"How dare someone behave so casually toward Lord Kashchey! This is an insult to His Excellency!"
"Strange… so strange… That woman who calls Lord Kashchey 'Ig'—could she be…? No, I mustn't think such things."
"Lord Kashchey, you are so gentle… truly the kindest being on this land!"
"As expected of Lord Kashchey's honored guest… Is she another immortal? She seems rather naïve though."
"Hehe… So Lord Kashchey finally has a partner? I want to see them being sweet together!"
"...Wait—Lord Kashchey is a man?"
"Anyone who dares touch Lord Kashchey like that must be no ordinary immortal. We should deal with her severely."
"Still… she's clearly not terran, is she?"
———
Sensing the thoughts swirling within the minds of the servants nearby, the Black Snake grew mildly displeased.
However, he did not reprimand them.
Absolute dominance and control granted him the luxury of tolerance—
and yet, their wages would still be halved this month.
After all, it was only fair to conclude that their service had been less than satisfactory.
Across the long dining table, under Kashchey's careful, hand-over-hand instruction, Ishar'mla clumsily wielded her knife and fork, struggling to bring food to her lips.
As she felt the warmth of Kashchey's hands guiding hers, a trace of dissatisfaction flickered in her heart.
This body—this fragile shell—was not one of their kind.
But it didn't matter.
Ishar'mla could sense the presence of the Black Snake within this vessel, moving restlessly—excited, perhaps even flustered.
Yes. She was certain of it.
This was her Ig.
And she would not allow Ig to drift away from her again, as he once did into the depths of the sea.
"The ocean… that is our true home."
———
Long ago, when the Black Snake could no longer endure the overwhelming pressure of the ever-evolving Seaborn flesh that housed him and chose to abandon it…
In a colossal palace built from massive stone slabs beneath the waves, a towering sea creature—over twenty meters tall—extended one of its tentacles to poke at a terranoid figure about two meters in height.
That being's form was grotesque, a tangled mass of intertwining tendrils—a Seaborn of hideous elegance.
"Ig, are you there?"
"Ig?"
"…Asleep again."
At first, Ishar'mla didn't think much of it.
After all, Ig often fell into deep slumber from time to time.
So she simply remained by his side in silence, patiently waiting for him to awaken.
The other seaborn that served under Ig continued their patrols as usual.
Their loyalty was first and foremost to the great shoal, and only then to Ig himself.
As one of the higher Seaborn of equal rank, Ishar'mla was naturally beyond their suspicion.
Just as she had done countless times before, her tentacles spread out in every direction, swiftly absorbing the nutrients of the surrounding waters.
Hundreds upon hundreds of tendrils filled the vast hall, sweeping outward in a living tide.
Seaweed, fish, and fragments of flesh willingly offered by lesser Seaborn were all ensnared in her grasp.
Gradually, the tendrils drew back again—
but not before Ishar'mla carefully left aside a portion, saved especially for Ig.
After all, in her eyes—though Ig's wisdom had indeed contributed much to the great shoal—
his body was far too fragile.
He often fell into deep sleep, his movements sluggish, and constantly needed her assistance.
He had to be nourished, cared for—fed more.
But as time passed, Ishar'mla gradually sensed that something was wrong.
This time, Ig had been asleep for far too long.
"Ig? Wake up."
"Ig, I've brought you plenty of nourishment."
"Lately, there are some creatures calling themselves the Aegir—they've been disturbing our nests…"
"...Ig?"
"Ig, Ig, Ig, Ig~"
"..."
"I will bring you back, Ig."
———
Across every nation and region, the Cape Group appointed a Secretary responsible for managing local affairs.
It was a position many would give anything to obtain.
While the salary of a Secretary was considered merely average, the role came with a remarkable privilege—
control over one percent of the net profits generated within their assigned district.
Naturally, the wealth of a region like Victoria couldn't compare to that of Sargon.
Even so, the fortune and influence that came with the Secretary's title were nothing short of extraordinary.
Even the rigidly class-conscious nobles of various territories were compelled to treat a common-born Secretary with basic courtesy.
After all, many of those nobles' purses were directly tied to that person's approval.
However, Ch'en's wariness only deepened.
After all, within the Cape Group, no Infected had ever been permitted to serve as a Secretary.
"Miss Ch'en! What's with that suspicious look in your eyes?"
Cape feigned indignation, his tone full of mock offense.
"Our group has always shown the utmost tolerance toward the Infected. We even provide services designed especially for them."
Though at an exceedingly high price.
"..."
Ch'en's stern expression faltered.
She couldn't refute him.
Despite the exorbitant costs, the Cape Group had indeed faced tremendous social and political pressure for publicly supporting the Infected.
Few corporations of such global scale dared to openly declare their willingness to serve that ostracized population.
And it was true—some of Cape's low-cost products had genuinely improved the lives of countless Infected.
Under the conglomerate's name, small shops had been established specifically to provide affordable daily necessities for the Infected.
These shops were often set up in slums and quarantine zones—places where the Infected gathered.
Though the variety of goods was limited, they met nearly every basic need.
The blankets might be coarse, the food nearly inedible, the water bitter, and the medicine weak—
but they sustained life, at least.
For many Infected, such stores represented the only livelihood they could afford.
No… in truth, many could not even step foot into a normal shop at all.
———
"Our Cape Group is driven by terranitarian ideals," Cape declared passionately.
"We are dedicated to improving the living conditions of the Infected, to narrowing the divide between them and the uninfected."
Having just come ashore, Mephisto's eyes lit up upon hearing his words.
To him, this man seemed to be another who sought to help the Infected—surely, a potential ally of the Reunion Movement.
Under Talulah and Alina's dual influence, Mephisto had come to believe that any uninfected person who showed kindness toward the Infected could become a comrade worth winning over.
Seeing Mephisto's wavering expression, Cape pressed on.
"Our company is planning soon to begin employing Infected individuals. After all, who could better understand their own needs than they themselves? Their involvement would enhance communication between our group and the Infected community, allowing us to reach mutual understanding."
Cape's gaze swept across the group.
Ch'en's expression grew uncertain, while Faust's turned openly wary.
Mephisto nervously looked toward Alina.
She met his eyes, offering a gentle, encouraging nod—urging him to speak his mind.
Cape smiled warmly, stepping forward.
"And you, young man... I have high hopes for you."
Especially for your abilities.