Just as Klein finished speaking, the western sky changed.
There was no transition, no buildup, and no time for anyone to react. The entire western horizon was swallowed by a thick, ink-like darkness.
The clouds were collapsing, crashing down toward the sea in massive chunks. The base of the clouds darkened continuously, shifting from deep gray to iron-blue, and then to a murky green that the human eye wasn't meant to perceive. That color spread, pushing toward The Voyager at a visible speed.
When the first bolt of lightning struck, there was no thunder.
The light was white and impossibly thick, stabbing straight from the bottom of the clouds into the sea and lasting for three full breaths before vanishing. In the instant the sea was illuminated, Klein saw it—from the point of impact to the edge of his vision, the color of the water had changed. It was an oily, deep green, so thick it seemed viscous, stretching into long threads as the waves broke.
Then came the thunder.
A low rumble shook the entire ship; from the keel to the tip of the mast, every piece of wood let out a shrill groan. The vibration made Klein's teeth chatter.
“The array!” the first mate screamed, his voice already hoarse, the sound squeezed from his throat, sharp and broken.
The Voyager’s protection array was activated. The runic lines etched into the hull lit up in sequence, a pale blue light spreading upward from the keel, crawling along the ribs, planks, and railings all the way to the top of the mast. A film of light formed on the outside of the hull, encasing the entire ship.
It was of little use.
When the first wave hit, the light film flickered. When the second hit, cracks appeared. On the third—The Voyager was thrown upward, its bow tilting nearly forty degrees toward the sky. Everything on deck that wasn't secured slid toward the stern. A sailor failed to grab a rope and went rolling down the slanted deck, only to be caught by the back of his collar by Lohr and hauled back.
“This isn't a normal storm!” Diancie shouted, bracing herself against the cabin door frame, leaning halfway out, her face distorted by the wind.
Klein didn't answer. He crouched down, pressing one hand against the deck as his perception delved downward.
The array core at the bottom of the ship was overloading. The mana flow in the runic lines had already exceeded its design limit; if it kept holding on like this, the entire array would burn out before long. This ship's array was designed for standard sea conditions—the current situation didn't fit into any known category.
The hull was slapped by a cross-wave again, the tilt so extreme that the left side of the protection film actually touched the sea surface. Where the light met the water, it hissed, sending up a string of grayish-white bubbles.
“Klein.” Ophelia's voice cut through the wind.
She stood firm. Even with the deck tilted at such an angle and everyone else grabbing for support, she remained rooted in place. Her center of gravity was pressed low, her sword tip pointed down and wedged into a gap between the deck planks to serve as an anchor.
Klein looked up at her.
The wind blew her golden hair like a snapping flag. Her gaze passed over him, fixed on the murky green that was devouring the sky to the west.
“It's here,” she said.
Ophelia was already moving. She pulled her sword from the gap, golden battle qi coating the blade once more. Her weight shifted forward, her knees slightly bent—the preparatory stance before a leap. Klein had seen it far too many times.
He reached out and stopped her.
In truth, Klein's strength was nowhere near enough to hold her back, but Ophelia stopped nonetheless.
“Don't be reckless.” Klein's voice was thinned by the wind; he had to lean in close to be heard. “Retreat first. Take the people on the ship and get out of this sea.”
Ophelia turned to look at him.
The wind blew her loose golden hair across her face, and she had no hand free to brush it away—one hand held her sword, the other was held down by Klein. She looked at him through the tangled strands, the gold in her eyes appearing pale under the ghastly white light of the lighting runic stones, but her pupils were tightly constricted.
“You take them and leave,” she said.
Klein didn't let go.
“No.”
“Klein.”
“No.”
They locked eyes. The deck rose and fell violently beneath their feet, the sky in the distance continued to collapse, and that murky green mass had already consumed nearly a third of the night sky. The low-frequency hum grew clearer, no longer a faint sensation at the edge of perception but a physical weight pressing against everyone's skulls.
Ophelia showed no sign of backing down.
Klein knew what she was thinking.
But he wouldn't accept it.
“Ophelia.” He pulled his hand back from hers and took a half-step back to face her directly. The ship lurched again, making him stumble, but he didn't look away. “Listen to me. No one needs to hold it back. I have a way to take everyone away together.”
Ophelia's brow furrowed.
“What way?”
“Space magic.”
As those two words left his mouth, even Klein felt a lack of confidence. He was indeed researching spatial spells and had made some progress—but to say he could use it for a large-scale spatial relocation... frankly, he had never tested it in practice.
Ophelia didn't immediately argue, nor did she agree. She stared at Klein's face for two breaths—not deciding whether to believe him, but judging how much confidence he truly had.
Klein held her gaze.
“...I believe you.”
Ophelia sheathed her sword. The click of the latch was almost inaudible amidst the roar of the wind and waves.
But her shoulders didn't relax. Her battle qi remained in a state of combat readiness, a faint golden light shimmering against her skin, ready to coat her entire body within a single breath.
She trusted Klein. But she didn't trust that the approaching thing would give them the time to prepare calmly.
Klein saw all of this.
He opened his mouth, wanting to say something reassuring—like “it'll be fine,” or “leave it to me,” or some other reliable-sounding promise. But those words felt too light when they reached his lips. Ophelia didn't need empty promises; she needed him to actually succeed.
So he took a different approach.
“Relax, Ophelia.”
She looked at him, unmoving.
Klein's gaze shifted downward, landing on her feet.
They were bare. Shining white. Her ten toes were pressed against the wet deck, seawater caught between them, and a smear of some dark, unknown liquid—likely the bodily fluid of a monster—stained the top of her foot.
“At least...” Klein looked up, the corner of his mouth curling in a helpless smile. “Put on some shoes first?”
Ophelia looked down.
She looked at her feet.
Then she looked back up at Klein.
Her expression was subtle. It wasn't anger or amusement, but a complex emotion that seemed to say, You actually have the mind to notice this right now?
Diancie happened to walk over just then to report on the situation at the port side. Hearing the last half of the sentence, her footsteps faltered. She wisely chose to turn and walk away, pretending she hadn't heard a thing.
She didn't even spare a glance.
Ophelia ignored Klein's remark. However, she turned and took two steps toward the cabin—to get her shoes.
After two steps, she stopped and looked back.
“Three minutes,” she said. “If you aren't ready in three minutes, I'm going out.”
Klein nodded. “That's enough.”
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