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

Since that day, Lukas had allowed the Archmage Varian to come and go from the lowest deck as he pleased. He continued to craft potions, of course sometimes for his own personal research, to heal all of the injuries that the dragons and wyverns were suffering from.

Valkari had been furious. She, of course, respected Lukas too much to continue arguing against his decisions but he could tell she was still pissed. It was clear in the way her eyes darted towards Varian every few seconds, the way she kept her body between the Archmage and the dragon hatchlings like a mother daring a stranger to step too close.

Every single time Varian left, she would again plead for Lukas to reconsider his decision to allow Varian to come and go as he pleased but eventually, she herself could not find fault in Lukas' decision. Valkari had watched in silence as Varian brewed a salve that dulled the pain of a wyvern's broken wing, a poultice that pulled fever from a dragon's blood, and even a potion that helped an elder dragon see for the first time in hundreds of years.

The results spoke louder than any protest she could make—and though she never said it aloud, Lukas knew she had begrudgingly accepted his presence, however grudgingly.

Even still, she always made sure to keep her eyes on the old man.

Now after around three weeks of travel, they now stood above deck at last, staring out at the misty sprawl of Nozar rising from the sea like a wall of stone and iron.

"...There it is," Lukas murmured.

Most of the crew had gathered now, drawn by the sight of land after nearly three weeks of brutal, storm-ridden sailing.

Velena stood at the railing, silent, her sharp features drawn tight. Even she looked…apprehensive.

Next to her, Jesse leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wooden edge of the ship. His eyes were locked on the Kingdom ahead. But Lukas knew his thoughts were elsewhere.

The product.

Jesse had been sketching designs, drawing diagrams, scribbling theories in every corner of his ledger. Lukas had caught him murmuring to himself at odd hours, lips moving with unspoken words. He had come up with ideas, several in fact—but none had passed that impossible standard Jesse Sterling seemed to demand from himself.

They were running out of time. But he trusted the kid to make the right decision, whatever it might be.

Because Lukas wasn't the Head of the Merchant Guild, Jesse was.

Magic flickered through the air even from this distance. Lukas could sense it—the spells, the wards, the layers of enchantment woven over the kingdom's seas like a net. As they finally passed into Nozar's waters, he could immediately tell there was no need to keep the weather at bay any longer.

Only the wealthiest ships, the most well-prepared, could make it here. It was why the seas around them weren't teeming with vessels, even though this was one of the most important celebrations of the decade.

Gone were the dreams of thousands of ships docking in jubilation.

Now, only a few dozen vessels braved these seas—and every single one of them belonged to people with the wealth and power comparable to royalty.

The waters narrowed as the fleet sailed forward. It wasn't just a river. It was a marvel of engineering—wide enough to accommodate dozens of large vessels, carved and reinforced by magic and mortar alike, branching through the vast expanse of Nozar like silver veins. The stream they followed was one of many, guiding them deeper into the empire's territory without ever forcing them to anchor.

There were no docks, at least not along the edge of Nozar. If one wished to enter the lands of Nozar, they would have to sail inwards.

Lukas stood at the prow, arms crossed, eyes sharp as their ship passed under the first marble arch that marked the boundary into the outermost city.

"Aela's Crown." Rosalia had whispered, when she first spotted it. The structure stood like a gate carved from bone and stone, flanked by statues of the first Admirals—men and women cast in glory, each one depicted with sword in hand and chain around a dragon's neck.

Lukas scowled slightly at the sight.

The moment they crossed the gate, the atmosphere changed.

Crowds had gathered along the river's edge—lining the walkways, leaning over balconies, waving blue and gold banners. Children shouted, trumpets flared, and streamers filled the air. It was a grand reception—one prepared not for them, Lukas realized, but for the King himself.

Daerion's fleet sailed just ahead, and the people of Nozar shouted his name like it was a prayer.

"DAERION! DAERION!"

Rosalia leaned over the railing beside him, eyes wide. "They really love him, huh…"

But Lukas' attention was on what was ahead, far off in the distance; far deeper into the Kingdom of Nozar.

In the far distance, wrapping around like a serpent coiled in waiting, was a colossal circular structure. And it wasn't just a barrier that separated the outer cities from the rest of the Nozar. The closer Lukas looked with the enhanced vision he possessed, the more he began to realize that in those walls was a city in itself—massive, multi-layered, and alive. He could see soldiers—the Marines of Nozar, clad in blue and obsidian armor—walking along its upper terraces. He could see the glint of weapons, the shimmer of barrier spells in place, the ever-watchful eyes of war-trained mages stationed in perfect formation.

"So Nozar's Navy...they live inside those walls," Lukas muttered.

Velena stepped up beside him, her voice tight. "Security is tight. That was why it was hard for our Guild Members to enter the Inner Cities."

Jesse nodded. "No one passes through without credentials."

They weren't just walls made of stone and steel. They were a fortress. A border. A symbol for all to bear witness to the might of the most powerful empire in all of Hiraeth. Most of the other vessels they had travelled alongside were already continuing along the forked streams, weaving their way toward the wall, likely bound for the inner sanctum.

But the King's fleet—and the Merchant Guild's ship—slowed, anchors lowered in unison.

King Daerion wanted to walk among his people. The outer cities celebrated his presence. His arrival was an event in itself—and it wasn't often the King left the Inner Cities to walk among the commoners of his Kingdom.

Lukas felt the ship finally slow to a halt, the magic in the waters adjusting to the shift. The dock-less port worked seamlessly; glowing bridges of woven light and spell-thread arched from the land to the ship's edge, allowing passengers to disembark directly.

Security wasn't just tight, it was wound in a dead knot. No one would step foot in Nozar unless they allowed for it.

This was the empire that had broken down his ancestors.

This was the machine that had destroyed Linemall and nearly turned into ash. And yet…here they were, now guests in its house.

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He could only imagine how Jesse must have felt, when he finally saw the empire that was responsible for the downfall of Linemall with his own eyes for the very first time.

As the crew prepared to disembark, Lukas narrowed his gaze toward the distant walls once more.

The Marines stood vigilant, like statues—immovable. Unflinching.

If they wished to make it out here without any problems, they would have to have to be careful.

As the sun dipped below the jagged peaks that guarded the Nozari horizon, a long, deep bell echoed across the outer cities. Its resonance didn't just carry through the air—it throbbed, humming through the very bones of the city. Lukas heard it from the deck where he stood, watching as the glow of the dying light painted the stone walls of the outer cities in gold.

It lasted for only a moment…but that moment changed everything.

Doors opened and windows unlatched.

From every alley, courtyard, and rickety shack came the people of Nozar. With practiced coordination, they unfurled blue mats, each one weather-worn but clean; laid reverently by the riverbanks that ran through the city like veins of holy water.

Then, as one, the people knelt.

They folded their hands. Bowed their heads. And then came the chanting. A low, rhythmic repetition. No passion. No praise. Just sheer obedience.

"In tide and trial and in salt and sorrow…we pray to Oceanus."

Lukas stepped forward slightly, leaning against the ship's railing. He tried to make sense of it—of the silence behind the words, the weight behind the cadence. These weren't prayers born of love. They were prayers born of fear. And their eyes—he caught sight of them in the fading dusk—were not filled with hope. They were hollow, filled with dread masked only by discipline.

Even Rosalia seemed taken aback by the sight.

"They do this every day?" she whispered.

Velena nodded beside her. "Twice. Sunrise and sunset. All citizens of Nozar are subject to the Hour of Worship."

"That's…" Rosalia trailed off, unable to finish her sentence.

"Mandatory," Velena finished quietly. "You can get thrown in jail for missing and if you speak against it..."

Lukas didn't need her to continue explaining to understand the gist.

His eyes scanned the city more closely now.

The buildings were cramped, some practically built atop one another.

The streets were narrow, crowded with old fishing carts, drying nets, and children with hollow cheeks.

These outer cities were clearly overpopulated and underfunded, the weariness on their faces etched deeper than words could describe.

Most of the people here, Lukas realized, were fishermen. Ocean-bound laborers who prayed to the Titan not for blessings—but for mercy.

So this was how Nozar treated its backbone.

Keep them hungry.

Keep them scared.

Keep them praying to a god who Lukas dared to say was not even listening to their pleas of desperation. It reminded him of the old human empires he had read about in his past life.

The chanting finally came to an end and not once did Lukas see a single Nozari stop to drink or rest their voice. Just as abruptly as it began, the people rolled up their mats, tucked them under arms or into bags, and returned into their homes to store their mats for the next Hour of Worship.

The silence that followed was even more jarring than the sound that preceded it.

Rosalia exhaled beside him. "That was…something."

Finally the King of Nozar descended from his ship. King Daerion had been waiting for the Hour of Worship to end. He was moving through the streets now, flanked by Marine officers, each one clad in pristine armor trimmed with ocean blue. The outer city nobles were the first ones to fall over themselves to greet him—men and women fat with influence but lacking in actual power, all bowing in the same exaggerated fashion.

And the people—especially the young—stared. Not just at Daerion, but at the Marines beside him.

Lukas recognized the look immediately.

It was one of longing, the type of longing that went beyond hunger. To these people, becoming a Marine wasn't just a career. It was freedom. A chance to escape poverty. To serve the King. To rise. They looked upon those men and women as others might look upon knights in fairy tales.

To them, the Marines of Nozar were heroes; guardians of the realm.

To Lukas, they were nothing but men that still held the chain that continued to strangle his people.

"Come," Velena said to Jesse, tugging on his coat. "There are some traders we must meet. And many Guild Members we must find that were left in Nozar. We won't be long."

Jesse, who had barely spoken all evening—clearly still agonizing over what product to present at the celebration—nodded absently and followed her without protest.

That left Lukas and Rosalia alone to explore the outer cities on their own. The two stepped down from the ship and made their way through the streets. It wasn't dangerous, per se—these people weren't hostile—but there was a heaviness in the air.

A tension that simmered just beneath the surface.

Lukas could feel it in the way the people whispered as he passed.

The way they eyed Rosalia's noble posture. The way their smiles never quite reached their eyes.

"You're quiet," Rosalia noted finally, walking beside him.

"Do you hate it here?" she finally asked him.

"I do." Lukas admitted.

Everything around him simply screamed the sort of lifelessness that went against everything he believed in. He stopped at the edge of a market square and stared up at a stone carving etched into the wall—a depiction of Oceanus, trident raised, a sea dragon coiled beneath his feet, pierced through the heart. Rosalia followed his gaze and said nothing. And as the cold evening wind began to sweep in from the shore, Lukas exhaled slowly.

"This kingdom," he told her, "was built on fear. Fear of the gods. Fear of dragons. Fear of falling out of line. That's the foundation they chose."

Rosalia looked up at him, her eyes soft. "And what do we build ours on?"

"That is up to you to one day decide, Rosalia. And I trust that you will make the right choice."

Just as Lukas and Rosalia began weaving through the crowds, a small figure darted between the legs of the townsfolk—a blur of excitement and clumsy limbs. The girl was young, no more than six or seven, and like many of the children rushing toward the plaza, she was desperate to catch a glimpse of the King and his entourage.

She hadn't seen where she was going because-

Thunk!

The girl slammed straight into Lukas' leg and collapsed backward with a squeak, landing hard on the stone street.

Rosalia was the first to react, dropping to her knees and gently helping the girl sit up.

The little one rubbed her nose with the heel of her palm, sniffling, and looked up at the towering man she had run into.

Lukas crouched slowly, his shadow stretching long in the golden light of the setting sun. He softened his voice as much as he could, but he knew how intimidating he looked—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in dark clothes with a gaze that often scared full-grown men.

"Hey," he spoke to her gently. "Are you alright? Where are your parents?"

The girl stared up at him, wide-eyed, her mouth half-open in uncertainty. She did not respond, and her fingers trembled a little as she clutched the hem of her tunic. Lukas didn't press her any further, just gave her the space and time to answer, glancing around the crowd to see if anyone looked like they had lost a child.

Before he could spot anyone, a hand reached into view and gently gripped the girl's arm.

Lukas stiffened, his instincts flaring—but the grip was not harsh, and the girl didn't scream.

Instead, she blinked in surprise—then lit up with joy.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed, giggling as she was effortlessly lifted up and swung over broad shoulders.

The man who had picked her up smiled as the girl wrapped her arms around his head, pressing her cheek against his temple.

"I told you to stay close," the man chided the young girl warmly. "You nearly gave me a heart attack, Andrea."

Then he turned to Lukas, a grin spreading across his face. He was no stranger to the little girl who had knocked into him.

But he was no stranger to Lukas either.

"It's been a while, Lukas. So, tell me. What brings you here to Nozar?" He asked.

Lukas could not help but laugh for the man who stood before him was the Youngest Son of Nozar, the man he had met in Ilagron Village.

The man standing in front of him was none other than Prince Darren Ittriki.