Endless Sea, November 8th—Night.
The lamp on Ethan Vale’s desk burned down to a steady, tired glow.
Outside, the manor had gone quiet, but the world hadn’t. Somewhere beyond these trees, the royal capital was tightening like a fist. Orders were being written. Ships were being armed. People were choosing sides whether they wanted to or not.
Ethan forced his attention back to the gray-covered book.
He turned the page.
Faraniel’s Autobiography (continued):
“Let me clarify something before anyone in the future misunderstands me: I wasn’t asking that cat-spirit seamstress to parade around town in a school-uniform skirt. I meant it as a private, harmless little ‘look.’ The kind of thing you wear at home, not in public.
“She still called me a creep.
“Which tells me two things.
“One: the Endless Sea really does have a moral ceiling built into it. There’s an invisible line you’re not supposed to cross, no matter how tame your request is.
“Two: the one who drew that line is the Creator God.
“I’m more and more convinced the Creator God is the biggest contaminant in both worlds. It watches players like we’re insects in a jar. It doesn’t care about our joys or sorrows. It cares about control.
“And now I finally have proof.”
Ethan’s fingers tightened around the page. He’d expected jokes. He hadn’t expected the cold edge underneath them.
He kept reading.
“Everything in this world points back to the same root: fragments.
“In the deepest sea, beneath the routes humans dare to sail, there are ruins. Not human ruins. Ancient ruins—pieces of a sea-elf city that shouldn’t exist anymore.
“Those city-fragments aren’t just archaeology. They’re anchors. They’re the Creator God’s ‘pieces’ embedded in the Endless Sea.
“If we can expel those fragments, we can cut the Endless Sea off from the Creator God’s influence—at least partially. Maybe completely.
“But the cost is insane.
“To expel even one fragment requires a max-level player. Not ‘Level Four.’ Max level.
“And it probably won’t be just one person. One max-level player might handle a fragment. But if there are multiple fragments—and I’m sure there are—then we’ll need multiple max-level players working together.
“Is it hopeless?
“Maybe.
“But I refuse to accept a future where even ‘short skirts’ are illegal because some cosmic manager decided fun is inefficient.
“Anyway. The real point is this: if you want to break the Creator God’s hold, stop thinking like a pawn. Start thinking like someone who’s trying to flip the board.
“And if you’re wondering what happened to me after this… yeah. That part’s in the paid chapters. Sorry.”
Ethan sat back, letting the words settle.
Max level.
He wasn’t even Level Four yet. Nightmare and the Scarlet Nun were still breathing, and the line he was afraid to cross was right in front of him.
Fragments of a sea-elf city.
Pieces of the Creator God lodged in the Endless Sea like splinters.
It was a terrifyingly clean theory—too clean. The kind of idea that made the world look smaller and more cruel at the same time.
He dragged a notebook toward him and began to jot down what mattered: “sea-elf city fragments,” “expel,” “requires max level,” “multiple max-level players.”
He paused.
Multiple.
How many?
His mind jumped, uninvited, to the strange stone table he’d seen before—the one carved into a nine-grid, with holes punched into the corners.
Nine.
Ethan’s gaze drifted to the Destiny Sea Chart spread across his desk.
For weeks it had been a mystery item. A map that wasn’t a map. A promise that refused to explain itself.
He lifted it carefully.
Under the lamplight, the parchment looked ordinary—until he tilted it just right.
Nine tiny holes.
They were clean, deliberate punctures, lined up with almost obsessive precision. Not damage from age. Not an accident.
A pattern.
Ethan’s breath caught.
If the stone table had nine slots…
And the chart had nine holes…
Maybe the Destiny Sea Chart wasn’t a single map at all.
Maybe it was one piece of nine.
And if Faraniel was right—if there really were nine fragments anchoring the Creator God’s influence—
Ethan stared at the holes until his eyes stung.
The answer wasn’t in the ink.
It was in what was missing.