Thaddeus stood up from where he was sitting and walked toward the edge of the deck. He watched the sea churn beneath him.
The storm had not lessened. It still roared like an angry god refusing to acknowledge that the battle was already over. Waves slammed against the massive hull, and even with his protection charm active—enveloping the ship after he cast the repairing charm—the vessel groaned under the pressure of wind and salt-heavy air. The rain was held back, pushed away in invisible sheets, but the wind still struck like unseen fists.
Behind him, the remaining people aboard knelt.
Seventy souls. Not a single one dared stand.
They pressed their foreheads against the wooden deck, as though even the slightest movement might offend whatever force had just rewritten reality before their eyes.
They were shaken—deeply, undeniably—by everything that had unfolded that day. Some trembled uncontrollably, their bodies refusing to steady. Others pressed their foreheads against the wooden boards, whispering fractured prayers as though the ship itself might hear and carry them to safety.
One man, in particular, looked as though he had already accepted death three separate times—and now lingered in a hollow in-between, simply waiting for it to choose which version of him it would claim.
Thaddeus, meanwhile, looked tired—not physically, but mentally. Even the system's chocolate couldn't ease the strain.
The language barrier turned every exchange into a struggle, and after what had happened—after the sheer scale of magic he had displayed—even the simplest explanations felt exhausting.
He exhaled slowly.
"No talking," he muttered under his breath. "Talking only leads to misunderstanding."
Let them see him as a god, then. After all, these people were ordinary—most of them had probably never even seen a wizard in their lives.
It was understandable. Wizards of the past had remained hidden, knowing that discovery often bred fear and warped perceptions of magic. Those who were exposed were, more often than not, condemned and branded as devils.
The irony, however, was sharp: these same people now looked upon him as the Drowned God—a being he himself scarcely understood.
So instead of speaking, he let his actions speak.
Gazing at the dead drifting across the water—casualties of the hunt—he raised his hand.
A barrel placed near the mast behind him trembled.
Then it launched upward.
The wood stretched in midair, expanding and reshaping, unfolding as though reality itself were being rewritten. Iron bindings shifted into structural supports, rope became rigging, and the planks locked into a symmetry no human craftsman had ever achieved.
Within seconds, the barrel had become a ship—transfigured by his mastery of Transfiguration.
Its size matched his merchant vessel. It settled beside the massive ship, and the moment it touched the ocean, waves rolled outward in widening rings.
The people on board who saw it froze.
Then they collectively made a sound that could only be described as scream.
"AAAAAAAAAAAA—"
One man fell backward instantly.
Another grabbed his neighbor and whispered urgently.
"Ziry iksos ñuha gaomagon ñuha se nyke īlva iksos?"
"Iksos! Nyke īlva iksos!"
The old man—the one who had been kneeling the longest—slowly lifted his head.
His eyes narrowed.
Then he whispered, his voice trembling, the words forming in the same unfamiliar tongue.
"Skoros iā Drowned God syt ao gīmigon?"
From the crowd, others answered in kind.
"Māzigon naejot…"
"Māzigon kessa henujagon āeksio."
Thaddeus did not respond. If he could not understand it, then he simply did not understand it—and that was all there was to it.
What mattered now was sending off the dead properly.
He cast a wide-range levitation charm, his wand acting as a conductor.
The sea responded.
Across the ocean, the dead began to rise, drifting weightlessly to the surface—lifted gently from the waves as if the sea itself were releasing them.
The people on board—armored men and sailors alike, including the old man—rose and made their way to the deck to bear witness to what was unfolding. Their eyes widened as they took in the sight.
They watched their fallen comrades drift toward the transfigured ship.
One man broke into tears at the sight of his dead brother.
Another whispered prayers under his breath in the same unknown tongue.
The bodies settled onto the ship's deck in silence—orderly, carefully, almost reverently.
Thaddeus hesitated, then turned to face the old man and spoke, choosing his words with care. Out of respect for the elder, he felt it necessary to make his intent known.
"I will burn them so they do not rot in the ocean. They deserve a proper farewell."
Even if they did not understand his words, he felt compelled to say it.
He did not wait for a reply or acknowledgment. A fire-making charm—stronger than before—erupted from the tip of his wand.
Flames surged toward the vessel filled with bodies, engulfing it in a rising wall of fire. The blaze swallowed the dead in an instant, devouring them without hesitation.
Everyone recoiled in fear as the blaze lit up the dark, storm-lashed sky.
The old man, still not understanding him but seeing his actions, fell to his knees once more. He spoke, his voice trembling with fear.
"Ānogar emagon! Kessa syt naejot!"
Misunderstanding deepened. The mood on the ship shifted again.
"Vezof qēlos ñuha Drowned God."
"Vezof qēlos ñuha Drowned God."
"Hae septyr iksos ñuhys."
Within moments, the entire crew had knelt again.
Some wept.
Some begged.
Thaddeus felt something in him crack slightly.
Why do I feel like I'm the villain here?
Didn't I just save them from the Kraken and repair their ship?
How easily their reactions changed—like a roller coaster guided by fear. Moments ago, they looked at him with reverence. Now it was fear again. And some looked as if they had already accepted death.
He exhaled sharply.
He looked at them—especially the old man. His instincts told him the man held authority, likely the captain, given how the others had followed his reactions.
He waved his hand sharply.
"No. No. No. Not you. Not burning you."
He pointed at the ship.
Then at the bodies engulfed in flame.
He made a firm, calming gesture.
But instead of easing them, it only made things worse.
Far worse.
A man fainted dramatically on his knees.
A group began apologizing to the ocean itself.
Thaddeus sighed.
"I should stop being seen."
He turned slightly, preparing to leave. After all, he had already saved them. If he stayed longer, their perception of him would only twist further.
But he paused.
If he left now… what fate would await them?
He had repaired the ship, but the food was still gone. Magic could not restore it.
He frowned, unsure if even his own supplies would be enough.
Still, kindness won out.
"I can't just leave them like this," he muttered.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pouch enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm.
This was where he kept his food stockpile, aside from the frozen goods left on his ship.
To be honest, he didn't have to go the extra mile to help these people. He had already done enough.
But his conscience would not allow him to leave them starving while he ate well.
He opened the pouch and waved his wand over it.
The crew on deck noticed immediately, panic spreading across their faces. Almost everyone stepped back—except the old man, who remained kneeling, seemingly resigned.
Thaddeus ignored their panic and continued.
Sacks of wheat burst from the pouch—heavy, solid, real—hitting the deck with thuds that echoed through the ship.
Vegetable sacks followed, spilling out strange crops none of the sailors could recognize.
One sack struck the old man in the chest.
He froze.
Looked down.
Wheat spilled slightly from the torn seam.
Understanding dawned in his eyes.
He whispered in disbelief:
"Īlva Vala naejot arlī vaores syt gōntan. Māzigon kessa henujagon."
His voice was no longer fearful—only reverent.
Those behind him heard it and immediately knelt again.
"Māzigon ñuha henujagon!"
"Māzigon ñuha henujagon!"
"Avy jelmior īlva Vala."
"Avy jelmior īlva Vala."
Thaddeus continued calmly, ignoring the words. He kept waving his wand, guiding the sacks into organized piles on the deck, like arranging groceries.
Eventually, it stopped.
He turned to the old man and met his blue eyes.
"This should last a few weeks," he said. "Maybe a month if rationed."
He knew his words wouldn't be understood, but he still tried one last time.
Then he rose into the air and levitated back toward his merchant ship, finally leaving the vessel behind. The protection charm on it would last a day—enough time, he hoped, for them to secure the supplies.
As for the fire-making charm, it would burn for hours and only extinguish once nothing remained but ashes. The transfigured barrel would follow suit.
As he hovered above the sea, his gaze drifted back to the burning ship.
Through magic, he confirmed that seventy had survived the hunt because of him. Two hundred had perished. Now burning to ashes, they were the only remains he could retrieve from the sea with his magic.
The number settled in his mind like weight.
If he hadn't hesitated… would more have survived?
The thought lingered.
Then, slowly, it faded.
It was already done
He exhaled and let it go—for now.
He had done everything he could.
After all, he was still human—even if he had mastered three branches of magic.
He returned to the merchant vessel and reinforced it with magic. The ship hummed as it resumed its voyage toward the west.
Thaddeus did not know that his actions that day would be remembered forever.
Not as truth passed from hand to hand, but as song—sung by those who had never stood beneath that storm, yet who would swear it had once spoken through a man.
A story of a god who descended upon the sea with a merchant ship in a raging tempest.
Who struck down a creature of the abyss and reduced it to ruin.
Who shaped wood into a vessel with a wave of his hand.
Who fed the starving from nothing.
Who burned the dead not as punishment, but as a final rite of respect.
And who left without asking for a name, praise, or offering in return.
Only silence remained where he had passed.
And from that silence, a legend took its first breath.
TBC
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