The Curator
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Chapter 11
🕑 Added 2025-07-13 16:55:22 +0000 UTCI must admit, I felt a sting of disappointment toward my fellow humans below deck. The moment they discovered the storage room brimming with supplies, they descended upon it like a pack of half-starved rats set loose in a granary. There was no decorum, no sense of restraint — only gluttony and greed. Such an utter lack of style.
Eventually, Rafael stepped in and imposed some order, announcing that a proper meal would be prepared for everyone. That, at least, was a step in the right direction. But when it came to who would handle the cooking, I couldn’t let the matter slide. The so-called “cook” in question was the only woman aboard, aside from the two elves still shackled on deck — though, truth be told, no one seemed particularly concerned about them. Their glares could have sharpened steel, and the few sharp-elbowed insults they flung at the crew now and then were quite entertaining, especially considering how uncharacteristic it was for elves to lower themselves to something as crass as shouting.
But back to the catastrophe in the making — the cook.
At first, I had been merely skeptical, but that skepticism quickly evolved into abject horror. I couldn’t sit idly by and watch her commit culinary war crimes. The moment I realized the magnitude of her butchery, I teleported directly into the galley. A hero’s entrance, if ever there was one.
“Excuse me,” I began, my voice as smooth as aged wine, “but what, precisely, are you doing to the vegetables... and more importantly, the meat?”
I stood on the far side of the cauldron, arms folded, surveying the carnage. Thick black smoke billowed from the bubbling pot, more than I’d ever seen escape the chimneys of an industrial district. The smell was even worse — the kind of scent that could haunt a man’s nightmares.
The woman flinched, her hands frozen mid-motion, her expression caught somewhere between shame and confusion. “I... I’m preparing dinner for the crew,” she stammered, clearly unsure whether my sudden appearance meant salvation or execution.
I tilted my head, studying the so-called ‘meal.’ I wouldn’t have fed it to fish, let alone humans. The mixture in the cauldron was already so far gone it had likely achieved sentience and was contemplating revenge. I had meant to lend a hand, but this was a culinary funeral. Still, I hesitated — would it be wiser to dilute the mess with cold water or to send the whole thing to the bottom of the ocean? Given the color and viscosity of that sludge, the latter seemed safest.
“Aha... and what exactly is this dish called?” I asked, raising one brow in feigned curiosity.
“It’s just a simple vegetable and meat soup,” she answered quickly, offering a shallow, apologetic bow.
Soup? I repeated silently, puzzled. That was, without a doubt, the last thing I would’ve guessed. For that matter... had she even remembered to add water?
“Interesting,” I mused, circling the cauldron like a predator sizing up wounded prey. “You know, I’ve heard of roasting ingredients briefly to enhance flavor — but your technique here seems to lean more toward volcanic activity.”
The black smoke thickened, curling toward the ceiling like a living creature searching for an escape route. She was lucky there wasn’t a fire alarm aboard, or the entire crew would have been deaf by now.
“You think I may have overcooked it... just a little?” she asked, turning to me with wide, pleading eyes.
I couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “Well, I’m not sure cooking is the word I’d use for this. I’d recommend starting from scratch.”
Without another word, I gripped the handles of the cauldron, teleported roughly fifty meters away from the ship, and let it tumble into the ocean like a funeral offering. The sea hissed as it welcomed the molten mess, and for a fleeting moment, I noticed how lively the surrounding waters had become. Strange. Either the ship had traveled farther than I’d realized since my release, or something else was shifting in the world around us.
But those questions could wait. For now, I had more pressing matters.
Reappearing before the woman, I startled her into stumbling back a step. Perhaps it was time I started using doors like a civilized being, at least for the sake of everyone’s nerves.
“Don’t worry, girl,” I said, my tone warm but firm, “everyone ruins a meal spectacularly at least once in their life. Now, lucky for you, good old Tiberius is here to teach you some proper cooking.” I clapped my hands together, already feeling the excitement spark in my chest.
I summoned a fresh cauldron from the storage hold and, with a wave of my hand, arranged the ingredients around us. As we worked, I guided her through the basics — starting with how to build a proper stock from bones and meat, and then onto the delicate art of slicing onions and vegetables, rather than throwing them in whole as she had done earlier.
While I coached and stirred, her clumsy hands slowly began to mimic my precision. Just as the rich aroma of a real soup finally began to fill the air, a commotion erupted from the deck above.
“Uh... shouldn’t we check what’s going on?” she asked, glancing toward the galley door with uncertainty.
Terrible timing. We were so close to finishing, and the last thing I wanted was to leave her alone to ruin the one decent pot of soup aboard this ship.
But the real issue wasn’t her — I could already sense them. A cluster of life forces moving rapidly toward the ship, drawing closer by the second. Whatever was about to happen, it wouldn’t be dull.
I lowered the fire beneath the cauldron to a gentle simmer, ensuring nothing would spoil in my absence. There were more pressing matters at hand — something, or rather many somethings, were rapidly approaching from beneath the waves. Judging by their speed and the fluid grace with which they moved through the water, I suspected merfolk — perhaps even the same clans that haunted the waters near my old prison.
A moment later, I materialized atop the ship's railing, boots perched on the slick wood as I stared out across the darkening sea. The water, once as still as polished glass, now rippled with unease. Small waves slapped against the hull, whispering of the danger that stirred below. My suspicions were confirmed when shadows flickered beneath the surface — and then I saw them. Fishmen.
They were grotesquely fascinating creatures, shaped like humans but molded for aquatic life. Their blue-tinted skin glistened under the faint sunlight, stretched taut over solid muscle and armored by a hide as tough as boiled leather. Their long fingers ended in sharp claws, and between each webbed digit stretched membranes that allowed them to slice through water with terrifying speed.
These were no aimless beasts. Fishmen were the pirates of the deep — cunning, organized, and ruthless. Ships were their hunting grounds, and the fates of those caught aboard rarely involved mercy. Their hardened hides could shrug off arrows and blades, and if cornered, they’d often choose to sink a vessel from beneath rather than risk a fair fight. Judging by the telltale spines jutting from their backs — some glistening with toxins like a lionfish — these particular ones belonged to a notably vicious breed.
In centuries past, back when the Empire still stood tall, I had made a sport of hunting them. Nobles would compete for trophies, eager to thin their numbers and protect the innocent coastal towns and merchant fleets. Despite their monstrous appetites, they were far from mindless. Fishmen spoke our languages, plotted their attacks, and sometimes even negotiated. But today, they hadn’t come for a chat.
As I balanced on the railing, most of the fishmen had already begun to dive beneath the ship’s hull, preparing for a coordinated ambush. They’d launch themselves in a single, fluid motion — like spears of flesh and bone — onto the deck. I could see Rafael and the crew lining the railings, weapons drawn, expressions straining between determination and barely concealed fear. Their trembling hands betrayed them. The ship was simply too large to cover every angle.
But that was fine. I was here now. And this was the sort of hunt I excelled at.
Memories stirred as I watched the first fishmen breach the waterline, leaping skyward with astonishing force. I let my hand drift lazily toward the sea, a single finger trailing along the surface. Ice rippled outward in a perfect circle, freezing a layer five centimeters thick around the ship. I couldn't coat the front, of course — the bow would simply crush through it — but I didn’t need to. I only had to cover the flanks, the ideal angle for boarding.
The fishmen were moving too fast to alter their trajectories, and one after another slammed into the frozen barrier with a chorus of sharp, satisfying thuds. Bunk. Bunk. Bunk. Buink. The impact wouldn’t kill them — their bones were far stronger than a human’s — but the looks on their faces were priceless. I watched as they shook their heads, momentarily stunned and visibly furious.
One particularly massive fishman, built more like a siege engine than a creature of flesh, shattered straight through the ice beneath my feet. I barely managed a quick teleport backward as he crashed onto the deck with a guttural roar, the planks quivering beneath his weight.
I reappeared right in front of the brute, close enough to count each scale along his chest. With a flick of my finger, I twisted the gravity around him — up became right, and left became down. Disoriented, the fishman wobbled like a drunken sailor, and before he could recover, I seized his entire body with the Aether and flung him sideways off the ship. I could only imagine the confusion as he plummeted in the "wrong" direction, limbs flailing, roaring in frustration. Fishmen never did handle altered gravity well.
But more were coming. I couldn’t allow the crew to be overrun — they weren’t soldiers, and the fishmen were experts at slaughter. Without hesitation, I teleported thirty meters beneath the ship, the dark ocean embracing me like an old friend. The seafloor lay somewhere far below, too deep for my senses to touch, but I could feel the faint hum of a leyline pulsing through the earth.
Where there was Aether flow, there were always predators. Fishmen were hardly the kings of these depths. Giant sharks, leviathans, colossal squids — all far more dangerous. And once the vibrations of a feeding frenzy began, they’d come.
But until then, I had work to do. I unleashed a series of concentrated Aether detonations toward the swarming fishmen. The blasts ripped through them, turning the dark waters bright with bursts of emerald blood. The wounded scattered, the dead sank. That should keep the big ones interested once they got a whiff.
From below, I watched as a few more fishmen managed to breach the surface, scrambling onto the deck after breaking through the ice or using it as a platform for their leaps. It seemed the crew would have their hands full for a while longer.
And then, mid-battle, another thought struck me like a hammer: the woman in the kitchen. She still had whole tomatoes lying around. Was she about to throw them, uncut, straight into the soup? The horror.
I teleported into the galley without delay, scanning the scene. Relief washed over me when I saw her dutifully slicing onions, the tomatoes untouched. Good. For now. Without lingering, I returned to the deck, just in time to watch another cluster of fishmen gather for a second assault.
I estimated five, maybe ten minutes before the real apex predators arrived. Plenty of time for a little more fun — and perhaps a lesson or two for the young ones, if they were watching.
