The underwater world had become strangely quiet.
Far above, sunlight filtered through layers of seawater.
Golden rays descended like pillars from another world.
Schools of fish moved between ancient coral formations.
Sea grass swayed gently with the currents.
The beauty of the ocean remained breathtaking.
Yet beneath that beauty—
Fear existed.
Real fear.
The kind fear that lingered after years of suffering.
The kind that settled deep within a society's bones.
Kel floated calmly before the mermaid guards.
The sailors nearby remained silent.
Everyone had heard the same thing.
Hundreds.
Hundreds of mermaids had died.
Not during war.
Not because of pirates.
Not because of conflict.
They had simply been eaten.
Year after year.
As livestock.
As offerings.
As food.
The thought alone left a bitter taste.
The guard mermaid's expression remained tense.
The earlier embarrassment had disappeared completely.
Now only exhaustion remained.
The exhaustion of someone who had watched tragedy repeat itself too many times.
Kel remained silent for several moments.
Then sighed.
A small sigh.
Yet the sound carried clearly through the water due to a simple aura technique.
The guard looked toward him.
Then Kel finally asked:
"Doesn't Aetherial Institute help?"
The question lingered.
Simple.
Direct.
Reasonable.
The mermaid guard froze.
Then her expression immediately became complicated.
Anger.
Frustration.
Resignation.
All appeared together.
The surrounding mermaids reacted similarly.
Some lowered their heads.
Others clenched their weapons.
Several looked away entirely.
The answer clearly wasn't simple.
Finally—
The guard spoke.
"We asked."
Her voice sounded bitter.
The bitterness of someone who had repeated the same request countless times.
"We asked many times."
Silence followed.
Kel listened quietly.
The guard continued.
"Our elders formally petitioned the academy."
"The instructors."
"The directors."
"The administration."
The sailors exchanged glances.
This sounded serious.
Very serious.
The guard pointed toward the direction of the island.
"We explained everything."
"The attacks."
"The deaths."
"The sacrifices."
"The yearly offerings."
Her grip tightened around her spear.
"We asked for help."
The ocean currents shifted slightly.
No one interrupted.
Then Kel asked:
"And?"
The answer came immediately.
"They disagreed."
Silence.
The guard laughed.
A hollow laugh.
Without joy.
Without amusement.
Only frustration.
"Some instructors wanted to help."
"Many did."
The sailors frowned.
Then why hadn't anything happened?
The guard seemed to anticipate the question.
Because she immediately continued.
"Many directors also wanted to help."
"Several powerful professors agreed."
"Even some retired academy veterans offered support."
Kel listened carefully.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Then she finished.
"But they didn't have enough votes."
The sailors froze.
Votes.
Politics.
Administration.
The answer suddenly became clear.
The guard's expression darkened.
"Aetherial Institute isn't a kingdom."
"It isn't ruled by one person."
"It isn't ruled by one director."
The bitterness within her voice deepened.
"Everything important requires approval."
The ocean suddenly felt much colder.
Because now the problem possessed a face.
Not a monster.
Not a predator.
A system.
And systems were often far harder to fight.
The guard continued.
"The opposing side argued that this is a merfolk matter."
Several mermaids visibly became angry.
"They said it was our internal problem."
"They said academy resources shouldn't be spent."
"They said intervention would create unnecessary precedents."
The words sounded familiar.
Kel had heard similar arguments before.
Not in the ocean.
In politics.
In governance.
In noble society.
The language changed.
The logic never did.
Someone else's problem.
Someone else's responsibility.
Someone else's burden.
Until eventually it became everyone's problem.
The guard looked toward the distant ocean.
Toward the direction of the predator.
"Our people die every year."
Her voice became quieter.
"Every year."
A nearby mermaid lowered her head.
Another clenched her fists.
One older guard silently looked away.
The atmosphere became heavy.
Then the guard continued.
"Some years it takes twenty."
"Some years fifty."
"Some years more."
The sailors visibly stiffened.
Then she said something worse.
"This year alone..."
Her voice trembled slightly.
"...we have already lost over three hundred."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Even the ocean seemed still.
Several sailors looked horrified.
Three hundred.
Not soldiers.
Not warriors.
Mermaids.
Families.
Children.
Parents.
Brothers.
Sisters.
The scale suddenly felt different.
Far more real.
Far more disturbing.
Inside his mind—
Seiren's voice lost its usual playfulness.
The Guardian sounded serious.
Dangerously serious.
"Three hundred."
"Yes."
"That creature isn't hunting."
Kel understood.
A predator hunted for food.
This sounded different.
Systematic.
Deliberate.
Like taxation.
Like tribute.
Like extortion.
The Guardian became quiet.
Then finally spoke.
"Something is wrong."
Kel agreed.
Deeply.
Because powerful monsters rarely behaved this way.
Something about the situation felt unnatural.
The pattern.
The consistency.
The yearly offerings.
The numbers.
Everything suggested intelligence.
Not instinct.
The distinction mattered.
A lot.
Meanwhile—
The guard continued speaking.
"Our elders still negotiate."
"Our elders still petition."
"Our elders still request assistance."
She laughed bitterly.
"Every year."
The sailors looked uncomfortable.
Because there was no villain here.
No obvious one.
Just disagreement.
Politics.
Procedure.
Votes.
The kind of obstacles impossible to cut with swords.
Then one sailor finally asked:
"What do the instructors who support you say?"
The guard looked surprised.
Perhaps because no one had asked that before.
Then she answered.
"They say helping us is morally correct."
Reasonable.
"They say protecting allied communities benefits everyone."
Also reasonable.
"They say allowing the situation to continue damages the academy's reputation."
Again.
Reasonable.
The sailor nodded.
Then asked:
"And the opposition?"
The guard's expression immediately soured.
"They say students shouldn't be endangered."
"They say resources should remain focused on education."
"They say the academy isn't responsible for every problem near the island."
The sailors exchanged looks.
Unfortunately—
Those arguments also sounded reasonable.
The realization made everything worse.
Because neither side sounded evil.
Neither side sounded malicious.
Both possessed valid concerns.
Yet people continued dying.
That was the problem.
Inside his mind—
Seiren sighed.
A rare occurrence.
"I hate these situations."
"Why?"
The Guardian answered immediately.
"Because everyone is partially correct."
Kel nodded.
That was exactly why the problem remained unsolved.
Simple conflicts ended quickly.
Complicated conflicts lasted years.
The guard looked toward the distant ocean.
Then quietly said:
"Our elders understand the academy's position."
The statement surprised everyone.
The sailors looked confused.
The guard smiled weakly.
"We aren't unreasonable."
The smile disappeared quickly.
"But understanding something..."
Her eyes hardened.
"...doesn't make it hurt less."
No one spoke.
Because there was nothing to say.
The ocean remained silent.
Far away.
The giant predator continued feeding.
The distant crunch of bones occasionally echoed through the water.
A reminder.
A warning.
A reality.
The problem wasn't theoretical.
The problem was alive.
And currently eating someone.
Kel looked toward the distant monster.
His silver eyes narrowed slightly.
Then Seiren spoke.
Very softly.
Very carefully.
"Kel."
"What?"
The Guardian paused.
Then asked:
"Have you noticed?"
Kel already knew.
The pattern.
The behavior.
The tribute.
The intelligence.
The timing.
The negotiations.
Everything.
His eyes remained fixed upon the distant predator.
Then he answered internally.
"Yes."
The Guardian became silent.
Because both had reached the same conclusion.
This wasn't simply a monster problem.
And whatever the truth was—
It was likely far worse than anyone realized.
Ahead.
The giant predator continued sitting upon the black stone.
Watching.
Waiting.
Feeding.
Like a king seated upon a throne built from fear.
And for the first time since entering the mermaid territory—
Kel became genuinely interested.
Not in the monster.
But in the mystery behind it.