Transformation

Klein did not intend to deal with all the monsters himself.

When he created this array, he never planned to purify the entire ocean solely by his own strength.

For one thing, Augustus had led this campaign personally, and he hadn't brought a mere ceremonial guard. There was no reason to let his army go to waste.

For another...

Klein’s gaze remained locked onto that human silhouette.

He could feel it. Here, with them... the final battle had only just begun.

Just then, the communicator at his waist began to vibrate violently.

Short messages came through several channels simultaneously.

“Node Nine reporting! Target has arrived! It is manifesting now...”

“Node Seven has encountered the target! Its form is... indescribable! It looks like a giant serpent with wings! Requesting fire support!”

“Your Majesty! Nodes Three and Five confirm the target has split into multiple sea beasts! We have engaged the enemy!”

These were the fragments that had been dismantled and dragged away by the array.

They had reached their preset coordinates and were now transforming into new, tangible monsters.

In the communicator, Augustus’s voice was as cold as ice. “Since they’ve delivered themselves to our doorstep, we shall accept them. All units, execute the contingency plan. Wipe them out.”

Listening to the rising shouts of battle and the roar of magical explosions coming through the communicator, Ophelia looked at Klein, her hand already resting on her hilt.

“What do we do next?”

Klein only let out a soft sigh.

The figure suspended in the air slowly, very slowly, raised its head.

Across the vast distance, through the ethereal blue glow of the array, a pair of eyes opened.

A pair of golden eyes.

Golden eyes exactly like Ophelia’s.

The silhouette of the figure became clearer and clearer.

Watching it take shape, Klein was reminded of a phenomenon for no particular reason.

In the biological world, there is a phenomenon where species in a low ecological niche mimic parts of predators from a higher niche. The eyespots on a butterfly’s wings or the warning coloration on a non-venomous snake are examples of this. It is a way to use illusions to scare off natural enemies and trade a disguise for survival.

But what the thing before them was doing had nothing to do with mere “mimicry.”

It was a transformation.

It wasn't a superficial imitation; it was a total reconstruction from the skeleton to the muscle texture. Semi-transparent membranes churned on the surface of the human silhouette, and something was growing beneath them—bones were clicking into place, muscles were weaving together, and layers of skin were blanketing the form.

Klein’s pupils constricted slightly.

He saw golden strands of hair sprout from that head. One, then two, then an entire mane. The color, the luster, the length—it was identical to the person standing beside him.

Ophelia did not speak.

She stared at the figure, her back ramrod straight. It wasn't fear. It was something far more complex.

The face of that “other her” took form. The process of the features shifting from blurred to clear was not smooth—the curve of the brow bone flickered twice before stabilizing, the height of the bridge of the nose was adjusted three times, and the thickness of the lips cycled through several versions. Each flicker felt as if something were flipping through an illustrated bestiary, comparing the result against a template and drawing it stroke by stroke.

The template was Ophelia.

Klein could understand the choice. On this battlefield, Ophelia was the strongest individual the entity had encountered. Her battle qi purity, her combat instincts, and the “field” generated by her dragon scale armor—for an existence that had just lost most of its body and was forced into a human-shaped container, mimicking its strongest opponent was the most efficient path to reconstruction.

But that wasn't what Ophelia felt.

What she felt was resonance.

From that gradually forming body, an extremely faint but impossible-to-ignore fluctuation emanated. She recognized that frequency—it was seventy percent similar to the frequency of the “field” inside her own body.

No, that wasn't right.

Ophelia’s left hand twitched. Beneath her gauntlet, those black scales suddenly became active, pushing against the boundaries of the runic inscriptions more violently than ever before. The silver suppression runes flashed repeatedly, barely managing to force them back down.

They were responding to that thing.

“It’s mimicking you,” Klein’s voice came from beside her. His tone was flat, but the content made Ophelia turn her head.

“It’s using you as a template to rebuild itself,” Klein said, staring at the figure. “The pollution on you—those scales on your left hand—was originally a part of it. It recognizes you.”

Ophelia didn't respond. She looked forward again.

The “other her” had finally stabilized.

Golden hair, golden eyes, and a height that didn't differ by a hair’s breadth. The face was exquisite, with a heroic air between the brows. It stood tall, its center of gravity leaning slightly forward—the stance of a warrior.

But some things were different.

There were no pupils in those golden eyes. There was only pure, uniform gold, like two molten gold coins embedded in the sockets.

The expression was also wrong—the features were Ophelia’s, but the combination held no emotion. It wasn't coldness; it was a blank void. A face that had never been used.

Then, it moved.

Its right hand grasped at thin air. A sword condensed in its palm. The shape, length, and guard style were identical to the one at Ophelia’s waist. Even the subtle forging marks on the blade were replicated.

The way it held the sword was also Ophelia’s way. The index finger hooked inside the guard, the web of the thumb pressed tight against the curve of the hilt, and the wrist was slightly lowered.

Then, it made a move.

It drew the sword.

It wasn't a literal draw—the sword was already in its hand. But it took the opening stance of a quick-draw, tracing an arc from its hip diagonally upward. The angle, speed, and distribution of force as the tip sliced through the air—

Ophelia’s eyes narrowed.

“Interesting,” Ophelia said.

Her voice was soft, devoid of obvious emotion. But Klein noticed her right hand had already gripped her hilt, her thumb pushing the crossguard out by an inch.

“Learning my sword,” she said, her tone as flat as if she were commenting on the weather.

Klein glanced at her.

The curve at the corner of Ophelia’s mouth was faint, almost non-existent.

She seemed a little angry.

She felt that the thing was asking for a beating.