Chapter Twenty-Two: Bloodthirsty Frenzy

After a unified, brief, yet powerful shout, the next sound that followed was the grating noise of wood scraping against wood—a harsh, jarring symphony that could only be the oars grinding against the sides of the ship. The crew, all former miners and well acquainted with one another, had long mastered the art of cooperation; the chant only made their movements even more synchronized. True, their voices now made concealment impossible, but that concern had been left far behind.

Stealth in the Calm Belt was never simply a matter of silence—the real key lay in the powder of Seastone. Now that their greatest safeguard was lost, it was only a matter of time before the Giants’ Bane was discovered by the Sea Kings. So all they could do now was flee at the greatest possible speed. According to Captain Grisha’s calculations, in the best case, they would be free of the Calm Belt in an hour; at worst, it might take two or three times that. The distance was not far, yet the greatest likelihood was that they would never escape at all.

At this moment, Captain Grisha remained on the deck, though there seemed little he could do aside from pray. Besides him, only three figures remained above: the rest of the crew had all gone below to row. More precisely, it was two people and a bear.

Ayn stood atop the mast’s lookout, a spyglass in hand, scanning the distant sea. Qiu Bai kept watch from the roof of the aftcastle, his gaze ever vigilant. As for Bepo, in this moment of crisis, he finally found the courage to confront his own fears. Adversity reveals true character; the valor and nature of his Mink heritage awakened within him. He recognized himself at last, and so… Bepo bravely latched onto Qiu Bai’s leg.

A true and literal case of “clinging to one’s thigh”—after all, it sometimes takes courage to admit one’s own cowardice. Those pleading, animal-like eyes might have moved Qiu Bai to pity… but no, such a thing was impossible. Still, he didn’t kick the bear away.

Standing steady at the stern, Qiu Bai was rubbing his left eye socket with one hand, while his right arm hung naturally at his side. Hidden under the wrinkled shirt, his fingers flexed and curled restlessly, as if grasping for something—though nothing but air was there. A closer look at his right eye revealed faint redness, and if one looked closer still, bloodshot veins could be seen creeping through his amber iris.

This was not the result of overactive tear ducts, nor of fear—though, truth be told, he was growing nervous. But his tension was not the sort that left one sobbing or paralyzed. If anything, it was excitement he struggled to suppress, his body trembling with anticipation. Even without medical training, Qiu Bai knew his adrenaline was spiking.

Ayn, glancing downward at him, knew at once—he was at it again. Whether this was to be their doom or their deliverance, Qiu Bai was, as always, utterly engrossed. When he grew too excited or focused, his eyes would redden, sometimes even to the point of silent tears—a curious habit, a lingering echo from his past life.

Once, in his former existence as an ordinary man, Qiu Bai had possessed a peculiar passion: regaling all sorts of people with all manner of terrifying tales—ghostly, bizarre, unsettling, always calculated to fray the nerves. Each time, he was wholly immersed in the performance—truly acting. As his stories deepened, his eyes would redden, and sometimes tears would flow as he continued on. In the right lighting, even if his tale was mere comic banter, his expression alone would be enough to frighten an audience out of their wits.

His face was never twisted, his tone never forced, yet somehow he conjured an atmosphere of true dread. To clarify, one might borrow a term from social behavior studies—“fear-to-tears rate.” Influenced by setting, health, and other factors, Qiu Bai nonetheless had maintained a near-mythic record until his untimely demise: a 90% fear-induced crying rate for men, 98% for women, and an unbroken 100% among those of ambiguous or alternative gender, while the “Shuichi” variable remained unmeasurable for lack of a sample. The last was a statistical quirk; the former, a result of insufficient data.

All of which pointed to one truth: Qiu Bai’s nerves had been eccentric since his last life, and now, in this one, his oddities had only grown more pronounced.

“Feels like… it’s coming,” he murmured.

Muttering to himself, Qiu Bai pried Bepo from his leg and, with a single hand, slapped the bear onto his back, where Bepo clung like a koala. The gesture was also a signal to Ayn.

“Captain!” he called out.

“What is it?” came the reply.

“Get below deck. Sea Kings are coming. Tell everyone—no matter what, don’t stop rowing.”

Captain Grisha hesitated, then immediately turned and rushed inside. Qiu Bai’s warning was based on nothing more than instinct—a prickling tension along his skin, a certainty that Sea Kings were imminent.

“Bad luck never misses,” was a saying that proved all too true for Qiu Bai.

Whatever the captain said below, the ship—already moving at its utmost—found another burst of speed. To the crew, exhaustion was preferable to a Sea King’s jaws.

And then, just as the Giants’ Bane surged forward, the starboard side erupted in a geyser of seawater, as if struck by a massive shell. A pale blue leviathan burst from the depths.

The ship lurched, nearly capsizing.

“Hard to starboard!” Qiu Bai shouted by reflex—then realized the helm was empty, no one there to steer.

No helmsman, no course to turn.

He spun to rush back, but then—the ship began to turn after all.

Captain Grisha was there.

He’d rushed below, only to return at once, now clinging to the wheel with both hands as the force of the tilt threatened to lift him off his feet. He met Qiu Bai’s gaze, and in that instant, Qiu Bai knew—this man could be relied upon. He had underestimated the mettle of a true seaman; Captain Grisha was no ostrich with his head in the sand.

“Captain, hold steady!”

“Don’t worry. I’d sooner die than let go.”

If he did, everyone would be lost.

A deluge, flung skyward by colossal force and then dashed down by gravity, smashed onto the deck and soaked the captain. Through the watery veil, he glimpsed Qiu Bai—smiling. For some reason, after the terror of the moment, that smile brought a strange sense of reassurance.

Was it anticlimax? Despair? Helpless resignation? No—he still believed in something else.

Then, with a heavy thud, something massive crashed onto the deck, half-sinking into the planks. As the Sea King breached the surface, Ayn had leaped from the lookout and landed lightly upon the creature’s back. With a gentle touch, she activated her ability.

The enormous beast—shaped like a diplodocus but five times as large—instantly shrank to the size of a newborn giraffe and tumbled onto the deck. Ayn landed beside it with practiced ease. Her ability was truly suited to handling these monsters; she had thought it would be effortless. Yet the faint crease in her brow betrayed her effort—she hadn’t been able to erase the Sea King outright, proof of her own limits.

“Ayn, get behind me,” Qiu Bai ordered, not looking back.

If Ayn were to fall into the sea now, they’d be in trouble. Already, more Sea Kings were surfacing in the wake of the Giants’ Bane.

With that command, Qiu Bai stepped forward, left foot ahead, right foot behind. Wasn’t this the moment to sing a song?

“Who was it… that brought you to my side?”

“No matter who it was, I need you to come a little closer.”

Perhaps he was about to draw a different weapon. Compared to his usual “C-rank tricks,” the special attack methods attached to his relics were truly worthy of the term “skill.”

He extended his left hand, fist closing, and in a shimmer of strange light, a longbow appeared. Though not truly Harriet, Qiu Bai nonetheless called it by that name.

With his right hand, he drew forth a long, oddly-shaped sword—a spiral blade so peculiar that even the most seasoned of men would wince at the sight, feeling an involuntary twinge of discomfort.

The spiral sword tempted and deterred in equal measure.

He nocked the bizarre weapon onto the bowstring, drew it back with steady strength, and as he did, the sword transformed into an arrow.

By the time he had readied his shot, the first Sea King was less than a hundred meters astern. Qiu Bai waited, letting it draw even closer.

Ninety, eighty, fifty, twenty meters.

Once the beast was almost upon them, his right hand released the string—thumb, forefinger, and middle finger letting go all at once.

The arrow erupted in a surge of cerulean light.

Unparalleled speed and fierce rotation imbued Qiu Bai’s shot with an unstoppable cutting force; the wind blades swirling around the shaft created a vacuum effect no living flesh could withstand.

The arrow bored a man-sized hole clean through the first Sea King’s brow, smashing through and hurtling toward another in the distance.

A double kill seemed impossible—the shot seemed to veer off course. Yet, just as it passed the second beast, the arrow exploded.

A burst of azure fireworks mingled with the spray of blood.

Two of the massive Sea Kings, surfacing mere moments before, now crashed lifelessly back into the sea.

The name of this attack was—

“Broken Phantasm.”