The night sea surrounding Arkworld AW-03 churned under a cold wind, its metallic hull groaning with the rhythmic beating of the waves. Far above the decks, the sky was torn between the pale moonlight and the faint orange glow of distant fires. The colossal ship, once a proud floating fortress, now bore scars from repeated assaults: collapsed railings, shattered glass panels, blood stains, and the scattered remains of the undead. From the engine bay to the command bridge, alarm sirens wailed, and red warning lights flashed intermittently, casting the steel corridors in a hellish glow. Because the ship itself was trembling, not merely from battle but from the awakening of forces too great to contain.
Before that, at the stern, where the night wind was strongest and the crashing waves sounded like distant cannon fire, Gaiard stood. His bare feet felt the metallic floor vibrate faintly beneath him, and every gust that hit his face carried the salt of the sea and the acrid scent of gunpowder. Around him, soldiers in ragged uniforms struggled to keep their formations. A small elite group of bodyguards formed a protective circle around a bulky, young man in luxurious clothes—Edward, the so-called young master of the high floors. His face was pale, bloated, and contorted with both arrogance and fear. Behind him, his men shouted orders, their rifles aimed at Tiama and Gaiard as if they could stop the tide of what was coming.
Gaiard's chest rose and fell slowly, each breath longer than the last. In this moment, he was not the man he had been before; memories echoed through his mind like fragments of a forgotten song. He remembered the crumbling fortress, the brutal battles against the aberrations that had once been their comrades, and the chaotic retreat through the burning jungle... He remembered how, when the fragments of elemental power scattered across worlds, he had chosen his path—not as a subordinate piece of Boboiboy's collective might, but as his own force, forged through the storms of survival. That decision had brought him here, to this stern, with Tiama beside him, facing down a force that vastly outnumbered them.
Tiama's presence behind him was like a quiet anchor. Her silver hair fluttered in the wind, her weapon drawn, her sharp eyes scanning the enemy lines. She didn't need to speak. Between them there was a wordless understanding although they had just known each other. She knew Gaiard's next move would shake the battlefield, and she trusted him completely.
The enemies, however, did not. They saw only a man with bare hands, standing still as their numbers advanced. Edward sneered, his voice shrill as he pointed at Gaiard."Kill him! Kill them both! Show them the result of not listen to me"
The command broke the uneasy pause. Dozens of armored bodyguards surged forward, their boots thudding against the steel deck, their formation resembling a wave of black shadows under the dim emergency lights. Tiama moved to intercept the first few, slashing and twisting like a dancer of death, but Gaiard raised his hand slightly.
"Step back, Tiama," he murmured. "This part… is mine."
The tone of his voice carried the weight of something ancient and resolute. Tiama understood instantly and pivoted away, cutting down two attackers with swift precision before leaping back to give him space.
Gaiard spread his feet apart, lowering his center of gravity, palms open
When he opened his eyes again, they glowed faintly with crystalline light.
A tremor started. Not from the ship's engines or the waves, but from the very air around Gaiard. It was subtle at first, a faint vibration that caused loose shell casings on the deck to rattle. Then it grew. The metallic floor beneath his feet groaned and began to resonate, the vibrations spreading outward in ripples like the first shivers before an earthquake.
From the center where Gaiard stood, the aura of Crystal power burst forth. It was invisible yet palpable—an expanding pulse of force that pushed outward like a sudden gust. The approaching enemies stumbled. Some shielded their faces instinctively, others dug their heels into the deck, trying to resist. The aura repelled them, not by brute force but by the sheer overwhelming presence it carried, as if the world itself was bending around him.
Tiama's hair whipped violently in the sudden surge, but she stood firm. Edward, however, staggered backward, clutching the rail for balance. His eyes widened."What… what is that power!?" he yelled.
Gaiard didn't answer. Instead, he took a deep breath, the cold sea air filling his lungs. He raised both hands before him, fingers curling slightly. From the surface of his palms, tiny fragments of translucent crystal began to emerge—first a few, then dozens, then hundreds. They spread rapidly like frost over glass, encasing his hands and forearms in jagged crystalline growths that shimmered under the moonlight. Each shard seemed alive, resonating faintly, as if singing with the vibrations.
"Condensed in my hands," he shouted, his voice echoing across the ship's stern, "the fist that breaks the continent!"
The crystal shards thickened, fusing together to form the [Terracrasher] gloves—armored gauntlets of condensed crystalline energy that encased his hands from fingertips to elbows. Their surface was rugged yet perfectly fitted, adorned with deep fault-line patterns that pulsed faintly with inner light. These were not mere weapons. They were the embodiment of Gaiard's rebirth in this fractured world, separate from the elemental harmony of the past. Here, he was not a fragment. He was a force.
The enemies hesitated. Even those who had seen superhuman abilities before felt the weight of what was forming. Edward opened his mouth to give another order, but before he could speak, Gaiard moved.
He clenched his fists. The sound of cracking stone filled the air as the crystal gloves tightened, emitting faint streams of light between their seams. He spread his legs wider, lowering his body until his muscles coiled like compressed springs. The deck beneath him creaked under the growing pressure. Then, with a roar that mingled defiance, fury, and liberation, he thrust both fists downward into the steel floor.
The impact was not merely physical.
An [Oscillation Wave] punch erupted through the ship. From the exact point where his crystal-armored fists struck, a shock wave blasted outward in concentric circles. The steel floor cracked, split, and buckled, spiderweb patterns racing toward the edges of the deck. The vibrations traveled like a living creature, tearing through everything in their path.
The nearest bodyguards were lifted off their feet as if struck by an invisible giant. Their rifles flew from their hands; their helmets cracked against the deck. Some were hurled backward into railings, others were flung overboard entirely, their screams vanishing into the dark sea below. Even the heavier, armored soldiers stumbled helplessly as the shock wave tossed them like rag dolls.
Edward himself lost his footing. The deck beneath him fractured, and he stumbled forward, arms flailing. His bodyguards tried to steady him, but they too were caught in the tremor's fury. The entire stern of AW-03 seemed to quake, as though struck by a miniature earthquake.
Tiama watched from the side, her eyes narrowing with both awe and grim satisfaction. She had seen Gaiard's power before, but never like this. This was different—not a physical strength, but his true power, unleashed without restraint.
And Gaiard stood amidst the chaos he had created, his fists still pressed into the cracked steel, his head bowed slightly. The cold wind whipped around him, carrying away the terrified cries of their enemies into the night. He slowly raised his head, eyes glowing with crystalline determination