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

Lukas gasped awake, choking on salt and sand. His body screamed. Every nerve felt lit by fire. Bones creaked, skin split, muscles torn and trembling under the weight of his own breath. He rolled onto his side with a grunt, every motion agony.

Blood had dried across midsection—but fresh wounds still wept. The tide dragged against his legs, a slow, mocking rhythm, the waves lapping constantly against him as if to remind him of the pitiful state he now found himself in.

The pain was sharp, familiar. But it was real. Lukas Drakos had finally returned to the living world of Hiraeth.

The sky overhead was overcast, a pale smear of grey bleeding into the restless horizon. The air was heavy with the scent of salt and storm. His vision blurred—doubling, then tripling. The only thing he could properly make out was the sand he lay on.

Lukas remembered Styx, watching her saying goodbye. And then she was gone.

The dragon let out a shallow breath, the sand cold against his cheek. His body was weak—so much weaker than the one he had come to know in Kairos Castle. Styx had made it clear to him when the Trials began that whatever progress he did make would not translate to his body in the realm of the living. He hadn't thought much of it but now he was experiencing what she meant in real time.Not to mention, this body had been broken down just moments ago. The reality was that only a few hours had passed—at most—since the battle with the Hero From Another World.

A battle against the man who he'd once known to be his father.

But it felt like lifetimes ago. Because it had been. A thousand years had gone by. A thousand years spent within a castle that defied time. A thousand years of love, of growth, of trial and pain and purpose.

And now, Lukas was here. Somewhere in this vast world of Hiraeth. Where exactly, Lukas didn't have a clue. He tried to push himself up and failed miserably. Gritted his teeth. Tried again. His arms shook violently beneath him, every muscle crying out in protest, but he managed to lift his torso from the wet sand.

Unknown shores stretched out in either direction. Rocky cliffs towered in the far distance, and beyond them, only forest. No signs of life. No signs of battle. No sign of Styx. No sign of Rodan. Not even the wreckage of their ship.

Lukas was on his own and clearly in no shape to fight whatever came next. His head dropped forward as he breathed shallowly, his mind struggling to stay conscious. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know if the Hero was still out there. He doubted it but still, the thought of the Hero returning to finish the job was not an idea that put a smile on his face.

Lukas wasn't safe. Not yet. But he hoped that the Gods would help whoever came to end him now. Because Lukas Drakos had returned from death itself—and he carried with him the will of the dead. And the fire of the living.

The world was spinning sideways again. Lukas let his head fall back into the sand, blinking hard, fighting the pull of unconsciousness. That's when he heard it.

A voice. It was small. Curious but concerned. Light as a whisper against the breeze. "Whoa...you looked really messed up Mister..."

Lukas flinched. His instincts sparked to life too slowly to be of use, but still he managed to lift his head—barely, but enough to see that before him was a young girl who was now standing over him.

The girl stood no taller than his waist, barefoot on the sand with her toes just grazing the foamy surf. A simple white dress made of silk fluttered gently in the wind, and her hair, a wild crown of red curls, glowed like fire in the overcast morning light. Her eyes bore into his, wide and impossibly clear, and it was the kind of eyes that didn't yet know fear. She was staring at him with a mix of wonder and quiet concern.

Lukas parted his lips to speak, but no words came out. His lungs burned. She took a step closer and crouched beside him, not a trace of hesitation in her movement.

"Stay still! I'm gonna help you," she ordered and reached out before Lukas could argue. He should've flinched. He should've told her to stop, to run, to leave before something terrible happened. But he was too tired. Too broken. Too far gone to resist. Her hand was small, and it rested lightly against his chest, over the torn fabric and dried blood.

Then—

Warmth. A gentle pulse of light, soft and golden, bloomed beneath her fingers like a sunrise through fog.

It spread outward, curling through his bones and sinew, trailing through each wound like a gentle flame that didn't burn but soothed. Lukas drew in a sharp breath as the pain dulled—then it seemed to melt away. The agony that he'd felt just moments ago...faded. Not slowly. Not like traditional healing spells. It simply left him, evaporating as though it had never belonged to him at all.

Stolen story; please report.

There were no incantations. No glyphs that floated around them. No spells cast. No price paid through visible exhaustion from the magic she seemed to use.

Lukas couldn't move, but his mind clung to the details. The flow of mana that seemed to flow from her open palm seemed so...alien for it had no signature. Every user of the mystic arts he had come across had been some kind of unique Divinity. She was the first that did not possess any special Divinity of the sort.

The Mana that seemed to emanate from the young girl was Pure, in all sense of the word. It was raw and unpolished.

Lukas had never seen anything like it. He had stood before gods. Spoken to ancient beings. Faced nightmares that bled stars and time and fury. But never had he seen what was happening before his eyes. His broken ribs reset with a slow pop. Torn muscle knitted itself closed. Bruises faded to nothing beneath sun-warm light.

For the first time since waking on that beach...Lukas breathed without pain. He collapsed back with a soft exhale, arms loose at his sides, breath shallow but steady now.

The girl tilted her head and said, almost offhandedly, "You've got a pretty cool looking arm."

Lukas frowned, barely processing her comment. He glanced toward his right side—sluggishly—but his vision remained too blurry, too dull to make sense of anything. He was too tired to ask what she meant by it. Instead, he simply let the warmth anchor him to the moment. The panic, the disorientation, the thousand years of pain and trial and farewell...they all softened around the edges. Faded beneath the touch of this strange, otherworldly child.

Then came the shouts.

They were distant at first, then closer. Voices of men. Lukas had no idea what they wanted but it sounded like they could see the two from a distance away. And they did not sound friendly. The world was still a haze, a blur of shapes and colour. But even in his haze, he could hear it clearly and they were drawing nearer with each passing second.

His pulse quickened despite the weariness draped over his bones. Lukas tried to lift himself, to push off the ground and get to his feet. But his arms barely obeyed, trembling under his own weight.

Before he could even speak, a small hand pressed gently against his shoulder.

"Don't worry," the girl assured him, her voice calm in the face of everything. There was even a touch of mischief in her voice, as if she had been expecting the men all along.

"We're leaving." She announced, speaking as if leaving would be the simplest thing in the world.

Even through his exhaustion, Lukas could understand that there was no way that this young girl could carry him. Lukas, even in his humanoid form, was still a mountain of a man. But she was already moving. From the folds of her soft white dress, she produced something small—a stick. That's all it looked like at first. Thin. Crooked. Unimpressive.

Lukas squinted.

She held it up, grasped it with both hands, and with a bright grin, she whooshed it around with a series of wide, flowing motions. At first, Lukas didn't understand. His first instinct was to laugh but then he began to wonder what in the world she was getting at—until he felt it.

The air changed. Mana. It answered her like a faithful hound to its master's whistle. Each sweep of the stick drew threads of glowing energy through the air, weaving invisible patterns, slow and gentle, like painting light on a canvas the world couldn't see. It didn't crackle or roar like the chaotic spells he'd seen Divinity users hurl in battle.

This was different. This was nature responding. As if mana itself was obeying her will. Like it knew her, like it was her friend.

The ground shimmered beneath him. The sea pulled back and pulsed forward again, touching the shore with reverence. Wind swirled, not wildly, but tenderly; curling around her like a dance. He stared up at her, dumbfounded. She was teleporting them out of here.

But how? Teleportation was complex, expensive, dangerous. Even in Linemall, it required ancient relics and massive sources of energy. Lukas had remembered the portal that they had jumped through to leave the Kingdom of Dragons. And he remembered the strain it had placed on his body to instantly transport him to Ilagron Village.

But this girl...she was doing it like it was as easy as taking her next breath. Not to mention that she was but a child who looked to be no older than ten. That was the thing about her: she didn't even seem powerful in the traditional sense—no aura of dominance, no divine pressure. But she commanded mana like it was her right to do so. Like she didn't draw from it, but simply spoke to it, and it obeyed without hesitation.

Lukas felt it curl around him—warm, golden threads pulling at his chest.

"Wait..." he rasped, struggling to stay conscious. "Who in the world are you...?"

The girl smiled at him with a kind softness of a child untouched by the cruel reality of the world. "My name is Rosalia! And I'd like to be your friend," she answered with a giggle.

The magic surged. His world went white. He felt himself weightless again, floating between realms, the scent of sea salt fading into a breeze of lavender and something floral and old. His eyes fluttered shut against his will. And just before he surrendered to unconsciousness, one thought echoed through his fading mind. Even after living for more than a thousand years in the grounds of Kairos Castle, there was still so much he did not yet know of this world of magic and gods.

And then—everything went dark.