The Epic of the Disc Chapter 77: Pissed Of Sea God

Chapter 77: Pissed Of Sea God

He sighed through his teeth. The damn persistent bastard was still following them. He could feel it beneath the hull, patiently trailing. Not attacking. Just lurking. So he wasn’t too bothered.

But then again, he’d need to take care of it sooner or later.

Preferably later. He was too lazy to care right now.

He leaned against the bed frame. Both children sat beside him, nibbling on the mashed flesh he’d made for them—tiny hands gripping the soft balls like they’d disappear if they let go.

He glanced down at his palm. Six small red shards sat in the center, glowing faintly. Out of all the corrupted beasts he’d killed, six was all he’d managed to retrieve. The rest had sunk into the deep before he could reach them.

They sparkled as the swaying ceiling light caught them—and instantly, the twins noticed. They dropped everything. Food forgotten. Hands reaching for the shiny red rocks like nothing else in the world existed.

And with that, an idea brewed in his head.

He handed them one each. And watched.

Their tiny fingers curled around the red crystal. For a moment, they just held them—fascinated, eyes wide, mouths open in that silent baby awe reserved for things that glow.

Then the crystals shattered. Breaking into countless glowing fragments that drifted upward like embers. The twins giggled, their tiny hands swiping at the light, trying to catch pieces that were already gone—sinking into their bodies with a soft, warm pulse.

They stared at their empty hands. Turned them over. Checked again.

Their bottom lips trembled in perfect unison.

And they began to weep—eyes glossing over, soft broken sobs spilling out as they looked at Shiro like they wanted him to fix it.

Before they could fully let loose, he picked them both up, settled them on his lap, and pinched their noses lightly.

"I got more."

They chuckled, reaching for it with grabby little hands. He handed pieces over one by one—and got the same result every time the bowl came up empty. The lips. The eyes. The wobble. The full routine.

Before they started ruining his eardrums and drowning the ship in tears, he took them up to the deck.

He tossed them in the air a few times. Caught them. Did it again. Basically whatever made them chuckle—and in his dictionary, that meant it was working.

He was planning on letting Ari babysit again. But she was done. Coiled up somewhere on the ship, most likely in his bed—the universal body language for I quit.

She’d handed in her one-week notice. Well, technically one day now.

So he was in charge.

He patted himself on the back. "Congratulations. You’re promoted."

Nobody clapped. But the twins reached for him as they giggled.

’I’ll take it.’

And his first job as newly promoted captain of childcare was to change their homemade diapers—a process he was getting dangerously efficient at, which was either impressive or deeply sad depending on how you looked at it.

He held his breath the entire time. Eyes watering.

"I hate this promotion," he muttered, tying off the last one.

He placed them in the bed and wrapped them in a blanket, tucking the edges in tight until they looked less like babies and more like a pair of tiny, angry footballs.

They squirmed once. Twice. Then gave up.

And slept peacefully.

’Finally.’

Once the sun fully went down, he moved up to the deck and waited.

The shard Nora had given him. An artifact.

His fingers gripped the blue crystal. He held it to his chest—not because it did anything. Just because it came from her.

’I hope you’re doing well. And thank you.’

He crushed it between his palms.

The light spilled through his fingers—cold, blue, alive—and when it faded, the weight in his hands had changed.

[Artifact]

[Name: Tidebreaker]

[Rank: Greater]

[Type: Weapon—Spear]

[DESCRIPTION]

A spear carved from the spine of a Greater Serpent, pulled from the deep where the creature ruled without challenger.

[Abyssal Domain]—When the wielder drives the spear into any surface, water erupts from the point of contact, drawn from everywhere, and expands into a colossal dome. Nothing enters or escapes without the user’s permission.

He spun the spear, getting a feel for it. He hadn’t used one of these in a while.

It was long, slender, and impossibly blue—cold to the touch, like it had never left the ocean it was born in. The blade at its tip curved like a wave mid-break, translucent at the edges, solid at the center. And when he held it, he could feel it—every drop of moisture in the air. Every bead of sweat on his skin. Every ripple in the sea below.

Like the water was listening to him.

He gave it a few more spins, pulling the moisture toward him—slowly at first, then all at once. Water coiled around his body, wrapping him in a shimmering barrier that moved when he moved.

He grinned.

Then tried to breathe.

’Ah.’

The barrier was perfect—sealed tight, dense, beautiful. And completely unbreathable.

Which defeated the whole purpose of controlling water.

’So I can control water. I just can’t breathe in it. Fantastic.’

He sighed. Disappointed but not surprised. He dropped the barrier and summoned the Ebony Knight.

"Okay, buddy." He tapped its shoulder. "You’ve been promoted. You are now a baby-slash-snake sitter."

The knight stared at him.

"Good luck."

He slipped into the water. There was no point waiting for that thing to come to him when he could go to it.

He dove down. The water grew darker with every stroke—not gradually, but deliberately, like the ocean was pulling a curtain closed behind him. He could still see. But the pressure was building. Slow. Heavy. Wrapping around his ribs like hands that were deciding how hard to squeeze.

He followed the sound that echoed through the deep.

No—not a sound. A screech. Low and long, vibrating through the water like something massive was grinding its teeth in the dark.

He went deeper.

Something swept past him—enormous, fast, the displaced water shoving him sideways before he even saw it. A tentacle. Thicker than a tree trunk. Covered in suckers that pulsed faintly in the blackness.

His eyes went wide just as another came crashing down from above. Each of its suckers was nearly as large as his entire body.

’Oh. This thing could tear my ship apart.’

He coated himself in a water barrier—spinning it tight around his body like a second skin. The first tentacle hit him dead on. He sank deeper from the impact. Another arm slapped him sideways. He flew right. And again.

’Great. It thinks I’m a ball.’

As it tried to slam him again, Shiro swayed his arm to the side and the water barrier roared in that direction—spinning faster, catching the tentacle and redirecting it like it was nothing. And each one that came in after? Same thing. Redirect. Deflect. Send it spinning off into the dark.

The creature seemed to have had enough of his shenanigans. Because now all eight came at once. From every direction. But instead of trying to slam him down, they moved with the flow of his rotation—matching his rhythm, riding the current he was creating, coiling inward like a

being drawn shut.

He couldn’t help but smile.

’Smart.’

The tentacles swirled around him. Tighter. Closer. Until they closed in like a bottle cap being screwed shut—squeezing the water out of his barrier, collapsing his space inch by inch.

And for a moment, it thought it had him. Until it didn’t.

"Illuminate Nocturne."

The dark water lit up—blinding, silver. And in that flash, he unleashed a fury of cuts so fast the water couldn’t keep up. His blade sliced through its tentacles with ease, golden blood blooming in every direction until the ocean around him looked like a sunset that had drowned.

Severed tentacles drifted around him like fallen trees.

He grabbed what he could. ’No point wasting good meat.’

The ocean pushed him upward—hard, fast, like it had a mind of its own. Like the sea itself wanted him out, helping the creature flee. Limbless. Bleeding. Dragging itself into the deep with whatever it had left.

’What the hell was that?’

Then he remembered what Hera said. That he’d pissed off the sea god. By killing his children.

’Right. That.’

He popped his head out of the water, carrying a massive tentacle draped over his shoulder—about the same size as him, with only one pair of suckers.

He climbed aboard and dropped it on the deck with a wet slap. Stood there dripping. Breathing hard.

He was slightly disappointed. No more shards for the kids. No power artifact. That coward had its daddy save it from him.

’Damn fish. Interfering with my hunt.’

He sighed.

But disappointment was a luxury he couldn’t afford right now. So he pushed it aside, toweled off, and lay down with the twins.

’Hera. You’re on night shift.’

He closed his eyes. And let the foolish goddess guide them the rest of the way.

For a while, it worked.

The ship rocked gently. The twins breathed softly against his chest. The water beneath them was quiet, almost apologetic, like the ocean had exhausted itself and needed rest too. No shadows beneath the hull. Just the creak of wood and the hum of the wind doing its job.

He almost believed it was over.

Until he was woken by violence.

The ship lurched sideways, hard enough to throw him off the bed. The twins screamed. Not the fussy kind. The terrified kind.

He hit the floor. The babies rolled, but He caught them both before they went any further and bolted toward the deck, one under each arm.

"Damn it. Every time. Every single time I close my eyes, something tries to kill us." He looked down at the twins, still screaming. "I know. I’m upset too."

The sea was mad. Not rough. Not choppy. Mad. Waves crashing against the hull like they were trying to break through. The water churning in every direction with no rhythm, no pattern—just rage.

And the fog. It had come out of nowhere—thick, grey, suffocating. The kind that didn’t just block your vision. It buried it.

Then through the mist, he caught sight of them.

Orangish-yellow eyes. Glowing in the fog like two dying suns.

Its massive tentacle swayed half out of the water. Slow. Patient. Almost lazy. Like the creature was making sure he saw it. Like it was telling him—

’I regrew my limbs. You see this?’

And they were being pulled straight into its mouth.

He handed the twins to the knight without a word and ran for the control room.

’Damn you, sea god. You bastard.’

Gritting his teeth, he pulled the throttle back. Nothing. The ship lurched forward like the ocean had it by the throat and wasn’t letting go.

The damn thing kept shaking beneath him. Every wave hit harder than the last. The wood groaned. The hull screamed.

With no other choice, he stopped fighting the waves and summoned the spear into his hand.

He leapt up the mast—boots finding the crossbeam—and tightened his grip. The wind tore at his clothes. The twins were crying below. The fog pressed in from every side. And the sound—all of it—the screaming wind, the crashing waves, the wailing babies—piled into his head at once.

Making it impossible to think.

’My ears hurt. My head hurts. Everything hurts.’

He couldn’t jump into the sea. Not this time. It would push him away, swallow him, drag him under.

And something about this fog was wrong. It wasn’t just blocking his vision—it was warping it. Shapes moved where there were none. Distances shifted. The beast in front of him wasn’t the real problem.

The real problem was that he was fighting the sea god itself.

His eyes darted around, searching for a way out. Left. Right. Nothing but grey.

He looked up.

And something came down.

Lightning—yellow, blinding—struck him head-on. So fast he barely saw it coming. But to his surprise, it didn’t hurt. Not even a little. It felt like something settling into place. Like something that had always been inside him had just been woken up.

The knight moved toward him. He raised a hand.

"I’m good."

He looked down at his fingers. Yellow light crackled across his skin, jumping between his knuckles, crawling up his forearm. The same kind of lightning his grandfather used.

A slow breath.

"This is interesting."

Because the sea god had interfered, Hera did the same. Tit for tat. God for god. And for the first time in his life, he actually wanted to thank her.

’Don’t get used to it, old lady.’

He could feel it—the tingling through his veins, his blood waking up like it had been sleeping his entire life and had finally decided it was time. The lightning was almost a family call.

He turned to the beast. The yellow lightning shifted—deepening, darkening—until it burned purple. It crackled along the shaft of the spear, sparks racing toward the tip like they were late to a fight they refused to miss.

He planted his foot. Muscles tensing. Jaw set. He pulled his arm back and muttered—

"Yeah—eat this, you bastard."

Then he hurled the spear straight at the beast.

It left his hand like a bolt from the heavens. Lightning crackled around it as it tore through the towering wave—splitting the water in half—and drove straight through the right side of the creature. Ripping through its tentacles as if they weren’t there. Punching a massive gap between its eyes.