The Northern Waters—also known as the North Sea, or for the terminally unlucky, The Place Where Boats Go to Die—was one of the few oceanic regions in the World Realm where "absolute danger" meant fewer absurdly deadly creatures. Not none, mind you—just fewer.
Connected to the massive Cragos Ocean, this sea held a special place in navigators' nightmares. It was a melting pot of mutated sea creatures, mysterious planes, and law energy leakage that made evolution happen like a fever dream.
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In the World Realm, not all water was created equal.
There were oceans, seas, rivers, and then… these. Bodies of water infected by fragmented planes and laws that spilled out into their currents like cosmic radiation, turning ordinary fish into soul-ripping leviathans.
Laws warped the very biology of these waters. Creatures mutated. The ecosystem turned into a game of deathmatch. If you survived, congratulations—now you were a walking disaster with scales.
Naturally, these places needed danger ratings. And if you were smart, you didn't sail into any of them without installing the world's most passive-aggressive safety tool:
The Dingding Radar.
A magical artifact that screeched "DINGDINGDING" right before you were about to be disemboweled by a glowing shark-lobster hybrid. Every proper merchant ship had one. Anyone without it was called what they deserved to be called: idiots.
Air transport was an alternative—riding flying beasts over the waters—but even that came with issues. Some monsters could leap out of the ocean like 30-story nightmares, catching birds or mounts mid-flight like popcorn.
Still, the skies were marginally safer. Marginally.
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Back to the Northern Waters
Ezekiel almost passed out when he realized where they had teleported.
He took one look at the endless dark waters, the passing colossal sea beasts, and nearly grabbed onto Void's leg like a toddler seeing a spider.
That was until he noticed the barrier.
A shimmering layer of isolation. Creatures swam by, but didn't see them. Didn't sense them. They moved on like Void and Ezekiel were ghosts—or, more accurately, like Void had decided they were not part of this reality right now.
Void, meanwhile, looked as calm as ever.
Eyes closed. Soul scanning.
He instantly locked onto the Mysterious Plane hidden deep within these waters—the one Ezekiel's so-called "crazy dwarf" of a father had gone to explore.
He wasn't in a rush.
So they drifted.
Ezekiel, too nervous to speak, kept his eyes peeled. He watched as strange creatures paraded through the abyss:
• The Turtle Whale—a tortoise the size of a mountain, covered in glowing blue scales, smashing reefs with sleepy indifference.
• A lobster getting swallowed by a long, eel-like beast… only for the lobster to explode inside it moments later.
• A feeding frenzy of sea monsters devouring the detonation debris like free snacks at a demon wedding.
The sea was chaos with no rulebook.
Void, eventually bored of sightseeing, decided it was time.
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He snapped his fingers.
And they were gone.
Then reappeared—standing directly in front of the Crazy Dwarf.
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The dwarf was mid-command to his crew when he looked up and nearly choked on his own tongue. Void's sudden arrival had that effect on people. It was a look that said: "Hi, I'm your god now. Please remain calm."
Void's concealment was down.
Which meant the territorial sea monsters, the ones that had claimed the waters near the Mysterious Plane, sensed him.
They surged.
From all directions.
Roaring, clawing, surging forward to erase what they assumed was an intruder.
Void didn't even blink.
He released the faintest wisp of bloodline might.
The result?
Everything stopped.
Every creature fell—unconscious.
If he had released even a fraction more, they wouldn't be unconscious.
They'd be dead.
Floating corpses in a divine pressure cooker.
Void turned back to the Crazy Dwarf, calm as ever.
"You've been meddling with things you barely understand," he said, voice soft and terrifying.
"Let's see what you've created."