The storm lingered above, unsettled, as if it had not yet decided whether the world below had truly survived it or simply changed shape in ways it did not recognize.
Thaddeus remained suspended in the air for a few seconds longer.
He watched the ocean churn beneath him—blackened, violent, alive in that strange post-battle way where everything still felt like it was moving even though the source of the movement was gone. The Kraken's presence still haunted the water, not as a living force anymore, but as memory pressed into waves.
He searched for movement.
A tentacle.
A shadow.
A second mistake rising from the deep.
Nothing came.
Only the sea, rolling in uneven breaths.
"…Right," he muttered.
Then he descended.
The merchant ship floated intact, in the distance. Unaffected throughout the chaos. Protected by layered charms and ancient runes.
The larger vessel was not so fortunate. Its hull groaned with every swell, broken ribs of wood exposed like bones. Entire sections had been torn open, decks collapsed inward, sails reduced to wet ribbons hanging from fractured masts.
Survivors were scattered across both split ships—some clinging to ropes, others sitting amid wreckage like they had forgotten how standing worked.
And all of them were looking at him.
Every single one.
Thaddeus landed lightly on what remained of the upper deck. Wood creaked under his weight but held. The moment his boots touched down, the wind seemed to die completely, as if even the storm had decided it was done participating.
Silence followed.
Not the comfortable kind.
The heavy kind.
The kind that makes even breathing feel like it needs permission.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Even the ocean seemed to hesitate.
Thaddeus straightened slowly, brushing damp hair from his face. He became acutely aware of their stares—not like sailors who had just been saved from death, but like men who had just witnessed death decide to take a stroll among them.
Relief existed, yes.
But underneath it was something else.
Fear.
Not of the Kraken.
Of what had killed it.
Thaddeus cleared his throat.
Awkwardly.
Too casually for a scene involving wreckage, trauma, and possibly lifelong psychological damage.
"Hi," he said.
A pause.
Then he added, "I defeated the creature for all of you."
The words hung there.
Suspended.
Immediately rejected by the concept of normal social interaction.
Still nothing.
A gull cried somewhere far away, immediately regretting its timing.
Wait a gull cry? It was his first time hearing it in the sea.
One man slowly lowered himself to his knees. His hands shook—not from exhaustion, but something deeper. Reverence tangled with fear until it stopped looking like either.
Another crossed himself repeatedly, whispering prayers too fast to be coherent.
No one approached.
No one thanked him.
They simply watched.
Because in their minds, the Kraken had been a disaster.
But this—
This was something else entirely.
Something that did not belong in the same category as monsters or men.
Thaddeus exhaled.
"…Okay," he muttered. "That's not normal."
He had expected at least a thank you. Or panic applause. Or someone fainting dramatically and calling it tradition.
Instead he was getting "silent judgment and medieval existential crisis."
He shifted slightly.
"So… is this where I get a medal, or do you people just stare professionally?"
No response.
Of course.
Then one man stepped forward.
He was older—late forties, weathered by salt and time. His hair was a strange silver-platinun, not entirely natural even under the storm's fading light, Thaddeus saw a glimpse of his blue eyes. He dropped to one knee immediately, head bowed so low it looked like he was trying to apologize to the deck itself.
Then he spoke.
Not in any language Thaddeus had ever heard.
"Dāro Ābra zȳhon iā Drowned God jelmior zaldrīzes."
The words rolled across the deck like something ancient remembering it had a voice.
Thaddeus blinked.
Once.
Twice.
"…Huh?"
His brain tried to grab meaning and immediately slipped like it had touched soap.
Not Latin. Not Greek. Not any known magical dialect he had learned from the system. Not even close enough to fake familiarity.
He stared at the man.
Then the others.
Then back again.
What the hell was that?
Old Common? Sea dialect? Some kind of cursed linguistics DLC?
Either it was an ancient dialect lost to history and unrecorded in any surviving linguistic record… or he had gone so far back in time that "known language" itself had not yet been invented.
The only words he recognized were—Drowned God.
"…Okay," he muttered his thoughts. "Great. There's a Drowned God. Love that for me."
He exhaled.
So either they think I'm an envoy, a weapon, or a very enthusiastic aquatic deity misunderstanding.
He really hoped it wasn't the last one.
Because he had no patience for religious paperwork. Or divine expectations. Or whatever came with being mistaken for something that probably required a temple budget.
The man continued speaking, voice trembling.
Thaddeus caught fragments—zaldrīzes, ābra, zȳhon—but they meant nothing. It was like listening to meaning dissolve mid-air.
He rubbed his temple.
"I really need a translation spell," he muttered.
Then paused.
"…Actually. Do I even have one?"
He checked mentally through his system-given knowledge.
Nothing.
No linguistic bridge spell. No universal comprehension rune. Not even a basic "stop everyone from sounding like abstract poetry" option.
Of course not.
Even with mastery over three distinct branches of magic, Thaddeus could feel the gap clearly now.
This wasn't a matter of power.
He had power.
Plenty of it.
Raw destructive force. Restorative precision. Control that bent large-scale magic to his will without collapse.
But this wasn't about force.
It was structure.
And structured cognitive magic—especially anything related to language, meaning, or translation—was not something his current magical development had reached yet.
The system had given him knowledge, yes, but only within branches he had already touched. It did not hand him entire disciplines he had never conceptualized. It expanded what he understood. It did not replace what he had never built.
Language magic, as a formal construct, wasn't even standard in his current framework. It wasn't "missing."
It simply wasn't part of the system he had unlocked yet.
And if he ever wanted it—he would have to wait for a system reward, like a language Wikipedia or create a language spell himself.
Branch it out. Define it. Build the foundation of translation magic from first principles—phonetics, intent, magical resonance of meaning, conceptual mapping between minds.
It was possible.
He knew that.
Frustratingly so.
But not right now.
Not while standing on a sinking ship surrounded by traumatized sailors who had apparently decided he was a sea god with excellent timing.
"…Right," he sighed. "So I saved everyone from a giant octopus and my reward is being verbally bullied in an unknown dialect."
The man finished speaking.
Silence fell again.
Then—all at once.
"Dāro zaldrīzes iā Drowned God iā ābra riña."
"Zaldrīzes iā Drowned God."
"Zaldrīzes, Drowned God."
Thaddeus stared.
"…Yeah. Still nothing."
He pointed at himself.
Then at his eyes.
Then slowly shook his head.
"I'm… a… wizard," he said carefully, delivering each word one at a time like he was negotiating with extremely superstitious wildlife. "Not… a… god."
Pause.
Hope.
A brief, fragile moment of optimism.
The sailors stared.
Processing.
Reprocessing.
Mentally circling the same conclusion and somehow arriving at the wrong one with greater confidence.
Then—more kneeling.
More repetition.
"Zaldrīzes… Drowned God…"
Thaddeus closed his eyes.
"…Why is that sentence never understood in any universe?" he muttered. "It should be universal. Like screaming. Or taxes. Or 'please don't worship me, I'm clearly underqualified.'"
He tried again.
Slower this time.
Very slow.
"Wizard."
He pointed at himself.
"Magic user."
He mimed holding a wand, even added a small flick for emphasis.
"Not deity."
He crossed his arms in a firm X. Then, just to be absolutely clear, he shook his head.
No.
Not god.
Definitely not god.
The sailors stared.
Harder.
As if increased focus would unlock subtitles.
One of them whispered something urgently.
Another nodded with alarming conviction.
A third looked like he had just reached a life-changing realization.
"…That," Thaddeus said quietly, lowering his hands, "is the exact opposite of what I was going for."
Before he could attempt diplomacy again, the ship groaned violently.
A deep, breaking sound.
Thaddeus stiffened.
The deck tilted.
Someone screamed.
Water surged through a crack like it had been waiting its turn.
The ship was sinking.
"Ah," he said. "Of course it is."
Because apparently today was structured as: catastrophic event → existential misunderstanding → immediate second catastrophic event.
He raised his wand.
No hesitation now.
"Reparo."
Magic flowed—not explosive, but threaded.
It spread outward from him in unseen lines, reaching far beyond the deck beneath his feet. Broken beams trembled, then lifted. Splintered wood scattered across the water shuddered, as if remembering where it once belonged.
Then they moved.
Fragments drifted across the sea, cutting through waves against the current, drawn back by an invisible pull. Shattered planks, torn rigging, even pieces that had long fallen away began returning—pulled toward the ship like iron to a magnet.
The air filled with motion.
Wood reformed mid-flight. Nails reappeared as if recalled from memory. Splinters reversed themselves, undoing their own destruction like time had briefly lost an argument and decided to concede.
The hull sealed.
Gaps vanished.
Cracks stitched themselves shut.
Above, the broken mast shuddered—then rose. Fractured segments aligned, rejoining seamlessly until the towering structure stood whole once more, as if it had never fallen.
Along the flagship, flames that had clung stubbornly to charred wood flickered violently—then died.
Not smothered.
Not drowned.
Simply… undone.
Burn marks faded. Blackened surfaces lightened. The damage retreated as if the fire had never been allowed to exist. As if the Kraken had never broken it in the first place.
The groaning stopped.
The ship stabilized.
Even the storm seemed mildly impressed.
When it ended, there was only damp wood and stunned silence.
Thaddeus lowered his wand.
And felt it.
Fatigue.
Not exhaustion exactly—but the strain of overextending a repair charm beyond its intended scale. It was his first time forcing it to reconstruct something this large—and his magic felt it.
"…Okay," he said faintly. "That's enough hero work for now."
His legs felt heavier.
He walked to a relatively stable mast and sat down.
Then he pulled out a chocolate bar.
Unwrapped it.
Took a bite.
The effect was immediate—warmth flooded his body, washing away the exhaustion in seconds.
"Alright," he said between chews. "Giant squid defeated. Ship saved. Cult accidentally started. Language barrier from hell."
Pause.
"…Honestly? I've had worse days. And some of them even involved fewer sea monsters."
When he looked up again, they were still watching.
But the fear had shifted.
It wasn't gone.
Just reshaped.
Reverence layered over it like varnish on old wood.
He noticed something else now.
They weren't uniform.
Different faces. Different skin tones. Some bronze, sun-darkened and hardened by sea and salt. Others pale, almost washed-out against the stormlight. And a few stood apart entirely—
Silver platinum hair that didn't belong to age. Blue and sea green eyes that caught the light at the wrong angles, too sharp, too reflective, as if reality itself had hesitated when placing them and never quite corrected the mistake.
The kneeling man remained at the front.
Still muttering.
"Zaldrīzes… Drowned God…"
Thaddeus leaned back slightly.
"…Yeah," he sighed. "This is going to be a problem."
And for the first time since the Kraken had died beneath the waves—since he had encountered humans again—he wasn't sure which part of today actually counted as the disaster.
TBC
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