The Lord of the Seas - An Isekai Progression Fantasy [ Currently on Volume 2 ]

Lukas screamed. A raw, shattered sound. Hoarse. Cracked open like something inside of him had been torn loose. The blood ran like ink, thick and dark, swirling in the sea that now seemed so still. Lukas could only watch as Rodan Drakos drew his last breaths. But then Rodan looked at him. His face—pale, drawn, lined with pain—didn't flinch. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, blinked once. Then they locked on Lukas.

There it was. That impossible fire. The flame of undying life. A strength that didn't belong to this world. Draconic. Holy, even. The ocean answered Rodan. Likely for the final time. All around them, the water trembled—then rose. Not in waves. In walls. Spiraling columns. Veins of power stretching from the depths to the skies above, each one humming with the soul of Linemall. Lukas felt it surge beneath his feet. Felt it in his bones. In his blood. In his heart.

Rodan roared. The sound wasn't mortal. Magic exploded from his body. The Divinity of the Seas, it was like witnessing a force of nature. It burst out in radiant torrents, the sea churning with power and sacred wrath. His claw flexed. Then sank into Jakob's arms, holding him tight. A gasp left the Hero's lips. His eyes widened, not in pain but in awe. He had not seen anything quite like this. He had drawn blood. For the first time, in perhaps centuries, the Hero felt pain. Lukas could see it—dark red dripping from divine skin. The Dragon Slayer, the Admiral of Nozar, had been pierced. Not by a blade. Not by some mortal trick. But by Rodan.

Rodan Drakos. Son of Lord Jaren. Brother of Lukas Drakos. The one they call the Leviathan of the Deep. The Greatest Pirate to have ever lived. Even with his heart torn from his chest, he continued to fight. He struck back. He left his mark. Rodan smiled. The Hero roared, his muscles bulged and twisted but to no avail. He tried to wrench himself free, but Rodan's claws dug in deeper. Anchored by blood and bone. A dying dragon, holding back perhaps the strongest mortal to ever walk the face of Hiraeth.

Lukas watched. Helpless. Rodan turned his head, and their eyes met across the chaos. And Lukas used the Crown, reaching out to Rodan for what was to be the last time. He was supposed to teach him such that he could one day become one of the Dragon Lords of Linemall. Their minds touched and silence drowned out the raging tempest all around them.

And in that stillness, Rodan spoke.

"You are the future, Lukas."

The voice echoed in his mind. Calm. Strong. Final.

"You are the hope of Linemall. And you're more than worthy to sit on that throne. I've seen it. I know it."

Lukas shook his head. "But, Rodan, I'm not ready—"

"You are more worthy than you think, my brother. And if you aren't, you will be. But if you stay here any longer, you will die. Linemall doesn't need a martyr, Lukas. The Gods of Hiraeth know how many martyrs we've had. Linemall needs a leader, Lukas."

Rodan's face trembled, a grimace contorted by pain, but his voice was steel.

"Leave me. Break the Tear. Live. That's how you honor me. GO! I'll see you soon. I promise."

Tears streamed down Lukas' face, hot even in the frigid saltwater. His claws curled at his sides. He wanted to scream. To fight. To save him. But Rodan was already dead. He just hadn't stopped moving yet. By sheer will alone, Lord Rodan Drakos fought for what he believed to be the future of his people. He fought for him. So Lukas let himself fall. His massive body slipped beneath the waves. And as the sea embraced him, he reached for the bracelet on his wrist. The gift from Lady Kaitlyn right before they left for Ilagron. One of Thalorian's Tears, such that his children would one day return to Linemall when they left to explore the rest of Hiraeth.

But in that split second, the Hero cried out. Loud. Broken. Furious.

"OCEANUS!"

Lukas froze.

"I am your champion! Grant me strength such that I may do your bidding!"

Then the world shifted. Everything—everything went still. The water around him quite literally becoming static, preventing him from breaking the pearl; halting his movements. The waters recoiled from Rodan. The sea itself trembled as if in recognition. As if in reverence. As if a command had been spoken by a being far above man, dragon or any mortal being on the face of Hiraeth.

Rodan's eyes widened in disbelief—his magic fought to hold shape—

And then it shattered.

Lukas felt it. A divine weight. An impossible pressure. The cold void of the abyss yawning wide. Something beyond power. All of it coming from the Hero From Another World. Light burst from the Hero's back, his chest, his veins. His body expanded, not with muscle, but with pure Mana. Skin split. Gold bled from the cracks. His eyes became as bright as an explosion of a thousand suns.

He was no longer a man. He was a God. A Titan. An immortal.

Rodan screamed. The ocean turned on him. Not just the tide, but the essence of it. Tendrils of water, divine and wrathful, speared through his wings, his chest, his throat. They tore him apart. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. One second, Rodan was whole. The next—he was gone.

Lukas couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. It was just like before. Just before he entered his new life as Lukas Drakos and after he drew his final breath as Julien Fronterra. It was coming face to face with something ancient. Just like the Man in Green. Lukas felt his mind splinter. Felt the edge of his sanity begin to fray as he looked upon what no mortal was ever meant to see. The image carved itself into his memory, burning itself into his mind. And it would never leave.

With a strangled sob, Lukas crushed the Tear.

And in an instant, the Hero From Another World appeared. He did not move through the water. He did not break through the surface. It was not a matter of speed, velocity or a testament to the Hero's great physicality. He simply was. His body, ethereal and whole, materialized directly in front of Lukas like an echo of reality itself, defying both speed and sense. One second there was the open ocean, and the next, there was the man who had just killed Rodan, who had torn out his heart and silenced the most powerful draconic warrior of the age with his bare hands.

There was his father.

The sea began to rise with purpose, coiling around him in ribbons of light and memory, starting the process of retreat. Lukas could feel it—the magic coursing through the pearl, responding to his blood and heritage, unraveling his physical form, dissolving him into the ocean's embrace. It began at the wrist, just like it had for Katrina, and a tremor of bitter, hollow hope shakes inside him. He was going to live through this. He was going to make sure that Rodan's sacrifice had not been for nothing.

The Hero had other plans. Without hesitation, he swung his blade down. Pain, blinding and sudden, ripped through Lukas' mind like he is caught in a trap he cannot escape. He doesn't even register it at first. He can only hear the gory snap of bone, the grotesque tearing of flesh, the sight of his arm severed clean at the elbow, carried away by the ocean while the rest of him remains locked in place—still here, still whole.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The roar that escapes Lukas' throat is half agony, half despair. Blood poured from his wound like a broken river, his breath catching as the Hero From Another World steps forward, grasping him by the throat, lifting his massive, dragon-forged body as if he were no more than a child in the palm of a god.

And then, silence. The seas part. It's terrifyingly silent in this space that has been formed. The seas have caved around them, forming a massive cavern of saltwater suspended by pressure and power. The Hero—no longer adorned in divine brilliance, no longer lit by the sickly radiance of Oceanus—stands breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling for he is a man who has just returned from the edge of godhood. His eyes were bloodshot. There was sweat dripping from his brow.

How could someone who, just a second ago, have wielded so much strength yet look so human?

The Hero's hands trembled—not with weakness, but with the weight of power he was never meant to carry for so long. Power that no human was meant to carry, even for a moment.

Lukas could feel it—this is the end. And then the man speaks. Not like a Hero. Not like a god. But like a man.

"I want you to know," he whispered, voice raw and worn, "this isn't personal."

His grip remains tight around Lukas' throat, but there's no hatred in it now. No fury. Only fatigue, ancient and all-consuming. Yet his grip is not something Lukas can free himself from.

"I've been fighting your kind since the moment I stepped foot on this fucking world," he continues, eyes gazing not at Lukas, but past him, into something unseen. "And I'm tired. Jesus Christ…I am so tired."

Lukas doesn't struggle. He just listens.

"I hope you're the last one," the Hero mutters, more to himself than to Lukas. "The last life I ever have to take."

He lowered Lukas slightly, just enough that their eyes met. And for the first time, Lukas saw it—the truth behind his father's monstrous strength, his legendary title, his divine mission. A man abandoned by time.

"You know," he tells Lukas softly, almost gently as if letting him in on a secret, "all the other marines—they're scared of me. They think I'm inhuman. And maybe they're right. Because I've been here for thousands of years. Thousands."

His voice broke for the first time, breaking beneath the weight of something far worse than bloodshed.

"Do you understand what that does to a human mind?" he whispers. "They send me to fight their wars, committing atrocities in their name. And every time I win, they trust me less. Fear me more. I am a victim of my own success."

Lukas stares into the man's eyes, and there is nothing but tragedy in them. No triumph. No glory. Just a man with a sword and nowhere to go.

"They call me their Hero," he lets out a dry, bitter laugh. "The Fucking Hero From Another World. I don't even get a real name anymore. Just a purpose. A task. A title."

His grip loosened—not out of mercy, but as if the burden of what he's saying was draining the strength from his limbs.

"I don't even remember my own name. I don't remember who I am anymore."

And in that moment, Lukas understands something terrifyingly human: this was not a monster born to kill. This was not a chosen warrior blessed by the heavens. This was a man. A broken man. A hollow man. A weapon forged to perfection. Yet it is our imperfections that make a man human.

For a long moment, there is only silence. Lukas hung limp in the Hero's grasp, blood cascading down from the severed stump where his arm once was, staining the water around them crimson. His breath is ragged, chest trembling beneath the weight of pain and revelation.

But even through it all, even as death lingers just a whisper away, Lukas spoke:

"Your name is Jakob Fronterra."

The words cut through the silence, shattering it into millions of little pieces.

"You are...Jakob Fronterra." Lukas repeated.

The Hero freezes. His grip faltered, his body twitching—not from any physical wound, but from something deeper. His eyes went wide, confusion rippling across his face, and for the first time, truly, he looked human. Truly human. Vulnerable in all the best ways. Not the vessel of a god. Not the Dragon Slayer. He was just a man hearing his name for the first time in centuries.

"No..." he stammered but the denial was uncertain. His lips trembled, his pupils dilated, and Lukas watched—watched as his father's memories clawed their way to the surface, flickering like dying embers in a rainstorm. Lukas' body is racked with pain, but his heart is breaking harder than any wound can hurt. It hurts more than any wound to see his father this way. Lukas looks up, meeting his father's eyes—and there is recognition there. But there is also grief. There is terror. Jakob's breath catches as if a dam inside him has shattered, and suddenly—the Hero From Another World begins to cry.

He sobs. Not the quiet tears of a man mourning the inevitable. But the wrenching, agonized howls of someone who doesn't know why he's crying. Someone whose soul remembers something his mind cannot place. Tears streak down his weathered face as he draws his blade. His hands tremble so hard the hilt clinks against his rusty armour.

"I'm sorry," he tells Lukas and he means it. "I'm so sorry."

The sword plunges into Lukas' abdomen. Lukas' eyes widened. The breath in his lungs ends in a strangled gasp as blood pours from his gut, warm and thick and endless. But it's the look on Jakob's face that hurts more than anything. He is weeping. Weeping like a child.

"I'm sorry," he tells Lukas again, barely audible now, voice cracking under the weight of his grief. "I don't know why...but I have to...I have to do this."

The blade remains buried in Lukas' stomach. The Hero doesn't twist it. Doesn't pull it free.

"I'm doing this so I can return to my family." Jakob wails as if it will excuse his actions. "I have to finish this... So I can go home..."

And in that moment, everything in Lukas breaks. Because he knows the truth of reality.

There is no family waiting for Jakob. No home. No familiar faces smiling in welcome. No past to return to. His father had been fighting for a promise long since broken, a world that has forgotten him entirely. Jakob is not a Hero. He is a man swinging his blade through centuries of darkness in hopes of reaching a light that no longer exists. The Hero does not strike him. Did not kick him. He simply placed a hand to Lukas' chest and pushed.

Lukas tumbled backward, his body limp, blood trailing behind him in a ghostly ribbon. The waters, once parted in reverence to godly power, now welcomed him like a grave. And as he sank beneath the surface, the last thing he saw was the silhouette of the Hero From Another World—a tall, broken man silhouetted against a grey and dying sky.

His father.

Jakob Fronterra. The man who had once carried him on his shoulders. The man who had taught him to swim, to laugh, to be brave. The man who had just left him to die.

Lukas's lungs burned. His thoughts frayed. Darkness crawled into the corners of his mind like a thick, black fog. He tried to reach out. To hold onto something—anything. But his body no longer obeyed. His blood diluted in the ocean's embrace, and the light above faded. And then—there was nothing. Just silence. Just cold.

Just the deep depths of the ocean, enveloping him whole.