No one slips my net. Birand, you included.

The giant hefted a massive iron trident, his voice a salt-rough snarl.

He wasn’t human. His beard was octopus tentacles, his eyes two rings—one wide, one tight like moon and coin.

His gaze bulged like storm lanterns. He had no nose, no ears, and he was bald, a skull like wet stone.

He looked absurd, yet the blood-reek around him rolled like a rust tide, and the Hero Alliance didn’t dare scoff.

Qiliad, you’re a pain. Birand slid aside like wind over reeds, slipped a crab’s huge claw, then cut the pincer in one clean arc.

He eyed Qiliad standing on the foaming sea, footprints blooming like salt flowers.

For a month, the Hero Vanguard, in rushed retreat, was hounded by this octopus-man brute like a trailing squall.

Each time he struck, bodies fell like hard rain on iron.

He never lingered. He’d surge in with a school of “seafood,” hit hard, then ebb away like tide.

Even with Birand leading, he couldn’t pin the man down, the fight slippery as kelp.

Qiliad knew Birand was trouble. He’d cast Seafolk magic, bind Birand for a breath, then let his “seafood” swarm like locusts.

One sprint, one storm, then retreat, a rhythm like drums and sea.

It grated on Birand like sand ground in a wound.

Tsk. Damn, the seafood just swarms. Birand spun once, and the creatures rushing him fell in two neat halves.

He flicked filthy, many-colored brine off his shoulder, then fixed a heavy gaze on Qiliad like a stone sunk deep.

Guerrilla war was his trick before the grand war. Now these guys copied it, tide and all, and made it sing.

It was a headache that throbbed like surf.

Birand, I respect you as a Hero. If you don’t want your men wiped out, surrender. I’ll bind you and haul you to the Demon King’s hall for judgment. How’s that?

If you agreed, it’d be a colossal credit. The Demonic Lord might smile. My Seafolk could claim the whole sea like a crown.

…You think?

What?

Are you the fool, or am I?

Qiliad stared for a long beat, then sighed like a drained wave.

So you plan to throw away a golden chance?

Seafolk chieftain, stop the chatter. Catching a Hero is a prize writ in fire. The winged Demon spoke coldly, eyes like winter glass.

Only a brainless guy would mouth off at a showdown under thunderclouds.

Hero, the wheel turns. The tricks you used on the Demon Race now crash back onto you. Happy yet?

Birand shrugged, a thin smile like a knife’s gleam. I underestimated how fast you monsters learn. My bad. Next time I’ll craft something quieter.

The scene snapped still, frost over water.

Eli blinked, glanced around, and found a second Birand behind him like a shadow stepping out of dusk.

Eli raised a brow. Hey, can you not jump-scare me? People scare people to death.

Heh. You’re the later era, aren’t you? Birand let the joke fall like a pebble.

Yeah. This time, what are you telling me?

I’ve nothing left worth telling. Your strength already exceeds what I stored here, so I can only pass you scraps of signal like sparks in ash.

Since you say that, why not let me keep watching the story? Eli smiled. I’ve got nothing better to do.

You’re awfully blasé. Birand sighed, the sound thin as wind.

Since you’re at this level and seem to grasp me, you must’ve collected a lot.

Right, I’ve gathered plenty. And you’re annoying—you never answer what I ask.

What’s there to answer? Once we merge, you’ll know. His smile was pale as dawn.

That’s no fun. In your past life, did you live this bored? Eli joked, shoulders loose as willow.

I used to be like you. But I’ve been dead a long time, left these bits here. Hard to keep myself amused in this hollow.

Sounds pretty grim. Eli sighed, the air heavy as rain.

Since you’ve gathered so much, by my old temper I’d warn you of the cost of this path. Birand’s voice settled like stone in a riverbed.

I know. I’m ready. Eli’s smile faded to steel, calm as ice.

Good. I hope you won’t regret it. It’s your road, carved by your feet, mile by mile.

What I can give now is one last thing—the Hero’s slaughter-born spells and swordcraft.

Will you learn them, or not?

Do I have a choice? Eli grinned. This is your space, right?

You do. If you refuse, I can erase all this and drown it in my memory like ink in deep water. So, what do you choose?

No real choice. Eli chuckled. If I wasn’t after this, why gather your shards?

…Good. A small relief warmed his tone like an ember in ash.

Then face the battle where, within one campaign, I took the most lives. Birand’s body thinned like mist over marsh.

You won’t just watch in third-person. You’ll be in my first gaze, and you’ll temper those killing arts on a whetstone of blood.

Kinda thrilling. Eli blinked, then grit his teeth like biting steel.

Trust me. Don’t get cocky. If you die here, you might really die. His final words drifted, then he was gone like smoke up a storm.

The battlefield returned, a roar like a black tide rolling in.

Birand—call him Eli now—stood in that skin, his pulse drumming like war drums beneath cloud.

Eli looked around. The stink of death rushed at him like hot iron, and his blood surged like a rising flame.

Nice. Let’s see what you beasts can do. This ties to my life’s path. He smiled, edges sharp as ice on glass.

He drew Thias from its sheath. Cold and killing intent flooded him like winter wind over cliffs.

Hero! Surrender! Otherwise, today is your death-day! Qiliad lifted his fish-spear as seawater churned like a cauldron under thunder.

He slid down into the fold of the waves, vanishing like a seal in slate water.

The sea shuddered as if stung; the surf slammed the shore, crash, crash, crash, a drumbeat of foam.

In a blink, wind rose and clouds boiled, and a great wave rolled in with a vision like a mountain’s shoulder.

It lunged at the Hero Army, a wall of blue steel with a whoosh like knives.

No way. This… is nature’s power… how could we… A soldier of the Hero Army stood stupefied, words breaking like foam.

The impossible tsunami came on, a black back rising to blot out the sun and sky.

As if all water in this stretch had been drawn into that one blow, a fist the size of sea.

Eli’s face twisted. Shit, this guy’s defying heaven.

No. The New Era Sect can’t parade openly in this world. We move in shadow; our name must stay under ice. Ascaraun’s cough rasped like torn paper.

But if we don’t appear, no one knows us. What’s the point? Albert frowned, clouds pooling in his eyes.

Expose too early, and those ancient undyings will sniff us out. We’re rootless water—one slip, and every shore will shoot at us.

Albert, remember. We transmigrators are too weak.

Because of the Hero, you latecomers—besides you—top out at Sacred Rank.

You barely brush Divinity, a fingertip on glass.

For those old monsters, erasing us takes no effort—like snuffing a candle in wind.

But this time, we could rake in so many gains. Albert’s voice carried a hungry wind through reeds.

There are gains, but not taken that way. Ascaraun’s gaze cooled like moonlight.

Tell our sleepers in every nation: spread this news into every race, like seed on the wind.

Beastkin attacking the Elf Race—since the Demon–Hero War, it’s another war between races setting forests alight.

They’ll bite. Chaos—if it’s thick enough—becomes our open gate.

Make sure the human Central Empire, Holy Paris, hears it first, like a bell before dawn.

Uh… oh. Albert blinked, staggered like a deer in torchlight.

The Central Empire holds the highest place among humans. Perhaps… Ascaraun smiled, a blade hidden in silk.

Only then did Albert feel a deep chill, like winter gripping marrow.

The Hero’s revival isn’t far.