"Welcome back, you who returned from death."
Her voice carried no warmth and no sharpness—only a distant stillness, like something spoken by the sky. When the girl spoke those words, Fisherman Elo's face showed a flicker of surprise and awe. But it wasn't her floating above the sand or her half-transparent form that struck him—it was her beauty.
For a boy raised among salt and storms, with a world no larger than nets, docks, and tides, a girl like this was unimaginable. She was too perfect, too far away—like a statue glimpsed through holy mist, or a dream that dared to take form.
Of course, that wasn't Elo the player's real reaction. It was only the game character's, the expression a fisherman boy was supposed to show in that moment.
It was only after several seconds that his thoughts finally caught up—only then did he realize what he should have noticed at first.
She wasn't standing on the beach like a normal person. She wasn't even walking this world the way mortals did. She was floating, half-transparent, untouched by gravity or air.
Around her drifted layers of soul-light, slow and weightless, like veils woven from memory itself. It wasn't flesh, and it wasn't illusion. It was something else entirely—something that didn't belong to the realm of the living, yet couldn't be mistaken for death. A presence far removed from everything human. And unmistakably… Transcendent.
His head dropped at once, and he didn't dare lift it again—not because of her beauty, but because every instinct in him screamed: Don't look. His breath snagged in his throat, his shoulders locked tight, and a shiver ran through him before he even realized it. This wasn't awe, and it wasn't shock. It was fear, raw and absolute.
Fisherman Elo wasn't a Transcendent, but that didn't mean he knew nothing about the world beyond. In this world, going out to sea meant more than facing storms or pirates. There were other threats—Transcendent beasts, unknown forces, things that couldn't be explained. Among them was a word everyone feared: ghosts.
Fisherman Elo had never seen one himself. But in the taverns, he had heard sailors boast of monsters rising from the deep and creatures no mortal should ever meet. Those stories always sounded like drunken exaggerations. Yet now, seeing her—floating there, not quite human—he knew exactly what she was. A ghost.
And yet—even with fear crawling down his spine—Fisherman Elo hadn't lost his wits. He wasn't a Transcendent; he was poor, living at the bottom of society. But that didn't make him stupid, or narrow-minded, or blind.
He understood one thing very clearly: if that ghost had wanted to kill him, he would already be dead. The fact that he was still alive—whatever the reason—could only mean one thing: he was useful to her. And as long as that was true…he still had a chance to survive.
At the same time, the ghost girl watched Fisherman Elo—and she knew everything he was thinking. She sensed his thoughts directly, reaching past words and expressions to what truly stirred inside. It was magic—true magic: mind reading.
She knew everything, but her face didn't change. Her voice stayed calm, light, almost weightless. "Good. Seems you understand. I need your help. Let's talk."
Elo didn't know what she was really thinking, but he caught the key phrase clearly: "I need your help." He didn't hesitate. He kept his tone respectful as he answered, "At your command, my lady."
Although Fisherman Elo acted perfectly polite, it was all just Player Elo's performance, not his true feelings. In reality, Player Elo was rolling his eyes. The whole setup was just too familiar. Shipwreck—check. Mysterious girl—check. And next? Obviously the quest-giving NPC moment. 🙃
After all, he'd played enough RPGs on his computer—Divinity: Original Sin 2, Baldur's Gate 3, you name it—to know exactly where this was going. And now here he was, stuck in a story that felt like a cheap knockoff of those classics.
"Seriously? Can't you scriptwriters come up with something new for once?!"
(╯‵□′)╯︵┻━┻
[She] ignored his internal complaints. The game had begun—and she was following the script. The ghost girl looked at Fisherman Elo and said, "I've lost many things. I need your help to get them back."
Fisherman Elo didn't hesitate. He responded immediately, "Just tell me what you've lost, my lady. I'll retrieve it no matter the cost."
She saw right through him. "You're lying."
Fisherman Elo's heart skipped and his face stiffened. "Forgive me, my lady… what do you mean by that?"
She didn't raise her voice; she only said calmly, "I can see what you're really thinking. To you, I'm just like the ghosts from sailors' tales—cruel, merciless, inhuman. You believe the only reason I spared you is because you're still useful. And yes—you're afraid. You want to run. Even now, you're trying to deceive me."
Elo's face went pale, his muscles drawn tight, every instinct screaming to run—or fight.
But she went on, calm as ever: "There's no need to be so tense. I know your fear, but you must know this—I have no intention of harming you. Your value to me is far greater than you realize. Because our souls are already joined. We are bound by fate—together."
Fisherman Elo had no idea what "our souls are already joined" was supposed to mean—but it didn't matter. It wasn't the words that made him feel safe, but the fact that she was still talking to him—calmly, patiently. That alone meant one thing: for now, he was still valuable.
So he adjusted his posture, slowly dropped to his knees, and lowered his head until his forehead touched the sand. Then he spoke—his voice almost pleading:
"My lady… I didn't mean to deceive you. I only wanted to survive. If you truly need me, I'll give you everything I can. But when it's over…I beg you—please spare my life."
Off to the side, Vian's character was still lying unconscious, but Player Vian could "see" everything through the system. And the moment she saw Elo kneel, Vian was completely stunned. Her reaction came as a single message—just one emoji:
Σ( ° △ °|||)
Then Vian sent a message: [Are you kidding me, bro?]
Elo replied with a sigh: [I don't really have a choice. That's just how Fisherman Elo's character is—he's smart, you know.]
Vian shot back: [Sure, it fits the character. But kneeling to her? It's just a game—there's no need for it!]
Elo paid it no mind: [Doesn't matter. She's your sister-in-law. Kneeling to her is no big deal.]
Vian just sent an emoji in response:
(O_o)??
At that moment, no one knew what [She] was thinking, but the ghost girl remained calm, her expression unchanged. Then she spoke—soft and distant: "It seems I'll need to show you some proof. Proof that our souls are truly joined. Only then will you believe that our fates are bound—that your death… would mean mine as well."
The moment her voice fell, a strange sensation surged from deep within Elo's body. It didn't come from his skin, or muscles, or even his heart—but from somewhere deeper still. Deeper than marrow. Deeper than the essence of his very being. A place he hadn't even known existed.
And then—Fisherman Elo realized his body was no longer his own. His arms, his spine, his neck—every part of him moved under the ghost girl's control. His body obeyed her will completely, smooth and precise, leaving him no say in the matter. He tried to resist, but it was useless. All he could do was watch through his body's eyes, no longer its master but a powerless spectator.
The ghost girl controlled Fisherman Elo's body, making his head rise slowly and steadily. As it lifted from the beach, a few grains of sand slipped from his forehead and scattered down. Then his spine followed, straightening as if pulled by invisible strings. From kneeling with his face pressed to the ground, he shifted into a single-knee stance, back upright, his eyes—forced—to meet the ghost girl's gaze.
Under Fisherman Elo's gaze, she began to break apart, quietly dissolving into countless shining fragments. Each fragment pulsed softly, rising like dreamlike sparks into the air. They glowed with a faint, soulful light, gently suspended as if gravity could no longer hold them.
The sea breeze kept blowing, yet the fragments didn't scatter. Instead, they drifted together, weaving into delicate streams of light that curved through the air, as if guided by an unseen hand. One by one, those streams arced back toward Elo—slipping into him through his chest, his brow, his very fingertips.
There was no pain, no burning, no stinging. The light entered his body like warm water seeping into every corner. Just heat—gentle and slow—spreading under his skin, running along his spine, soaking into his chest.
As the ghost girl's light merged into Fisherman Elo's body, a gentle warmth spread through him. His muscles loosened, his breath grew steady, and it felt as if a soft presence was holding him from within.
He knew he had lost control, yet instead of fear, a strange calm filled him. The warmth was soothing, almost tender, and a quiet part of him wanted it to last—pulling him deeper and deeper, until nothing else remained.
Fisherman Elo had never known a warmth like this—but Player Elo had felt it once before—in that dream.
It was warmth—but not the kind that touched the skin.
For Fisherman Elo, it started deeper—somewhere near the core of his being—and spread outward, like water soaking into dry ground. Hollow places filled. Cold parts thawed. The warmth didn't pull or bind. It simply flowed—steady and quiet—through the center of who he was.
And in that warmth, he felt the ghost girl.
Not standing beside him, not whispering in his ear, but inside him—settling into a space that had always been empty. There was no boundary left between them. Just one shape, formed by two souls fitting together without force. For a moment, Fisherman Elo didn't feel alone. Didn't feel broken. Just… whole.
Then something stirred.
A sound rose from within his soul—not heard, but felt. It wasn't a song or a voice, but a resonance, soft and impossibly warm. At first it was only a single note, like a fingertip brushing across a silent string. Gentle, measured, searching. But the touch deepened. Became deliberate. Pressing exactly where it mattered.
The resonance didn't come from outside. It bloomed inside him.
A pulse spread through his soul, tracing places that longed to be touched, opening parts that had never been reached before. It wasn't physical, but it felt more real than flesh. Not pain. Not pleasure. Something in between—something addictive.
And then came another note.
A chord struck within him, turning the first touch into a rhythm—slow, steady, knowing. The resonance explored, sliding into cracks he hadn't known existed, grazing nerves that had never been awakened. Every pause felt deliberate, like a breath held just above his skin—waiting.
With that rhythm, Fisherman Elo sank deeper and deeper.
Each beat grew sharper, more demanding, drawing out every hidden hunger inside him. Each touch struck harder than the last—clearer, more intoxicating—until even pain melted into sweetness. It was too much, yet never enough.
The rhythm quickened. The waves rose higher, heavier, pressing down with irresistible force. Each surge drove deeper, every pulse sharper than the last, leaving him gasping for more. It wasn't enough. No matter how strong, no matter how deep, it never filled the hunger clawing at his soul.
His thoughts frayed. Time slipped away. All that remained was the endless craving, the desperate pull for more—more warmth, more closeness, more of her. The tide didn't end; it only kept rising, fierce and beautiful, drowning him in a hunger that refused to be satisfied.
And then it came—sudden and unstoppable.
The rising tide that had pressed and swelled finally broke through, crashing past the last barrier. It surged into him all at once, fierce and consuming, like a flood rushing through long-locked gates. Every scar, every hollow, every hidden ache was swept open—not by force, but by release.
And in that release, he didn't feel emptied—he felt complete.
The ghost girl's rhythm hadn't invaded him; it had welcomed him, wrapped around him like warmth that refused to fade. Fisherman Elo no longer moved from urgency, but from quiet longing. Their souls pressed closer, melted deeper, until the lines blurred—not his, not hers, but a single steady pulse shared between them.
It wasn't surrender. It wasn't struggle. It was the calm that comes after a storm—the silence where everything feels whole. Something sacred. Something unbroken.
And in that fullness, something burst—silent and bright, not a cry, but a promise echoing inside him: "I am here. I am with you. I will not leave."
The crescendo faded, but the warmth didn't.
It lingered—like the last note of a perfect song, still trembling in the strings. Every part of him still hummed with her presence, as if her soul had left fingerprints across his own.
At this moment, Elo felt it again—that same beauty he had once known in the dream with his wife. Pure, profound, far beyond anything the body alone could give.
But this time was not like the dream. What he had shared with [Her] then was overwhelmingly strong—not just a little, but hundreds, even thousands of times stronger. A union so intense it gave him a joy no mortal words could ever capture.
This time, what the ghost girl gave Fisherman Elo was weaker. Clearly weaker. Yet—for him—it was enough. He had never known such tenderness in his own life. And that tenderness, so whole, so unspoken, reached him so deeply that he couldn't help but believe: She meant no harm. She mattered to him. And he… did not want to lose her.