Beneath the deep blue surface, faint shapes glide in the water.
"Monster attack—everyone on guard!"
Fern, at Gauss's side, isn't nearly as calm. Plenty of monster strikes that are nothing to a physical outlier like Gauss could punch a weapon through an ordinary sailor's heart or throat in a blink. There's no room for sloppiness.
"Woooo—"
From the endless whitecaps, a low, ominous horn-call chills the blood.
Sharp fins break the surface.
"Sahuagin," Fern's hawk-like gaze cuts through the swell and pins the species at last.
"Mm." Gauss nods, data surfacing in his mind:
Sahuagin—"Sea Devils" to coastal folk. The nickname says enough. Predatory fish-folk, they roam seas worldwide—deep ocean, shallows, even beachside villages. Because of their faith, they have close ties with sharks, which they train as partners; even wild sharks tend to treat sahuagin as allies, not enemies.
Like aquatic goblins, they're amphibious—able to breathe air and water. Goblins must surface after a time; sahuagin are the opposite—after a while above water, they need to return below. Either way, to coastal residents, both are unequivocally evil.
Gauss draws his rapier, Zephyr.
Fern shoots him a glance—if he remembers right, Gauss introduced himself as a mage—but now isn't the time for small talk.
"Find cover!"
Barbed bone javelins hiss in from all directions, forcing the crew behind bulwarks and cargo crates. Not everyone can pluck a bone spear out of the air like Gauss—not even a professional like Fern. He can dodge; cleanly catching one is another realm entirely.
Under the javelin barrage, hooked lines bite into the rail, and sahuagin haul up the ropes, bracing feet against the hull and swarming fast.
"Cut the hooks! Don't let them aboard!"
First Mate Rayne whips out his cutlass and charges a line on the port side. One white flash—rope severed—and several fish-men splash back into the sea. Other sailors, using the rail for cover, hack at the hooks as best they can.
Gauss opens his mouth, then thinks better of it. Honestly, letting the Sahuagin board would be more efficient—for him. But these sailors haven't seen his true strength, and they've never worked together. Of course they'll follow the "right" play: deny the enemy the deck. A melee risks losing the ship. And even if he thinks his way is better, does that make it right—when the cost would be taking chances with other people's lives? He holds his tongue.
Even so, the Sahuagin are well-drilled. Despite the crew's quick response, plenty make it over the rail under javelin cover.
Up close, their ferocity is plain. Shorter than most humans, thickset and powerfully built, their muscles are streamlined—made for water. Not scales but a rough, dark green hide covers them.
Their heads are ugly fish heads, muzzles jutting forward; a gaping maw nearly splits to the gills, packed with rows of backward-curved, shark-like triangular teeth—once they bite, you won't pull free. Their limbs are humanoid: long upper arms, webbed fingers tipped with bone-like claws; the legs are stout. A sharp dorsal ridge runs from nape to tailbone, ending in a thick, muscular tail.
Bone spears or bone knives in hand, shells strapped as chest and shoulder guards, they spill onto the deck.
"Prepare to engage!" Fern orders.
Gauss moves before the words finish—an arrow off the string. He's been itching for a fight since before taking the job. He just mastered the White Falcon Sword Art; of course he wants a live-fire debut. Sparring with Adèle didn't count—neither of them went all out. A sword that hasn't tasted blood is a toy.
He cuts into the first wave, the White Falcon breathing cycling naturally. A calm, incisive aura fills him; every step and stroke takes on a distinct rhythm. It's a presence he's never had before—even with stats stronger than many elite frontliners.
The first sahuagin barely finds its footing, spear still low, when a streak of white blade explodes wide in its eyes.
"White Falcon—Skimming Wave!"
Zephyr skates up at an exquisite angle, screaming through air and threading the gap between the shell gorget and the rough neck. Filthy blood jets. Bloodlust still gleams in its bulging eyes—but its mind drops into endless dark.
Gauss never breaks stride, gliding across the planks. He slips through the crowd like a falcon pecking in a blur, each time piercing an exposed vital. Precise. Merciless. Not a wasted motion.
Shhk!
He flickers and, in each brief pause, takes another life. Those quick enough to hack back find their bone knives brushed aside, a wrist clipped, and then a line lifted clean across the throat.
"Fast…"
Fern, mid-order, freezes for a heartbeat. For a moment he swears he sees a small falcon glide past. This isn't just "strong"—there's a brutal elegance to the killing. High-tier swordplay, he judges at once—above anything he's mastered himself. A wry smile tugs at him: a "mage" using a blade more advanced than what he's trained all his life. If this is what the new adventure is like, he chose right quitting adventuring.
Shaking off the thought, he raises his own sword and wades in. Gauss's effortless dismantling of the fish-men steels the crew; knives go up and partners are found. To their surprise, Gauss doesn't ignore them—he lands killing blows in passing and bails sailors out of danger as he goes.
Before long, the racket brings Alia and the others from below; with them, the fight ends even faster.
Gauss wipes Zephyr clean, satisfaction on his face.
"Sahuagin Slain ×68."
"Sahuagin Priestess Slain ×1."
[New Title Earned: 'Deep-Sea Fishman Hunter.' This title upgrades with kill count.]
[Current Effect: Bane – deal +10% damage against the Deep-Sea Fishman race.]
[You have slain 50 Sahuagin. The title 'Deep-Sea Fishman Hunter' has been upgraded to 'Deep-Sea Fishman Slayer'.]
[Current Title Effects: Bane – +20% damage against the Deep-Sea Fishman Race.]
There'd been over a hundred Sahuagin, plus an Elite Priestess. He hadn't noticed her at first—she hid underwater—but when she tried a Hold Person and he tore free on raw physique and spell resistance, he pinned her position.
Borrowing the fresh spiritual residue of the dead, he used clay magic to mold a sahuagin construct, which dove and flushed her up. An upcast Magic Missile sent her to meet their Shark-God, Sekolah.
The whole thing flowed smoothly. Aside from one sailor slipping in Sahuagin gore and banging into the rail, there were no injuries.
The crew wash the deck and gather spoils. Every pair of eyes on Gauss has changed; any doubt seeded by his youth has burned away, replaced with open awe and gratitude.
They'd known his rank—but not that his real strength was this absurd. A hundred sahuagin and a priestess would be a nightmare for a ship this size.
Even with two professionals aboard—the captain and first mate—and light ballistae, victory would cost blood. Whose blood? Theirs. Today, almost no one's even scratched. Gauss is simply overpowered.
Sailors are simple folk, and they revere strength. They don't need to understand high sword arts or subtle magic—they understand outcomes. This party—especially Gauss—protected them and the ship, almost casually. Another adventurer team might help, but few would shepherd every life so carefully. In chaos like that, most Bronze-tier crews would suffer injuries—or worse.
"Mr. Gauss, we really owe you and your team," Captain Fern says, voice sincere with relief. "Didn't expect a Sahuagin pack here at this time."
"That one's on us," he admits. Normally, Sahuagin and Shore-Walker Goblins are enemies; where one thrives, the other is scarce—unless they're at war. He should've spotted signs earlier.
"Just doing our job, Captain," Gauss answers evenly. For him, that was a warm-up—and a field test for White Falcon. It passed. Even without such techniques, he could one-shot chaff like this—but not all "one-shots" are equal. Now he spends less effort.
Over long fights, that matters. Paired with his recovery and the Special Stomach Trait, he's a born adds-clearer. Any enemy banking on numbers to wear him down will find their "obvious strategy" doesn't work. Compared with others, the monster side will only find him harder and harder to kill—like a mid-boss panel in growth.
The deck bustles. Blood is scrubbed clean; the dead hauled up; loot piled. Fern tallies and approaches Gauss, testing the waters: "Mr. Gauss, how about an eighty–twenty split?"
"Isn't twenty a bit low?"
"You and your team take eighty—we take twenty," Fern clarifies, thinking Gauss misunderstood.
"No, I mean—are you sure two-tenths is enough for your people?" Gauss shakes his head. He isn't fully up on standard at-sea splits.
"It's enough," Fern nods quickly. There's no fixed rule; it depends on strength and contribution. With a typical party, he might ask fifty–fifty, even seventy–thirty in the ship's favor—crew are many, and going to sea burns money in supplies, repairs, wages.
But today's result was all Gauss's party; the Seagull mainly helped with retrieval and sailing. Two-tenths is fair. Each sailor won't get a fortune—but they'll have plenty to live it up ashore for a while.