odds with the cold observation of the deep-sea monster he had shown just moments ago.
“Conveniently, so am I.”
He tossed the salt-stained maritime chart collection onto the mooring post and turned to walk toward the stern.
Lohr followed.
The ship’s doctor was still monitoring the survivor's vital signs, the faint light of healing magic flickering as he clearly struggled to maintain it.
Klein walked up and crouched down opposite the doctor.
“I’ll take over.”
The doctor looked up. He certainly recognized Klein, but his gaze still shifted momentarily toward Lohr.
Lohr stood three steps away, saying nothing, only giving a nod.
The doctor withdrew his hands and moved half a step to the side, but he didn't stand up—he kept watching, likely out of professional instinct.
Klein held his right palm face down, hovering it over the old fisherman’s chest.
He didn't touch him. A gap about two fingers wide remained between his palm and the clothing.
Lohr stood by, his eyes lowered, staring at Klein’s hand.
Nothing happened.
There was no gentle glow like healing magic, nor the usual vibration of battle qi infusion. The sea breeze blew across the deck, the ropes swayed, and that hand simply hung over the old man’s chest, perfectly still.
Then Lohr noticed something was wrong.
The old fisherman’s breathing changed.
It wasn't that it got better—at least not in the way he understood “getting better after healing.” It was a more fundamental change: the originally chaotic, spasmodic respiratory rhythm was being held down and straightened by an external force. It was as if someone had grabbed a spring from the inside and was rewinding it, loop by loop, back into its original position.
Lohr’s brow furrowed.
Klein’s right hand moved. It wasn't a change in position, but the arrangement of his fingers—the five fingers spread, then closed, then spread again, the spacing different each time, as if he were performing an extremely precise gesture.
Then Lohr heard a sound.
It was very faint, nearly drowned out by the sea breeze. A series of fine, continuous clicking sounds, not coming from Klein’s hand, but from within the old fisherman’s body.
Bones? No. Internal organs? It didn't seem like it either.
The ship’s doctor’s expression changed. He quickly activated his magic to check the old fisherman’s condition.
“The bleeding points are closing,” he said. His voice was higher than before, filled with disbelief. “They aren't being blocked—they are growing back together on their own. I couldn't even reach that level when I used magic to forcibly seal them earlier...”
Lohr’s gaze moved from the doctor’s face back to Klein’s hand.
Klein’s expression was focused, but not strained. His brow wasn't furrowed, his breathing was steady, and his crouching posture was almost leisurely. He didn't look like he was performing a high-difficulty operation, but rather like he was adjusting a device—taking it apart, checking the internal structure, putting broken parts back in place, and re-arranging misconnected circuits.
Wait—no.
Lohr’s pupils constricted.
He was a veteran. He had seen magic, high-tier healing spells, and even some obscure healing methods within the battle qi system. All those things had one thing in common: they “poured” something into the human body. They poured mana, life force, or battle qi—essentially using external energy to fill in the damaged parts.
Klein wasn't pouring anything in.
He was “rewriting.”
The bloodstains at the corners of the old fisherman’s eyes stopped seeping. His pale face didn't regain its color—but his lips were no longer purple. His breathing slowed, becoming deep and long, and the rise and fall of his chest regained its rhythm.
From beginning to end, Klein’s palm never touched the old man’s body.
There wasn't even any perceptible energy fluctuation.
The ship’s doctor knelt there in a daze. In all his years of medicine, this was the first time he had encountered a healing method he couldn't describe at all. He opened his mouth twice, but not a single word came out.
Klein withdrew his hand, stood up, and brushed the dust from his knees.
“He’s stabilized. The internal bleeding is sealed. The shock damage to the organs can't be fixed in one go, but the spread has stopped.” He looked at the doctor. “You take over the rest; conventional healing will suffice. Make sure he doesn't roll over; I’ve reordered the sequences in his liver, and it can't take any secondary impact for four hours.”
Reordered the sequences.
Lohr chewed on those words.
This wasn't the language of magic. Nor was it the terminology of any medical system. If anything, it was an alchemist’s way of speaking—the way one spoke about materials.
He recalled the rhythm of Klein’s fingers opening and closing, those unnaturally precise changes in spacing, and that method of operation that didn't inject any external force into the target’s body, but instead directly adjusted the target’s own structure—
This was alchemy.
A form of alchemy that treated a living human body as alchemical material.
In his over ten years of service, Lohr considered himself well-traveled.
He had even encountered evil alchemists who delved into human transmutation, but they weren't like this either...
He watched Klein walk back to the railing, pick up the maritime chart collection again, flip to a certain page, and measure distances with his fingers. His movements were natural and his expression relaxed, with no transition between what he had just done and his current actions, as if saving a half-dead man was just a minor task tucked into his schedule.
Lohr thought for a moment, swallowed the residual taste of blood in his mouth, and followed him.
That monster was still down there.
And this man had just said—he was also greedy.
The sea surface had returned to a calm state, but that was only a facade. Every so often, a low-frequency vibration would travel through the hull, not very frequent or powerful, like the current created by some massive creature swimming close to the keel.
It was circling.
Lohr could tell. He had spent enough years at sea to know what kind of currents were natural and what weren't. This thing was injured, having lost several tentacles, but it hadn't chosen to retreat—it was waiting.
Waiting for The Voyager to show a greater opening.
Klein stopped flipping through the charts.
He didn't turn around, but Lohr was certain he had noticed him. On such a quiet deck, the sound of wet boots on wooden planks couldn't be hidden.
“Mr. Lohr.” Klein’s tone was quite casual. “Are you that eager to see me act?”
Lohr didn't hesitate. “Who wouldn't want to see it?” He paused, finding a somewhat appropriate phrasing. “The husband of the Sword of the Empire should surely have some extraordinary qualities.”
Klein closed the maritime chart collection.
He turned around and glanced at Lohr. The look didn't carry much emotion; it was just a glance, followed by a smile.
“The husband of the Sword of the Empire,” he repeated the title, his expression somewhat playful.
Lohr didn't respond.
Klein didn't press him. He placed the maritime chart collection on the mooring post, walked to the railing, and leaned on it with both hands to look down. The seawater was a deep blue bordering on black, and nothing could be seen, but he looked as if he were counting something.
“Mr. Lohr.”
“Yes.”
“The one behind you—” Klein’s gaze remained on the sea. “Is it the Emperor’s personal intent, or the Privy Council’s?”
The sound of the wind on the deck suddenly became very loud.
Lohr’s expression didn't change. This was his skill—honed over a dozen years of military life. But the muscles in his back tightened; he couldn't control that.
Klein waited for two seconds, and when no answer came, he didn't care.
“Forget it, it’s not important,” he said. “If you want to watch, then watch.”
He raised his right hand.
Lohr instinctively took half a step back. It wasn't fear—it was instinct. When a man who had just “reordered the sequences” of a living human body as if it were alchemical material raised his hand, any sane person would give themselves some distance.
But Klein’s hand didn't point at Lohr.
He pointed at the sea.
Nothing happened.
One second. Two seconds.
Lohr’s brow furrowed. The low-frequency vibration beneath the deck continued; the monster’s patrol hadn't been interrupted. He was about to speak—
Then he saw it.
Beneath the sea surface, roughly thirty meters to the right of the ship’s hull, a black dot appeared.
No, it wasn't a black dot. It was a tiny mass of absolute black. It didn't reflect light, it didn't transmit light; it hung suspended in the seawater, and the surrounding currents showed visible distortion—the seawater was bending toward it.
Lohr’s first reaction was gravity.
Klein waved his hand.
Just once. Like shooing a fly.
The black dot expanded.
It didn't expand gradually; in a single breath, it grew from the size of a fist to the size of a millstone. The surrounding seawater was dragged by it, forming a visible vortex. No, it wasn't a vortex—vortices rotate; this was being sucked straight in. The moment seawater touched the edge of that black mass, it vanished—cleanly, leaving no mist, no foam.
The ship lurched violently.
Lohr grabbed the railing. It wasn't the monster hitting them—it was the gravitational source affecting The Voyager. The hull was pulled sideways for a moment, and then the force vanished, as precisely as if someone had turned it off with a stopwatch.
Klein’s control was incredibly precise. This realization made Lohr’s jaw tighten.
Then the monster moved.
The dark shadow beneath the sea began to writhe violently. The creature had been caught in the gravitational field—its body, which had been cruising close to the keel, was being pulled upward by that black sphere. Seawater surged, and large waves rose on both sides of the ship, crashing onto the deck.
Lohr saw it.
Tentacles. A dozen gray-white tentacles covered in suckers flipped out from beneath the sea, frantically lashing the surface. The thing was struggling, fighting against that gravitational force. Its body was even larger than what Lohr had seen underwater—the true main body was hidden deeper, and those tentacles were merely extensions of the front end.
One tentacle coiled around the steering gear at the stern.
The wood let out a scream-like creak.
“Hey,” Klein said a single word.
A crack appeared out of thin air on that tentacle. It wasn't a cut—it was its own tissue structure undergoing dissociation along that line. Muscle fibers unraveled layer by layer, like a rope being hollowed out from the center. The tentacle snapped in two, the piece falling onto the deck still twitching.
There was no blood on the cross-section.
This detail made Lohr’s scalp tingle. It hadn't been cut, hadn't been torn—the flesh of that tentacle had simply decomposed on its own at that interface. The cells had lost their connection to one another, and the tissue structure had been dismantled at a microscopic level.
Collapse.
Lohr had never heard the word. But he could roughly understand now that if such a word existed, it was describing exactly what was before him.
The monster let out a sound. It wasn't from a mouth—it might not have had one. It was a low-frequency resonance that vibrated through the entire body of water, making the bones of everyone on the ship hum. It was anger, but also fear.
It began to sever its own tentacles.
One, two, three—the tentacles caught in the gravitational field burst at their base, blue-black blood gushing out and staining the surrounding seawater like ink. The monster was abandoning its own limbs to buy a chance to escape.
Lohr had seen this behavior in battles with magic beasts. A gecko dropping its tail. A lizard discarding a limb. The survival instinct of a lower organism.
But Klein clearly had no intention of giving it that chance.
The severed tentacles swallowed by the gravitational field didn't disappear within that black mass. They were decomposing—within that absolute darkness, Lohr could faintly see the gray-white tissue spreading like paper, turning into finer fragments, the fragments turning into powder, the powder turning into—
Nothing.
Then that “nothing” diffused back along the blue-black blood.
The monster’s main body began to disintegrate.
There was no explosion, no scream, no dramatic death scene. The deep-sea behemoth that had been lurking beneath The Voyager simply began to fall apart quietly, section by section, starting from the severed tentacles.
Like salt dissolving in water.
The entire process lasted less than ten seconds.
The sea surface returned to a state of calm. The black gravitational sphere also vanished, as if it had never existed, leaving not even a trace of a vortex in the seawater. The Voyager rocked slightly a couple of times before returning to its normal waterline.
Klein withdrew his hand and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Hmm... that was a bit more effort than I estimated. The information density was too high; the coding logic of this thing is different from normal organisms,” he muttered to himself, before pulling out a small notebook and producing a charcoal pencil from somewhere to start sketching and writing.
Lohr stood where he was.
The sea breeze dried the salt residue on his military uniform, the white crystals leaving ugly marks on the dark fabric. His hand was still on the railing, the curve of his knuckles exactly as it had been ten seconds ago.
He had forgotten to let go.
Footsteps came from the other side of the deck. The ship’s doctor ran over, likely startled by the large waves just now. He leaned over the railing to look down, then looked at Lohr’s expression, and then at Klein, who was crouched in a corner taking notes.
“...Where’s the monster?” the doctor asked.
Lohr opened his mouth.
He realized he wanted to ask the same question.
Less than a minute had passed from start to finish.
Klein was still writing his notes. The scratching sound of the charcoal pencil across the paper was clearly audible on the quiet deck. He was writing with intense focus, occasionally stopping to tap the edge of the notebook as if thinking of the right word.
Lohr let go of the railing. His fingers were so stiff they hurt.
He took a deep breath—the salty, fishy sea breeze filled his lungs, and his mind finally began to work again.
The Sword of the Empire and her husband.
Yes, they were a well-matched couple.
Rate on N.U.
