I'm Ariel. You've heard of me, right?
The one who lives in the deepest part of the ocean—
No, not some random trench. A palace.
Yes, that palace. The one every creature in the Pacific knows, home to the most drop-dead gorgeous royal under the sea: me.
Human princesses? Please. They're all "heiress of some tiny island" or "duchess-to-be by some muddy river." Cute. Adorable, even. Your precious kingdoms still need to divide into provinces, cities, villages, neighborhood committees.
My father? He rules an entire ocean.
You know what "Aqua-King" means?
Not your human kind—the player type who changes girlfriends faster than they change socks.
I'm talking about the real deal: the kind of ruler who can make sharks line up politely and coral clear a path on their own.
Naturally, that makes me... the Little Sea Princess.
Or as you people insist on calling me—"the Little Mermaid."
I hate that nickname. I'm not little. I'm not just pretty. I've got brains, too.
Unfortunately, there was a time when those brains short-circuited.
I went up to the surface for some dumb shit, sold my voice for a pair of human legs.
Yep. Full-on lovesick idiot mode.
And then—surprise!—it all went to hell.
Now I'm back. And I'm done with pathetic "Do you love me, Your Highness?" nonsense.
I'm here for revenge.
And here's a tip: never mess with a sea princess—especially one who's been dumped.
Yes, I'm a princess.
No, I don't do your human "stand around in a gown at some ball waiting to be chosen" thing.
We ocean royals? Different breed.
How different?
We swim.
You humans run a marathon and think you've done something. I swim butterfly, freestyle, backflip, sprint—three thousand nautical miles for fun.
Abs? I was born with them. Comes with the tail.
By all rights, as an official Pacific Ocean royal princess, my daily schedule should look like this:
Wake up. Comb my fins. Dab on some pearl powder. Then, under Daddy Aqua-King's command, stand in the middle of the court and use my heavenly voice to "inspire" our subjects.
After all, one of a mermaid's greatest gifts is singing so beautifully it can make a whale pause mid-swim... or bring a shark to tears.
But I've never understood—why would a future ruler of the entire sea waste time learning to sing?
Shouldn't it be more like flip your tail to summon a tsunami, flick your fin to wipe out an enemy fleet?
So every morning, while Daddy leads my sisters in their grand Crystal Palace choir practice, I'm already long gone—slipping out with my little army of shrimp soldiers and crab generals, patrolling the waters... and, okay, "cleaning up" the gold teapots, silver chopsticks, and blindingly shiny necklaces humans keep tossing into my territory.
They throw, I collect. Perfect partnership.
One time, while I was patrolling my patch of ocean, I spotted—through my little telescope—a shark pirate heading straight for us.
I honestly don't get it.
Mermaids all have tiny waists, gorgeous tails, and beauty to stun an entire reef.
Yet some low-IQ sea creature sees a pretty face and immediately assumes we're soft targets.
Newsflash: our least important asset is our looks. The real highlight? Raw, inborn strength and tails that can kill.
That little shark came charging in—
I darted aside at 8,000 km/h, dove straight back, and slammed my fist right into its thick skull.
While it was still dazed, I whipped my tail—CRACK!—bones popping like bubble wrap. Then I hooked my arm around its head and, with a nice satisfying POP, dislocated its jaw.
Barehanded. And yes, I sent it fleeing for its miserable little life.
Now you know why I've got a whole crew of shrimp and crab lackeys. Most fish in the sea have the IQ of wet sand; the smartest thing they can do is stick with a strong boss.
And if they ever get ideas?
Let's just say I'm not above turning them into seafood.
History needs a fact-check.
That "Little Mermaid" story you've heard? Total crap.
Real mermaid princesses? We've seen the world. We've got vaults of deep-sea treasure. You think we've got time to float up to the surface every day to "watch the human world"? Please.
Up there it's all plastic bags, beer bottles, straws, busted fishing nets. Oh, and barrels of oil dumped straight into the water. Chemical waste like it's on clearance sale.
Curious? Yeah, no.
And me, Ariel? I didn't get in trouble with Daddy aqua-king because I was some thrill-seeker spying on humans.
No, he punished me because I kept getting into brawls.
Why?
Because the ocean is full of wild species, and with half-human, half-beast brains, the language is simple: fists.
There's plenty of resources, sure, but everyone wants to be the big boss. Picking fights, running their mouths, throwing shade at the royal family—happens all the time.
They think a mermaid princess is just big boobs, a tiny waist, a pretty face, and some crown.
Wrong.
I'll spell it out:
You think a gorgeous girl can't have a temper?
You think I won't smack you just because I look good?
Disrespect the royal family or the merfolk—
I don't care if you're a shark king, some eight-legged sea freak, or a lobster thug—one hit from my tail and you'll be questioning your entire existence.
And our kingdom? We're not some fragile little realm holding hands with our enemies in the name of "marriage alliances" to stay safe. We stay safe because we're stronger than everyone else.
Why?
Because humans... can't share an ocean.
They only see themselves. If the ocean isn't theirs, they'll still try to take it.
So as my father says:
"If you want to keep this sea, you'd better build the kind of muscle that can survive it."
Who's my dad? The aqua-King.
And me? His daughter. The Little Sea Tyrant. Seventh Princess. Baby of the family.
I've got six older sisters—each with their own style—but let's be real, none of them can match my presence.
Me? I'm fully loaded.
Mother-of-pearl, moonlight shells, pearls the size of your fist, shells that live for centuries, shells that talk—my room's basically a museum.
Thirty-six crystal screens, swapped out with the seasons.
So many gems I had to cut two private undercurrents just to open up extra treasure vaults.
My daily routine?
Roll with my crew, patrol my waters, work my abs, occasionally smack around a few clueless humans who wander in.
My crew?
Sebastian, the giant red lobster with claws like battle-axes—loyal as they come, my number-one bodyguard.
And a little clownfish who swims in circles yelling "Princess! Princess! Princess!" nonstop.
Do I get annoyed? No. I like the feeling of being surrounded by my minions.
I was raised to be the Queen Bitch of the Reef from day one.Why?
Because in my generation, mermaids aren't allowed to be just pretty—we have to be dangerous.
Humans are so clueless.
They think mermaid singing comes from "pearls amplifying our voices" or "music-box magic."
They say when we sing it's like the sea god takes over, whales start dancing, and the moon cries.
Fine. I'll accept the compliments—since I do sing like a goddess.
But "needing pearls" or "magic tricks" to sound good? That's an insult.
I! Ariel! Was born with a voice to kill for.
I can shatter a coral reef with my high notes.
My vibrato can make a squid shake until it inks itself.
And I don't need any of that frilly crap to do it.
Pearls? I've got them—wear them as earrings.
Music box? Sure, gave it to the clownfish to help him sleep.
My singing is powered by destiny, lung capacity, and royal pride.
You know what it's like when I belt out the Hymn of the Sea?
Jellyfish line up in formation, seals drop to their knees, even starfish flip themselves right-side up.
The ocean goes silent. Currents reverse. Fish close their gills.
Even my father says, "Ariel, tone it down—you'll tear the fishing nets."
Do I listen? No. Because I'm enjoying myself.
A princess doesn't wait for permission to sing.
If I want to sing, I sing. If I don't want to, you wouldn't dare push me.
Think I'm off-key? Try saying it out loud.
Your head might end up soaking next to a flounder before you finish the sentence.
Not because my singing is perfect—though it is flawless—but because:
I. AM. A. PRINCESS.
And our sea princesses? We're not your fragile, doe-eyed human debutantes.
We're attitude + muscle + national defense in a seashell tiara.
I'm both diva and warlord.
If I can't sing well? I'll curse you out, drag you under, and finish the argument with my tail.
So do you get it now?
It's not that my voice is unbeatable.
It's that I am.