The Domain of the Fishmen
Murmurs rippled through the crowd at the caravan master's announcement.
A sudden change of plans was rarely a good omen, whatever the excuse.
Sensing the growing unease, the merchant forced a genial smile and raised his hands to placate them.
"Now, now, no need for alarm, everyone. Our expedition was originally slated to veer slightly north and bypass the hill country. But didn't we lose precious time repairing the wagon wheels? Thus, we intend to cut straight across the wasteland instead."
The man paused, carefully gauging the crowd's reaction before pressing on.
"As you all know, lingering on the outskirts of the Demonic Borderlands is hardly wise. This decision is purely to save time, and I ask for your understanding. To make up for cutting through the arid wastes, I shall personally cover all rations and water provisions."
For such a cautious, tiptoeing tone, the proposal itself didn't sound all that terrible.
He's just saying we keep pressing forward through the wasteland like we've been doing.
The arid flats certainly grew freezing at night and finding water was miserable, but if the master was footing the bill for food and drink, it was a godsend for Reed, who counted every copper.
The other settlers were in similar straits. At the promise of free meals, their anxious scowls melted into broad grins, brushing off any lingering concern as trivial.
The caravan master swept a hand over his chest, exhaling in visible relief.
Watching him, the smile faded from Reed's lips. A cold prickle crept up the back of his neck.
What was that?
The master was far too relieved. Why sweat blood over a mere shortcut?
Information was currency—the very first lesson Reed had learned upon stepping into the Demonic Borderlands. Knowing what others did not could mean the difference between life and death.
"He's hiding something..."
The merchant knew something they didn't. In other words, he was playing them for fools.
A warning bell clanged in Reed's head. Just as he took a step forward to confront the master, a voice spoke from behind.
"Sharp kid, aren't you?"
Reed spun around. A man looking barely thirty was watching him with keen, amused eyes.
Wearing a Robin Hood-style bycocket hat, with a crossbow slung across his back, he was clearly no ordinary traveler. The sword at his hip and the hefty rectangular wooden case in his hand gave him an air of seasoned eccentricity.
As Reed took a wary step back, the corner of the man's mouth curled upward.
"Easy there, kid. Just looking for a chat."
"A few grown men wanted to 'chat' with me not long ago, too."
Reed tapped the hilt of Letz's sword at his waist. It was an unmistakable warning: Try anything funny, and you'll end up just like him.
The man wasn't fazed in the slightest. If anything, Reed's grit only delighted him.
"Haha! That's actually why I came over. A boy who turned the tables on three grown mercenaries? You'd be surprised how many eyes are on you right now."
"Right."
"Let me introduce myself first. The name's Harlock. I'm a courier."
"A courier?"
"Goods, letters, people. Name your price, and I deliver. If you ever have something that needs moving, you're always welcome to hire me."
Harlock extended an open hand. Reed looked him up and down before clasping it. At the very least, he didn't reek of predatory filth like Letz and his scum.
"...I'm Reed."
"Good to meet you, Reed. Now, back to what you said. You figured the caravan master was holding something back? Spot on. Truth is, folks who know these borderlands never cut across this wasteland if they can help it."
Reed's deduction proved correct, but the validation brought no comfort.
"Why not?"
"Because what lies ahead is the Domain of the Fishmen."
The words brought Reed's thoughts to an abrupt halt.
"Fishmen? The kind I'm thinking of?"
"Depends on what you're thinking of."
"Monsters that are half-man, half-fish."
"Yep. Those exact ones."
"...Didn't you say this was an arid wasteland? Is there an ocean up ahead?"
"Nope. Ocean's leagues away."
"Are you pulling my leg?"
Reed glared, prompting a hearty burst of laughter from Harlock.
"Haha! You're letting common sense box you in! This is the Demonic Borderlands, kid! A hellish frontier teeming with every freakish monstrosity under the sun. Who says Fishmen have to live in the sea?"
"Well..."
"They bury themselves deep beneath the dry dirt of these wastes. Lie dormant like hibernating beasts, playing dead. But the moment it rains? They tear right through the mud, crawling to the surface in a feeding frenzy."
Reed's eyes widened.
In his previous life, he had heard of freshwater creatures with similar survival traits. Lungfish, wasn't it? There was no reason monsters in this world couldn't employ a similar evolutionary trick.
He realized Harlock wasn't joking.
"Wait. Then aren't we in serious danger? We're marching straight through the heart of a monster nest!"
"Well, as long as it doesn't rain, they stay fast asleep, so it's not a guaranteed death sentence. Rain's rare in these parts, too. But... the weather in the borderlands is a fickle beast."
Reed instinctively knelt and placed a palm against the ground. All he could sense through his earth magic was the faint scurrying of insects and burrowing moles. Nothing resembling a Fishman registered in the soil. Still, the knot of dread in his chest refused to loosen.
Harlock rambled on casually.
"Our dimwit of a caravan master probably signed a contract with an impossibly tight deadline. Every passing day costs him, so he's gambling. Figured as long as it stays dry, the Fishmen won't stir. But relying on luck like that always trips you up sooner or later."
"Shouldn't we tell him to turn around right now?"
"Think he'd listen? Besides, look around. Too many greenhorns."
The migrants, oblivious to the frontier's deadly quirks, were still celebrating their promised free meals. Persuading each of them would be an ordeal, and crossing the caravan master was a risk Harlock had no desire to take. Besides, who was to say it would rain?
Harlock slung an easy arm around Reed's shoulder, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur.
"Listen closely, Reed. Out here in the West, whether you're a monster or a man, survival comes down to running in a pack. But dragging along dead weight just gets you killed. What you need is a reliable partner—say, someone handy enough to take down three mercenaries."
"You're proposing we team up."
"Only if the worst comes to pass. If the skies stay clear, well, even better!"
Reed weighed the proposal.
Having an ally when crisis struck was undeniably better than fighting alone. Even back in the Asteritz slums, the weak had to band together. People sneeringly called them rat packs, but a swarm of rats was infinitely more dangerous than a lone rodent. Having been an outcast even among those children, Reed understood that truth better than anyone.
No reason to refuse.
Harlock clearly knew the ropes of the borderlands. He could teach Reed things he had no other way of learning.
After feigning hesitation for a moment, Reed nodded.
"Fine. But I don't know much about the frontier, so you have to teach me."
"Haha! Gathering intel right off the bat, are we? Good boy! Out here, everyone keeps at least one ace tucked up their sleeve for a rainy day. Even an ordinary-looking farmer's got a dagger hidden in his tunic. Slack off on gathering intel, and some unexpected trick will put you six feet under before you know what hit you. Just like those mercenaries you dealt with."
Harlock nudged Reed's ribs with his elbow.
"Speaking of which, how'd you actually pull that off? Looking at your stance and frame, you don't have the build of a trained fighter. What kind of trump card did you hide?"
"If I told you, Harlock, it wouldn't be much of a trump card anymore, would it?"
"Hahaha! Spot on! Guarding your own secrets is just as vital as sniffing out others'. You're sharp, kid. You'll do just fine out here."
True to his word, Harlock spent the next stretch of the journey answering Reed's endless barrage of questions without complaint. Reed's curiosity was boundless, and Harlock's seasoned patience made him realize the courier was a decent sort.
Maybe his offer to team up was just an excuse.
Perhaps he simply couldn't stomach the thought of leaving an orphaned boy to fend for himself. Such people did exist, rare though they were.
Just as Reed allowed himself a glimmer of optimism...
The world suddenly dimmed.
"Huh?"
"Storm clouds."
Out of nowhere, heavy, bruised clouds rolled across the sky, blotting out the sun. The caravan master's face drained of color, and Harlock clicked his tongue.
"Pray it's just passing over."
The heavens answered without mercy.
Drip. Plip. Pat.
A scattering of stray drops escalated within seconds into a violent, torrential deluge. As if the sky had been torn open, sheets of rain slammed into the earth, churning the parched dirt into a morass of mud.
The wagons ground to a halt.
"N-no! No, no, why now?!"
As the merchant clawed at his hair in despair and the travelers stared blankly at the sky, Reed leaped down from the wagon and slammed his hand against the churning soil.
Beneath the mud, where moments ago only harmless insects had squirmed, massive shapes were surging upward, clawing their way to the light.
"Damn it... Harlock!"
"Over here!"
Harlock grabbed Reed by the scruff of his collar, hauling him onto the high ground between the stalled wagons.
Beneath their feet, the mud writhed like a living beast, frothing with thick, sluggish bubbles. The realization slowly dawned on the passengers that the rain wasn't the only thing churning the ground.
An instant later, the masters of the domain breached the surface.
"Wub-ep! Weh-beh-beh!"
Heads like bloated eels, slick, glistening skin, and webbed, clawed limbs—bipedal horrors erupted from the mire, shrieking at the living prey before them.
The guttural retching noises were incomprehensible to human ears, yet Reed felt an instinctive chill of translation deep in his bones:
—Food!
A Fishman lunged, clamping its jaws around the head of a nearby elder and biting down with sickening force.
Crunch!
With a wet crack, the headless corpse collapsed into the muck. From the surrounding mud, dozens more crawled out.
Dozens. Scores. Too many to count.
"Shit!"
Harlock unslung his crossbow and loosed a bolt in one fluid motion.
Twang! Thwack!
The bolt drove through a Fishman's skull, sending it splashing backward into the slurry. Using a goat's-foot lever, Harlock cranked the string back and bellowed:
"Individually, these bastards are weak! There's just too damn many of them!"
Chaos erupted across the caravan. While some were helplessly butchered, others bared their teeth and fought with desperate fury. As Harlock said, the beasts weren't overwhelming in strength, but their numbers seemed limitless, rising endlessly from the soil.
At this rate, total annihilation was only a matter of time.
I have to do something.
Reed focused his mind, channeling his mana into magic.
A mass of soggy earth levitated into the air. But soaked to saturation, the volume he could manipulate was pitifully small.
He had to separate the water from the soil.
But how?
Who cares how! Just do it!
There was no time for theoretical deliberation. Survival demanded crude, desperate improvisation.
Staring at the floating clump of mud, Reed visualized invisible giant hands gripping the earth and wringing it out like a wet sponge. Perhaps there was a far more elegant spellcraft, but it was the only method his mind could seize upon.
He concentrated with every fiber of his being.
Remarkably, the earth responded to his will. The soil compacted tightly together, forcing the trapped water to squeeze out and cascade down in streams.
The mud transformed back into workable, damp soil.
"It worked!"
"Reed... what in the world are you—"
"Harlock! I'm going to raise a hill right here! Herd the people onto it!"
"You... Got it!"
Shutting out the chaos, Reed threw himself into the work. At normal capacity, he could lift earth weighing roughly half his body weight—and even less when waterlogged.
Doesn't matter. Ur had gifted him an abundant reservoir of mana. If his capacity was small, he would simply make up for it with sheer repetition.
Between the two wagons, Reed hauled mound after mound of earth, piling it high.
The ground beneath his boots began to rise. Stragglers fleeing the slaughter gaped in stunned disbelief.
"Good gods..."
"Is that... magic?!"
Harlock's roar broke their stupor.
"What are you staring at?! Move, damn you!"
Snapping back to reality, the survivors scrambled into motion. Some stacked wooden planks and heavy cargo crates atop the mound Reed was raising, barricading the slope against the climbing monsters. Others drew weapons, swinging wildly to shield Reed as he worked.
Through sheer, frantic cast after cast, a substantial earthen hill took shape.
Constructed from packed wet dirt, crates, and broken planks, it was a precarious redoubt, yet holding the high ground changed everything.
Huddled together atop the rise, their defensive perimeter consolidated. Forced to attack uphill, the Fishmen's frenzied momentum broke.
Yet the horde remained vast. Waves of slick, writhing bodies continued to crawl up the slopes, forcing the survivors into a desperate melee.
"Die, you freak!"
Clang!
Reed fought alongside them. Knowing earth magic would hardly suffocate creatures equipped with gills, he gripped his shovel with both hands and swung it like a bludgeon.
Danger stalked every breath. Once, a Fishman lunged from the mud, webbed claws clamping onto Reed's coat to drag him into the feeding pit. But hands seized Reed's collar from behind, yanking him back, while Harlock's blade sheared downward, splitting the beast's skull in two.
Only then did Harlock's words truly resonate in Reed's flesh and bone:
Out here in the West, whether you're a monster or a man, survival comes down to running in a pack.
How long did the slaughter last?
Just as abruptly as they had gathered, the black storm clouds tore apart and swept away. Golden sunlight spilled across the wasteland.
The Fishmen paused, blinking up at the brightening sky, before slithering back into the deep mud one after another. They knew the parched earth would soon bake dry beneath the sun.
Only after the last monster vanished did the blood-soaked survivors collapse to their knees.
"W-we lived..."
"We survived? Truly?"
"Gods above... I thought I was dead..."
Reed sank onto an overturned wooden crate, surveying the carnage.
Shattered timber and the mangled remains of humans and monsters lay half-submerged in the drying sludge. Easily more than half the caravan had perished. Among the dead lay the caravan master himself.
Yet surviving at all in the face of such a horde was nothing short of a miracle.
Harlock wiped monster bile and blood from his cheek, clapping Reed firmly on the shoulder.
"That hidden ace of yours was a hell of a lot more impressive than I imagined. Pulling off a feat like this the second you step into the borderlands? Mark my words, kid. You're going to make a name for yourself."
Reed let out a weary chuckle.
An overwhelming exhaustion crashed over him, dragging heavy eyelids down. It wasn't mana depletion so much as... the sheer physical exertion of swinging an iron shovel until his muscles screamed.
With the adrenaline receding and relief settling in, Reed curled up on the packed earth and surrendered to sleep.
When Reed opened his eyes, he was standing before Ur.