The sun marked its third rise since they had left the village, and for two whole days, the river had been their world.
It had been two full days of rippling waters, soft currents, and an eerie silence that wrapped the boat like a fog. Aithur had grown used to the stillness. The cultivators had not spoken much, if at all. They spent most of their time either in meditation, their forms sitting rigid as statues with eyes closed and breathing steady, or lying still, sleeping like disciplined soldiers awaiting the next command.
Occasionally, Hian would open his eyes, offering Aithur a small smile. It wasn't friendly, but it was polite—a small reassurance that they were aware of their surroundings, not asleep at the oars. Aithur never responded, only grunted or nodded in return.
He was content with the quiet. The less they talked, the less he had to insult them. That was good. If any of those robes had tried making conversation, he knew his tongue would lash before his thoughts could intervene.
The only disruption to the peace had been on the first day. The haughty cultivator who had taken offense to Aithur's comment back at the chief's house—his name, Aithur recalled vaguely, was Jhen—had acted like a king on a throne. Every time Aithur moved or adjusted his path, Jhen made a show of sneering or huffing like Aithur had offended heaven itself. He stood most of the time, arms crossed, gaze full of disdain as if the fisherman's back were too crude a sight.
That behavior didn't last long. Hian, leader of the four, took it upon himself to restore balance. More than once, he flicked Jhen across the back of the head with two fingers, a motion so fast and sharp it looked like a spell. Jhen would scowl, but not respond. Aithur noticed the silent reprimands but didn't care enough to react.
He had more important things to do—like navigating the boat, preparing simple meals, and watching the skies for signs of storms.
The boat was large enough to hold them all with space to move, a sturdy wooden vessel with a canopy that Aithur folded and unfolded when the sun was too harsh. The wind was light, the current slow but firm. Each night they dropped anchor in the middle of the river and floated quietly under the stars. Aithur slept lightly, never trusting the silence too much.
By the dawn of the third day, the scenery began to shift. The murky, brownish waters of the inland river gave way to a hue that shimmered beneath the morning sun. Aithur stood at the edge of the boat, hand shading his eyes, and allowed himself a small breath of anticipation.
They were here. The Sea of Giga.
It wasn't really a sea—more like a massive, winding river mouth that spread out so wide it swallowed the horizon. But what made it extraordinary wasn't the size. It was the color.
Unlike ordinary rivers, the waters here glowed a vibrant green—like freshly plucked leaves bathed in sunlight. The glow wasn't harsh. It was soft, like moonlight trapped beneath the surface, and it danced with every ripple. The light illuminated the creatures swimming below—dozens of translucent fish, glowing in blues and yellows, flitting like stars through a sea of emerald sky.
Aithur had passed through here before, many times with Grey. To him, it was beautiful, yes—but familiar. Like an old painting hung in the family hall.
But the cultivators were stunned.
All four of them stood at the edge of the boat, mouths slightly parted as they gazed at the water. Even Jhen, who had carried himself with the pride of a lion, stared wide-eyed, as though he'd stepped into another world.
"I've only ever seen it from the skies," murmured one of the twin cultivators. "Never this close," said the other. "It's like walking into a dream."
Aithur, with an oar in hand, chuckled lightly. "You people always miss the best parts when you're too high up to notice them."
Hian didn't chastise him this time. He only nodded slowly, his gaze transfixed on the glowing river. "It is… ethereal. I've traveled the skies over Giga many times, but never did I imagine the water itself would be this…"
"Alive," Aithur finished for him, voice quieter than before.
The mood shifted. The cultivators sat again, some smiling faintly now, their moods lighter. Even Jhen managed not to scowl.
Only one day remained in their journey. If the waters stayed calm and no obstacles came, they'd reach the other side of the Giga sea by dawn, and from there the cultivators could fly to Giga town. Simple. Clean. Predictable.
But nature has little love for predictable endings.
Aithur noticed it first.
The boat rocked—not with the rhythm of a wave, but with a slow, rising thrum. Beneath his feet, the planks shivered. It wasn't wind. It wasn't current.
It was a sound. Deep. Like something ancient awakening from below.
A rumble.
The cultivators were on their feet instantly, blades drawn, eyes darting to the water.
"What was that?" asked one of the twins.
"A warning," Hian said grimly.
Aithur's eyes narrowed as he recalled what Hian had told him days ago.
The monsters in the Giga Sea didn't attack civilians. They only hunted cultivators flying above the river.
So why was the boat shaking?
He turned to ask—but the words never left his mouth.
The sea exploded.
A geyser of glowing green water erupted skyward, as a massive, whale-like creature rose from the depths. Its body was armored with coral and stone, fins jagged like knives, and its eyes burned with ancient fury. The beast was massive—larger than Aithur's boat ten times over.
Its roar shattered the silence.
Aithur's hands went numb. His breath caught in his chest. He didn't even have time to shout before the beast's tail, long and rippling with muscle, lifted high above the sky.
The cultivators braced, their blades shimmering with energy.
Aithur looked up.
At the tail.
At death.
His last thought was not one of fear, but regret.
"I should've stayed home," he muttered, eyes wide.
And the sky turned green.