Chapter 32 - Study Interrupted
After quite some time had passed and we had traveled the sea for hours, Captain Brohm gave us free rein of the deck. Well, to be fair, Lyra was the only one actually "playing."
While the crew went about their routines, my sister decided to treat the ship's rigging like her personal jungle. She was swinging through the upper decks, using the extra loose ropes to launch herself from one wooden platform to another with the terrifying agility of a pirate or, more accurately, a hyperactive superhero.
Meanwhile, I sat comfortably at the base of the main mast. The ocean breeze hit my face in gentle, cool waves, carrying the clean, sharp scent of open water. With the ambient creaking of the ship's hull acting as white noise, I opened the heavy, leather-bound volume I had bought in the market: A Comprehensive Guide to Alchemical Conversions.
It had been a few hours since our trade with the Sea-folk, and Lyra was still acting like a medieval Spider-Man.
"WEEEE!" she laughed, soaring through the air on a thick hemp rope. "HAHA! Kyro, look at me! I'm flying!"
I completely ignored her. I tuned out her screaming, adjusted my back against the sturdy wood of the mast, and focused entirely on the yellowed parchment of my book.
As I turned the first few pages, my scientific brain immediately began to analyze and read through the text. I'll summarized it for you, the book explained about the absolute basics of alchemy across the first fifteen pages, and to my utter fascination, it wasn't just mystical mumbo-jumbo, but it perfectly expanded on what I had read back in Kalaum Jade's Source of Power: the fact that everything in this world, such as rocks, plants, water and everything, possesses a faint trace of mana.
Here is what those crucial opening pages laid out:
The author, an ancient scholar named Master Vaelen, began with a fundamental question: Why does it matter?
...
"Pfft.. Is that a pun?"
He began by explaining the true nature of physical matter. A rock isn't just a collection of minerals; it is held together by its own tiny, dormant pocket of elemental mana. The book called this the Elemental Lattice, or Latent Mana. This faint, internal energy is what commands the object to keep its shape. A rock stays a rock because its latent mana stubbornly sets it as its default setting, which is being a rock.
In a small, faded footnote at the bottom of the page, Vaelen mentioned a fringe, long-forgotten philosophy from an ancient sage who claimed all matter was made of invisible, indivisible cosmic dots called Atomos. The book immediately dismissed it as an unproven, untestable theory since no lens could ever prove such tiny dots existed.
My mind ignited. Atomos..? They mean atoms! I really am living in a pseudo-medieval era.
In traditional chemistry, breaking physical bonds to create something new requires immense external force, like extreme heat or pressure. But alchemy completely bypassed this. By infusing your own external mana into an object, you force a state of "Resonance"[1] with the trace mana already trapped inside its Lattice.
"I see," I muttered to myself, tracing a finger over the text. "In chemistry terms, the object's latent mana is the atomic bond. By flooding it with my own mana, I'm basically putting those bonds into a state of fluid transition. It drastically lowers the activation energy required for a reaction. Wow, ain't that brilliant?"
Because this world lacked modern laboratories, they used poetic geometry to guess how to rearrange things. But with my past life as Paul Gapor, I already had the actual periodic table and molecular structures memorized. If mana could manipulate the "Lattice," my chemistry knowledge was basically a cheat code.
...
"Really...? Thoughts like these really comes at bad times." I exhaled, the word dragging out of me like an old wound. I lowered the book blurring as my past life flashed before my eyes.
"Despite remembering every single atomic weight... despite a mind that left my peers in the dust..." My voice cracked, dropping to a bitter whisper that rattled in the empty room. "Not a single offer. Not even one."
The memory of those rejection letters—polite, corporate, and dripping with thinly veiled bias—burned in my chest. In a world full of diverse races, being a mere human was an unspoken crime, an automatic disqualification no matter how flawless my resume was.
My knuckles turned white, the leather cover of the textbook groaning and buckling under the sudden, furious grip of my fingers. "Fuck.."
After a second, I violently shook my head, tearing myself away from the graveyard of my past.
"I will definitely make a name for myself in this new world," I whispered, the words sounding less like a hope and more like an absolute decree.
I consciously relaxed my grip, letting the anger dissolve into focused fuel. Waving off the toxic heat still brewing in my chest, I turned my absolute attention back to the text.
Pages six through ten detailed the practical execution of an alchemical reaction, which relied entirely on controlling these trace energies:
Deconstruction (Solutio): The alchemist channels their mana into the material, perfectly matching the frequency of the object's latent mana. This overrides the object's "memory," unlocking its physical structure and turning it into a malleable, energetic slurry.
Realignment (Reformatio): While the material's latent mana is unlocked, the alchemist uses precise geometric circles or mathematical intent to command the elemental forces, rearranging the particles into a new form.
Stabilization (Coagulatio): The alchemist slowly detaches their personal mana. Deprived of the external energy, the object's trace mana snaps back into a permanent state, locking the new physical form into reality.
Note: One must draw a magic glyphs first to perform Transmutation.
The book warned that if the alchemist disconnects their mana too fast, the object's latent energy will short-circuit, causing a "Structural Collapse" that turns the material into useless, gray ash. This section perfectly mirrored the elemental chart I had memorized. Because everything has mana, you are strictly bound by the nature of that mana.
But then, the book introduced the strict, immutable laws that kept alchemy from breaking the world.
"Okay, interesting.."
The Law of Mass Balance: You cannot create matter out of nothing. The trace mana in a ten-gram stone can only hold together ten grams of matter.
The Affinity Restrictions: Because the trace mana inside a regular rock is naturally aligned with the Geo element, you can easily reshape it into a stone brick, or extract the faint traces of Metal magic inside it to forge a dagger. However, trying to turn that same rock into pure gold, an incredibly dense, high-tier metal, is nearly impossible. You would have to forcefully rewrite the fundamental elemental signature of the rock's latent mana, which requires a draining, astronomical amount of external energy.
The Law of Continuous Mass: You cannot transmute a piece of a larger, connected structure. You can easily transmute a loose stone, but you cannot transmute a single stone block inside a castle wall, nor a single wooden plank on a ship. The latent mana flows through the entire connected structure like a continuous circuit. To change one part, your mana would have to override the entire castle or the entire ship, instantly draining your soul dry.
"This is so interesting..."
My voice trailed off, my mind practically electric with the implications. It was a beautifully structured, logical system of molecular manipulation masquerading as fantasy.
"How is this interesting?"
"AH!"
A voice breathed right next to my ear.
My heart leaped violently into my throat. I jumped, my head snapping to the side so fast I heard my neck pop. Lyra was crouching on the mast' fences, her boots like a gargoyle, peering over my shoulder.
"Since when did you become so sneaky?!" I wheezed, clutching my chest as my pulse hammered against my ribs.
She didn't answer. Instead, she squinted at the dense, faded diagrams of the alchemy book, her nose wrinkling in deep, physical disgust before she shrugged. "I will never understand why you waste your time with such boring trash, Nitwit. Fighting is way better than staring at paper."
"Fighting is not better than reading," I argued, defensively pulling the book closer to my chest. My inner academic was deeply offended. "Reading makes you smarter. It makes you wiser. It generally prevents you from being a Neanderthal who solves every problem with a heavy rock." I nodded with supreme, self-righteous authority.
"Lame," she scoffed, hopping down from the fence and crossing her arms. She leaned in, invading my personal space. "How is a book going to stop a sword from cutting your head off? Huh? Tell me that, Mr. Smarty-Pants. Can you block a strike with a dictionary?"
A vein throbbed in my temple. The sheer, obstinate pride of this child was infuriating. Yeah, sure, physical combat is great, I thought, but you don't use a broadsword to calculate crop yields or read a map so you don't freeze to death in the wilderness!
"Because reading is—" I started, then caught myself.
I took a slow, stabilizing breath. Wait. Why am I letting an eleven-year-old drag me into a shouting match? You gotta be kidding? I am better than this.
And then, a beautiful, wicked spark of inspiration flared in my mind.
I let my annoyed expression melt away, replacing it with a slow, pitying smile. I looked at her with a heavy dose of mock sympathy. "Actually, you know what? You're totally right, Lyra. Reading is completely useless... for average people."
Lyra squinted, her internal alarm bells instantly ringing at my sudden shift in tone. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, nothing," I hummed, casually turning a page and pretending to lose interest in her. "It's just... how do you plan on becoming a Sword Saint if you can't even read properly?"
She blinked, her cocky posture stiffening. "What do you mean?"
"Well," I said, raising a single, dramatic finger and speaking in a low, conspiratorial whisper. "It's a little-known fact, but one of the absolute, non-negotiable requirements to be recognized as an official Sword Saint is fluent literacy. You have to be able to read advanced manual tactics, and you must know how to multiply and divide complex numbers."
I lied as I turned to look at her, my grin widening as I watched her brain try to process the fake information.
"I mean, I know you can read some words," I shrugged, letting out a theatrical, tragic sigh. "But you still struggle with basically any vocabulary over three syllables. Ah, well. I guess if you think those things are too 'trivial,' you'll just have to settle for being a regular, run-of-the-mill mercenary. You'll never be the strongest in the world. Oh, the tragedy! Ha. Ha. Ha."
I gave her the most annoying, exaggerated cartoon laugh I could muster, practically vibrating with smug victory.
For a second, the mast of the ship went dead quiet.
I watched as the smugness drained from Lyra's face, replaced rapidly by a furious expression. A thick, angry vein pulsed violently on her temple. Her hands clamped into tight, trembling fists at her sides, shaking with a mixture of wounded pride and explosive, competitive fury.
I froze. My artificial laughter died instantly in my throat.
Uh oh. I pushed it too far.
She took a heavy, slow step toward me. I flinched, pressing my back hard against the wooden mast, wishing I could sink into the timber.
Before I could utter a single excuse, her hand shot out like a striking viper. Her fingers coiled into the collar of my shirt, bunching the fabric tightly and hoisting me slightly off the deck. Her yellow eyes blazed with an unhinged, terrifying determination that made me think of a cornered predator.
"Teach me!" she snarled.
I paused, "What?"
"You heard me! Teach me!" Her grip slightly shaking on my collar, I noticed it, then I turned to her and saw the determination in her eyes.
I really got her fired up, huh..
***
The golden afternoon light painted the ocean in strokes of brilliant amber and deep, bruised purple.
At the port side of the ship, Captain Brohm sat perched casually on the wooden gunwale, her bare feet dangling over the rushing white foam below. A single stalk of dried wheat was tucked into the corner of her mouth, bobbing lazily as she stared down at the fishing line cutting through the water.
The heavy, familiar thud of boots signaled Grann's approach. He leaned against the railing beside her, his broad shoulders settling into a comfortable, practiced slouch that only came from decades of sharing the same physical space.
"Huh. Didn't you trade for a massive haul of fish from the Sea-folk just this morning?" Grann asked, a teasing tug at the corner of his mouth.
Brohm didn't even look up at him. She just gave a slow shrug, her black eyes fixed on the bobber floating in the waves. "Forced habit, old friend. Beside, there's nothing else to do. My crew finished their shifts and they deserve some quiet. This..." She tapped the polished wood of her fishing rod. "...is just a little theater to pass the time. Nothing more."
"Bah. I'm kidding," Grann murmured, his voice softening into a low, rumbling chuckle.
Brohm's lips curved into a quiet smirk. She turned her head to look at him, her sharp gaze taking in the silver in his hair and the weathered lines of his face. Then, her gaze drifted upward, guided by the sound of a frustrated prepubescent groan.
High up on the main mast, bathed in the warm, honeyed glow of the setting sun, Kyro and Lyra were huddled close together. Kyro was patiently pointing a finger at a page, while Lyra looked like she was trying to burn a hole through the paper with her eyes, her lips moving silently as she struggled through a word.
"Time sure passes quickly," Brohm muttered, her voice carrying a rare, wistful weight. She turned back to Grann.
For a fraction of a second, as the harsh amber sunlight caught the edge of his jaw, the deep wrinkles around his eyes seemed to melt away in her mind. Her memory, stubborn and vivid, painted over the gray in his beard, replacing it with the sharp, fiery grin of the headstrong youth he used to be. The boy who had once promised to conquer the world, and who, for a very brief time, had looked at her like she was the only thing in it.
"Yeah," Grann responded.
He didn't miss her look. He met her gaze, a soft, unspoken understanding passing between them—a silent acknowledgment of the paths they had chosen and the lives they had built apart from each other. Then, together, they turned their eyes back to the distant, bleeding horizon.
"Anyway, if you don't mind me asking," Brohm said, her tone shifting to something more grounded as she stared out at the sea. "Why are you taking those kids to the Demon Continent? It's a massive risk, Grann. Even for you. There has to be a pretty damn good reason to drag your flesh and blood out there."
Grann sighed, the breath whistling through his nose. "My son is getting married. I wanted the kids to meet their cousins. I want to make sure that when they grow up, they aren't treated as complete strangers by their own blood."
Brohm chuckled, the stalk of wheat bouncing in her mouth. "Ah, the classic 'Family-Oriented Mandates.' Never change, Grann."
"Bah, It's how we survive," Grann said, offering a small, defend-the-fort kind of smile. He paused, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at her sideways. "Also... if you don't mind, I'll be taking Scrotus with me for a few days. I'll make sure he's returned to you safe and sound right after the ceremony."
"Look, I get it," Brohm said, her eyes crinkling as she gave him a warm, knowing smile. "And don't worry about it. It's not like I'm particularly welcome over there anyway. I'd wager that fiery wife of yours still holds a grudge against me for stealing you away for that one night."
Grann's eyes closed in instant, agonizing embarrassment. A visible bead of sweat formed at his temple, and he looked like he wanted nothing more than to jump face-first into the ocean. "You really don't have to remind me," he groaned. "Besides... that was a lifetime ago. We were practically kids."
Brohm let out a loud, booming laugh, her legs kicking out over the open air with childish glee. "HAH! I don't care how long ago it was! The look on her face when she found us at the docks still gives me a good chuckle whenever I think about it! Nyehehe!"
Grann couldn't help but smile, his chest warming at the sound of her genuine, unfiltered laugh. He gave her shoulder a gentle, playful nudge with his elbow.
"Yeah, yeah. Screw you, Brohm."
***
--Bedroom--
The flickering amber light of the cabin's oil lamp danced across the wooden walls, casting long, lazy shadows over the small desk. After spending a good chunk of the afternoon dragging Lyra through the basics of literacy, I was determined to lock the knowledge in. I had torn a crisp sheet from my personal journal, filling it with rows of neatly written number problems, and slid it right in front of her.
Lyra immediately slumped in her chair, her entire body melting into a puddle of pure, dramatic exhaustion. "Why can't I just do it tomorrow?" she groaned, letting her forehead thud heavily against the wood of the desk.
I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms. "Oh? I thought you wanted to be a Sword Saint?"
Like magic, her head snapped up. "Yes I do!" she pouted, her lower lip jutting out so far it was a safety hazard. "But there's still tomorrow... I can just do it then..."
I hummed, my mind instantly drifting to the phantom aches residing in my ribcage and shoulders. Every single afternoon during training, Lyra treated me like a human punching bag. Those bruises still stung, serving as a painful reminder that while I had the brain of a grown man, I was currently trapped in the fragile body of a child who was utterly defenseless against a preteen hurricane.
If I have to endure her physical torture, I thought, thenshe can endure my mental conditioning. Simple as that.
"Well, okay. Tell you what," I offered, drawing my prized fountain pen from my pocket and extending it toward her. "Just finish one or two solutions before you sleep. Do that, and I'll let you off the hook. But I'll be keeping an eye on you."
"Ughhh... Fine!"
She snatched the fountain pen out of my hand with a theatrical snarl. She gripped the paper, staring down at the numbers with an intensity so fierce you'd think she was trying to challenge the math to a fistfight.
"Just like I taught you," I reminded her gently, giving her a small nudge. "Apply the steps."
"I know, I know!" Her voice pitched a little higher, her foot tapping a rapid, anxious rhythm against the floorboards. I just nodded, offering her a reassuring smile before walking away.
I stretched out on my bunk, letting the soft mattress take the weight off my tired limbs. The room was quiet, save for the scratch of Lyra's pen and the rhythmic, deep creaking of the ship's hull. Grann was still up on the main deck enjoying a late dinner with the crew; Lyra and I had eaten early, leaving the two of us alone in the belly of the ship to study.
The Demon Continent...
I stared up at the wooden ceiling, my thoughts drifting out over the dark ocean. Captain Brohm had estimated we'd make landfall in two days. A nervous flutter stirred in my stomach, quickly replaced by a warm sense of anticipation. I desperately hoped there wouldn't be any delays. I wanted to see Onnie again. I wanted to sit across from her, the familiar weight of the wooden pieces in my hands, and lose myself in another quiet game of chess. Speaking of Onnie... I wondered what she was doing right at this exact moment. Was she safe? Was she thinking about our next match? I really, truly hoped she was doing fine.-
"DONE!"
Lyra's sudden, triumphant shout shattered the quiet cabin like a brick through glass.
I blinked, yanked violently out of my daydreams. I sat up on the edge of the bed, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Wow. Already? That's a new record." A genuine smile broke across my face as I stood up and walked over, taking the paper from her eager hands.
"Yeah! See? That was a total piece of—"
"You're wrong."
The words cut through her sentence with the clinical precision of a scalpel. My eyes scanned the ink on the page, and my inner academic instantly bristled.
"HUH?!" Lyra gasped, her face flushing as she bolted upright in her chair. "I did exactly what you told me to do!"
"Really?" I lowered the paper, fixing her with a hard, unyielding stare. The frustration I had accumulated from hours of watching her nod blankly while I explained core concepts finally boiled over. "Look, Lyra, I have absolutely no idea how you came up with answers like this. Can't you just be honest with me? If you don't get it, tell me you don't get it! Because if you keep faking it and telling me you understand, then these incredibly simple problems should have been answered correctly."
I slammed the paper down on the desk. The sharp smack of wood on paper echoed loudly in the confined room.
"Keep in mind, Lyra, I only asked you to answer two problems. Two. And you couldn't even manage to do that properly." My voice had risen, sharp and demanding, carrying the stern, disappointed weight of a strict schoolteacher.
The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating.
I honestly expected her to snap back, to yell, to call me a nitwit, or to threaten to throw me across the room. But she didn't. Lyra's head stayed low, her chin buried against her chest. Her small shoulders began to tremble, bunching up as if she were trying to hide inside her own clothes.
Then, I heard it. A tiny, choked-back sniff.
A massive bead of cold sweat formed on my temple.
Is she..?
I looked closer and realized she was biting her lower lip so hard it was turning white, her yellow eyes wide and swimming with unshed tears. For all her physical bravado, she was still just an eleven-year-old girl who desperately wanted to be better. I felt a sudden wave of guilt wash over me.
I took a slow breath, consciously forcing the strictness out of my posture. I let my expression soften, and I took a completely different approach.
"Hey..." I stepped closer, my voice dropping into a quiet, gentle register. "Let's try again, shall we?"
I reached down, carefully sliding the fountain pen back into her trembling fingers, and rested a warm hand on her back, rubbing slow circles to help calm her breathing. I pulled up a crate, sitting down right beside her so we were at eye level.
"I'm sorry I snapped," I murmured, offering her a small, supportive smile. "Come here. Look at the first one. Let's break it down together, step by step. I'll show you exactly how to do it."
This time, the stubborn pride in her eyes flickered and died, replaced by a quiet, vulnerable earnestness. She swallowed hard, giving a small, tentative nod as she leaned back over the paper. The tension in her shoulders finally began to melt, and for the first time all evening, she actually listened to my voice as I walked her through the numbers.
Just then—the cabin violently violently tilted.
A deep, shuddering groan vibrated through the ship's spine, followed by a sudden, jarring impact that threw us both off balance. The oil lamp on the desk swung wildly, casting crazed, erratic shadows across the walls. The ink bottle tipped, sending a dark, staining puddle rushing across the torn paper.
"Woah!" I barked, my hands instantly slamming down onto the corners of the desk to keep myself from faceplanting onto the floorboards. I stared up at the creaking ceiling, my heart leaping into my throat.
"W-what was that?!" Lyra gasped. Her voice was loud, her eyes wide as she instinctively dropped the pen and reached for the hilt of her sword, her knuckles instantly turning white.
"I-I don't know." I struggled to find my footing as the ship rocked unsteadily on the water. I turned toward the heavy wooden door, the cozy warmth of our study session completely shattered. "Let's go and see Brohm."
Without another word, Lyra snatched her sword, strapping it to her back in one fluid, practiced motion. I threw the door open, and we hurried out into the narrow corridor, the cool, salty draft of the night air rushing down to meet us.
When we burst onto the main deck, the tranquil, lazy atmosphere of the afternoon was entirely gone. The sky had bruised into a pitch-black night, and the sea was a restless, churning abyss. Crewmen were already scrambled along the right side of the ship, some holding flickering lanterns and crackling torches that cast a frantic, orange glow over the water. In the center of the chaos stood Captain Brohm, her hands gripping the wooden gunwale so tightly her knuckles looked like polished bone.
Grann's heavy boots clicked rapidly against the deck as he walked past us.
"Grann!" I called out, my voice tight.
He paused, turning his head toward us. The easygoing, teasing grandfather from earlier was gone; his brow was furrowed, his eyes sharp and alert. "W-what happened?" I asked, rushing to his side.
"I was just about to ask Brohm myself," Grann muttered, gesturing toward the railing with his chin. "Come on. Let's see what we're dealing with."
I nodded, my chest tightening with a cold, rising dread. Lyra and I fell into step behind him, pushing through the hushed, tense crowd of sailors until we stopped right next to Captain Brohm.
"Brohm," Grann said, his deep voice cutting through the sound of the wind. She didn't turn to face him. "What in the world did we hit—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Beside me, Lyra watched as the breath sucked completely out of my lungs, my eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated horror.
Floating in the dark, glistening water right alongside the ship was a nightmare made flesh. It was the massive, hulking corpse of a shark—or at least, half of one. The beast's head and middle section were buoyant enough to ride the waves, and even in its mutilated state, the scale of the creature was staggering. It was easily the size of a megalodon, its rough, slate-gray hide stretching almost as long as our entire vessel.
But the terrifying part wasn't its size. It was the wound.
The shark had been violently, cleanly torn in half. Massive, ragged chunks of flesh hung like pale ribbons in the dark water, and the exposed, white cartilage of its spine gleamed morbidly under the orange light of our lanterns. The ocean around the corpse was stained a thick, oily black-red, slicking the surface of the waves. The ship continued its course, slowly drifting past the gargantuan remains, and all we could do was follow it with our eyes as it slowly vanished into the dark wake.
"What... what was that?" I whispered, my voice trembling. My scientific brain tried to calculate the physical force required to rip a creature of that mass in two, and the mathematical answer made my stomach turn.
"A Manta Shark," Scrotus muttered from nearby, his usual gruff confidence entirely absent. He stared into the black water, his lantern shaking slightly in his grip. "Eaten clean in half..."
"Manta Shark..." I repeated, the name tasting like ash in my mouth. I turned a pale face toward Scrotus. "Should we... should we be worried?"
"It's the apex predator of the southern seas, Kyro," Brohm answered, her voice dropping into a dangerously quiet register. She finally let go of the railing, turning to face her crew. "And whatever ate that thing is an even bigger threat."
I instinctively gulped, a cold sweat breaking out across my neck. An apex predator. Eaten like a casual snack.
"Okay!" Brohm suddenly clapped her hands together, her voice booming across the deck with absolute authority. "Everyone, be on guard! Load the magic stones into the cannons! Ready the heavy crossbows, and sharpen your steel! If whatever did that is still lingering in these waters, I want us ready to blow it back to the depths!"
"Aye, Captain!"
The deck erupted into a flurry of motion. The seasoned sailors shook off their dread, instantly transitioning into battle-ready soldiers. They began hauling heavy wooden crates, the distinct hum of magical energy echoing as they prepared the mana-infused stones for the deck cannons. Swords were drawn, crossbow strings creaked as they were tensioned, and the sharp, metallic tang of oil and iron filled the night air.
I stood frozen, watching them prepare for war.
A sudden, sharp pat on my shoulder broke my trance. I jumped, turning to see Lyra looking down at me with a cocky, challenging smirk. "Are you seriously scared, Nitwit?"
I swallowed hard, my voice rising a pitch as my adult logic screamed at me. "Y-yeah! Didn't you see the size of that thing?! It was massive! And something bigger is out there!"
"Bah, yes, it was quite a specimen," Grann chimed in, though he wasn't laughing. He slowly scratched his bearded chin, his eyes scanning the endless, black horizon. "But there are only a few things in these depths capable of hunting a Manta Shark. Either a massive water dragon, a great kraken, or a nesting Scorpion Leech."
None of those options sounded remotely comforting.
"Eh, I'm not scared at all!" Lyra declared, proudly drawing her sword from her back. The steel caught the lantern light, gleaming sharply. "If a monster tries to crawl up onto this ship, I'll personally gut it!"
"Lyra, we could die here! Don't you realize that?!" I snapped, the panic finally breaking through my filter. I grabbed her by the arm, gesturing wildly to the endless, black void surrounding us. "We are in the middle of the open ocean! We are floating in a wooden bathtub! If that thing attacks us, the ship splinters, we sink, and we drown in the dark! Your sword isn't going to stop you from breathing water!"
"Now, now, don't get ahead of yourself, cabbage," Grann chuckled, his large, warm hand coming down on top of my head. He ruffled my messy white hair with a comforting, heavy pressure. "Even if something does decide to poke its head out of the water, I promise you, I won't let a single scratch touch either of you."
He smiled, his green eyes radiating a calm, unshakable strength. But for once, it didn't calm me. Not even a single bit.
My mind was hyper-fixated on the sheer, terrifying reality of our situation. We were fragile, land-dwelling creatures playing on the surface of a deep-sea nightmare.
"Now," Grann said, his hands gently pressing against our backs as he guided us away from the railing and toward the hatch. "How about you two get some sleep? The crew has this under control."
He ushered us back down into the belly of the ship, but as the wooden hatch closed above us, blocking out the starlight, all I could picture was the jagged, torn edge of that giant shark, and the vast, hungry darkness waiting just beneath our feet.
My legs felt like lead. I leaned my back against the damp wooden wall of the corridor, my chest tight and my breathing shallow. I looked down at my hands and they were trembling.
The paralyzing fear of being swallowed by a cold, uncaring void was a nightmare. I had died once before. I had met my end while traveling by the air, snatched away from my old life in a sudden, violent flash of a muzzle of a gun. I knew exactly how fragile a human life was, and how quickly a journey could transform into a tragedy. The thought of going through that again made my stomach churn with a visceral, suffocating panic.
A shadow fell over me.
I looked up and Lyra was standing a few feet away. Her sharp, golden eyes scanned my face. The cocky, teasing smirk she had worn on deck was completely gone.
She saw right through me. She saw the deathly pale color of my skin, the rigid tension in my shoulders, and the way my fingers twitch-clasped against my sides. For a second, I braced myself for her usual tease, I expected her to call me a coward, to mock me for being a weakling, or to tell me to man up.
Instead, she let out a quiet sigh.
"Hey," she said, her voice dropping into an uncharacteristically soft, quiet register. "How about we just sleep it off? I think... it's probably not the right night to study anyway."
I stared at her, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden, rare gentleness from my hyperactive sister. A profound wave of gratitude washed over me, so thick it made my throat tight.
"Yeah," I breathed, offering her a faint, weary nod. "I agree."
We walked back to our cramped cabin in silence, the heavy tension of the sea hanging over us. When I pushed the door open, the flickering oil lamp was still casting its warm, shaky light over the small room.
On the desk, the spilt black ink had completely saturated the math sheet I had written for her, a dark, jagged stain spreading across the white paper like the shadow of the beast waiting in the deep below us. Without a word, I blew out the lamp, plunging the cabin into darkness, and we climbed into our bunks, waiting for a morning we hoped would come.
[End]
[1] Resonance means a state of perfect harmony.