"Are you sure this is how boats are made?"
Pham squinted down at the half-built monstrosity we were working on—if you could even call it a boat.
To me, it looked like someone tried to cosplay Noah's Ark with zero prior experience and no YouTube tutorials. A few logs tied together with vine ropes, a half-hollowed tree trunk for steering, and a tarp that looked suspiciously like a sheep's blanket.
I wiped the sweat off my forehead and flopped down on the sand, panting. "Absolutely not. I once failed woodworking class in high school because I glued my project to the desk. But unless Poseidon air-drops us a luxury yacht, this is the best we've got."
Pham tilted his head. "What is… high school?"
Ah. Right. Myth world.
"It's like… a place where young humans go to pretend to learn things while secretly just trying to survive hormonal warfare and eat instant noodles without getting bullied."
"I see." He nodded solemnly, as if I'd just described the Iliad.
"Anyway," I continued, grabbing a crude oar and inspecting its crookedness, "we're not trying to win Ship of the Year. We just need this bad boy to float."
Pham smiled, sitting cross-legged beside me, the sand crunching under his huge form. "This reminds me of when I used to help my mother weave fishing nets. I was very bad at it."
"Let me guess—you tangled yourself up?"
"No," he said with a sheepish smile. "I tore them by accident. My fingers were too big."
I chuckled. "Hey, I once broke a vending machine because I punched it when it ate my change. So technically, we're both threats to fragile things."
We shared a laugh, the kind that sneaks up on you when the world feels a little less terrible than it did five minutes ago.
The days passed slowly but not unpleasantly.
Each morning we'd wake up to ocean waves slapping the shore, the sheep baa'ing like they were performing their own chorus, and sunlight warming the sand. And each morning, Pham would prepare breakfast—usually fruits, nuts, and what he insisted were "organic mountain herbs."
Tasted like wet socks. But I ate it anyway.
During the day, we'd haul wood, carve planks, and argue about designs like two bickering old men who'd watched too many pirate movies. I wanted sails; he wanted horns. I wanted a steering wheel; he suggested we use a goat skull as a compass.
"Pham, buddy," I said one afternoon, pointing at the horned figurehead he'd proudly mounted. "Are we building a ship or a sea demon?"
"Both?" he offered.
I stared.
He blinked innocently.
"Fine," I sighed. "But if this thing starts chanting in Latin, I'm jumping overboard."
When we weren't busy pretending to be ancient engineers, we talked. A lot.
Pham turned out to be a surprisingly curious soul. For someone raised in isolation, he wanted to know everything—what cities looked like, what ice cream tasted like, why humans wore socks, what an anime was, and how my world had managed to build flying machines but couldn't figure out world peace.
"I don't get it," he said one evening as we sat beside a small fire, the half-built ship looming in the moonlight behind us. "If your people can go to the moon, why can't they stop hurting each other?"
I threw a stone into the sea. "Because going to the moon is easier than getting everyone to stop being greedy idiots."
He nodded slowly. "That makes sense. Even the gods fight each other all the time. They are powerful but foolish."
"Yeah, sounds about right. Replace 'gods' with 'presidents' and you've nailed it."
Silence fell for a bit. Then Pham asked, almost hesitantly, "Do you miss your home?"
I thought about that.
Did I?
I missed certain things. The smell of coffee in the morning. The sound of rain on my window. Video games. The dumb memes. The rare moments of peace when everything felt… normal.
But I didn't miss the soul-sucking jobs. The loneliness. The feeling that the world was just grinding you down.
"I guess I miss the good parts," I replied, voice soft. "But I don't think I ever really fit there. I was just another cog in the machine."
Pham tilted his head. "Then maybe this is your second chance. A new world where you can do more than just survive."
I blinked at him. "Damn, Pham. That was deep. Did you read that off a seashell or something?"
He grinned. "No. I just said what I felt."
It wasn't all heart-to-hearts and ship-building, though.
There were... incidents.
Like the time I tried to chop wood and accidentally dropped the axe on my foot.
Or when Pham tried to help me swim and accidentally yeeted me fifteen feet across the water because he "forgot his strength."
Or the time we built a sail, but he sewed it backward and the boat spun in circles like a drunk Beyblade.
We argued. We laughed. We learned.
Pham had a childlike wonder, but also a gentle heart. Despite being physically terrifying, he was the least monstrous being I'd ever met.
Every time I showed him something new—how to use a nail, how to carve shapes, even how to make fart noises with your armpit—his eyes would light up like Christmas morning.
And every time I stumbled or messed up, he never mocked me. Just offered a hand, a grin, and sometimes, an overly enthusiastic high-five that almost dislocated my arm.
By the end of the next month, our ship was—by some miracle—complete.
Well, "complete" in the same way a cardboard tank is complete: technically functional, questionably reliable, and 100% bound to earn us a Darwin Award.
But we were proud of it.
Made from scavenged wood, vines, animal hide, and a ridiculous amount of hope, it had one sail, two seats, and a goat skull on the prow that Pham insisted would protect us from sea monsters.
"His name is Atlantis," Pham said proudly.
"Great," I nodded. "Atlantis the goat skull. Exactly what every heroic journey needs."
As we started loading supplies—fruit, water, extra vines, and whatever other random junk Pham thought might be "blessed by forest spirits"—I felt a strange knot in my stomach.
Not fear. Not dread.
Excitement.
Maybe for the first time in my life.
That night, before we set sail, Pham and I sat by the fire again. The stars twinkled above, and the boat sat ready just a few feet away.
"Thank you, Edward." Pham said, his voice low. "For freeing me from this island and loneliness. For treating me like a friend when other tried to only kill me."
I gave him a sideways look. "Don't get all emotional on me now, big guy. This is only the start."
He looked down, eyes soft. "Even so. No one's ever given me a choice before. Not even my Father."
I nudged his arm. "Well, now you've got one. And tomorrow, we're choosing chaos, adventure, and probably a high chance of death."
He laughed. A deep, booming laugh that echoed across the beach and into the night.
I joined in.
For the first time in ages, I didn't feel like just a guy who died in a nuclear disaster.
I felt alive.
****
We stood at the shore.
The boat—patched together from wood, vines, sheep-wool sails, and ambition—was finally ready. The morning sky was clear, and the waves lapped gently at the beach like the world itself was giving us a soft green light to begin.
"Everything's packed," I said, hoisting our bags of fruit and water into the boat. "This is it, Pham. Our grand, possibly ill-fated adventure begins."
Pham was beaming. His seven-foot form stood proud, his one eye filled with something I'd never seen before—hope. He looked down at the boat, then at the ocean stretching into infinity.
"I never thought I'd leave this island," he said quietly, almost like he didn't want to jinx it.
I grinned. "Told you. Sometimes all you need is a push... and maybe a sarcastic Canadian stowaway."
He laughed—deep, pure, and real. For once, he didn't seem like a lonely outcast or a discarded son of a god. He seemed free.
But freedom doesn't come without a price.
The first crack of thunder echoed across the sky.
I looked up. The clear blue had turned the color grayish black. Clouds churned like angry beasts above, swallowing the sun. The waves, once calm, now thrashed against the shore, as if trying to pull the boat back to land.
"What the hell?" I muttered..
Pham's smile vanished.
"No... no, no, no," he muttered, stepping back from the shore. His eye widened in fear. "It's him. He knows. He's angry."
Another bolt of lightning split the sky, this one so close it lit up the sand beneath our feet.
"Who?" I asked, already guessing.
"Poseidon," Pham whispered. "My father."
A massive wave surged behind us, and from it walked a figure—tall, ancient, and godlike.
Ten feet tall, bronze skin, muscle-bound and regal in a white and gold toga that shimmered like silk in the rain. He carried a trident that pulsed with oceanic power, and as he approached, the sky seemed to bow in submission.
His voice cracked like thunder.
"How dare you disobey my orders, Polyphemus!"
Pham dropped to one knee instinctively, shaking. "Father, I—I just wanted to see the outside world. I know you hate me. I know you're ashamed of me. But I promise… I'll never tell anyone whose son I am. I swear it."
I watched, stunned, as the Cyclops I had come to know as my friend—gentle, curious, and pure—trembled before this arrogant, celestial bastard. And something in me snapped.
I took a step forward and shouted over the storm.
"Fuck you Poseidon!"
Everything went still for a moment. Even the thunder seemed to pause.
"Nobody," I spat, "nobody gets to decide the limits of someone else's life. Especially not a coward hiding behind divine power and a superiority complex."
Poseidon's eyes narrowed, and then his voice came down like a crashing wave.
"You dare insult me, mortal? You—who have no fate, no destiny—dare speak before a god?"
He turned his gaze to me fully now, eyes glowing like deep-sea storms.
"Who are you, child of ashes? Why do the Fates not weave your thread?"
I staggered a little under his gaze. The weight of his presence was unbearable, like gravity itself bent around him. But then I looked at Pham—beaten down, head bowed, afraid.
And I remembered why I was here.
I stood tall, ignoring the sharp pain still lingering from the last time death tried to take me.
"My name," I said, "is Edward Elric. Friend of Polyphemus. And a very, very pissed-off guy."
Poseidon scoffed. With a flick of his hand, I was launched backward like a toy. My body slammed into a rock, and I heard a crunch that wasn't from the stone. Pain exploded in my ribs, and blood filled my mouth like acid.
I gasped, barely able to breathe. My limbs felt like they'd been shattered.
"Is this it?" I thought. "Is this dying again?"
But before I could sink into the dark, a shadow loomed over me.
Pham.
He stood tall again, no longer trembling. His form reverted—towering, monstrous in size—but there was something different. He wasn't just a Cyclops anymore. He was a friend. A protector.
He spread his arms wide in front of me.
"Father, stop!" he shouted. "This was my choice. Edward didn't force me. Don't hurt him."
Poseidon's face twisted into disgust. "You defend him? A human who spat in the face of a god?"
"He's my only friend," Pham said simply, turning to glance at me. He tried to smile, but it was the kind of smile someone gives when they know it's all about to end. "He made me feel like I mattered."
My throat tightened. I wanted to scream for him to run. To not do this. But my voice caught in my chest.
Poseidon shook his head.
"You think I didn't watch you two?" he said coldly. "That human mocked the divine every day. Then he did to my face. He deserves punishment. Step aside, boy."
Polyphemus didn't move.
"I won't let you touch him."
The silence after those words was chilling. Even the ocean stilled, as if holding its breath.
Poseidon looked… amused.
"So. You've grown. A coward before, now a rebel. Interesting. But remember my foolish son—without strength, courage is meaningless."
He raised his trident.
I tried to scream. "Pham—watch out!"
Too late.
The trident flew with the force of a tidal wave. It pierced through Pham's chest cleanly.
The sound it made was not thunderous. It was soft.
Like the breaking of something sacred.
Blood poured like rain. The sand turned crimson. Pham didn't scream. He didn't flinch. He simply… stood there. Shielding me with his giant body.
He caught the trident—his massive hands gripped it, stopping it from impaling me completely.
His eye dimmed, but his lips curled in a soft smile as blood began to pour.
"Ed…ward…" he whispered, voice trembling. "Thank you… for being… my friend. It… was the… happiest days… of my life."
I couldn't hold back anymore.
"No!" I crawled toward him, pain screaming through every fiber of my body. "Don't die Pham! We were supposed to go on an adventure! You were going to see the world with me!"
He looked at me one last time.
"Then… go on… see it… for both of us…my friend."
He slumped forward, his massive frame collapsing beside me. The impact sent dust and sand flying. His eye, once bright and filled with curiosity, stared blankly into the clouds above.
My friend was no more.
I clutched his hand.
It was still warm.
"No…" I whispered. "Don't go. Please. I can't do this alone."
Tears streamed down my face, hot and blinding. I hadn't cried when I died. I hadn't cried when the world ended.
But now?
Now I wept.
Because he was my friend. My first true friend.