Meruem understood, perhaps for the first time with such clarity, that strength alone would no longer be enough.
If he was to walk among humans—not as a king, not as a conqueror, but as Meruem—then he needed to learn their rhythms, their customs, their fragile and contradictory ways of existing together. The city before them, Yorknew's southern commercial district, buzzed with life in a manner both chaotic and strangely ordered. Merchants shouted prices that fluctuated with emotion rather than logic, children ran between carts without fear, and adults wore exhaustion like a second skin. This world was loud, disorganized, and yet… it endured.
Komugi walked beside him, holding lightly onto his sleeve, her steps careful but curious. Her presence anchored him. Without her, the city might have felt hostile; with her, it became something to be observed rather than conquered.
As they passed a small roadside stand built from uneven wood and patched cloth, a frail voice stopped them.
"My son…"
The voice trembled, thin as paper, yet persistent.
Meruem turned. A very old woman sat behind the stand, her back bent by years rather than weakness. Before her lay a small basket of steamed millet cakes, wrapped in cloth to keep them warm. Her eyes, clouded with age, still held a quiet sharpness.
"My son," she repeated softly, "would you buy one? Just one cake."
Meruem observed the food, then the woman, then the faint tremor in her hands.
"No, thank you," he replied—his tone noticeably less authoritative than it once would have been.
The woman smiled anyway, as if refusal was expected.
"Where are you going, walking like that with such a little girl?" she asked. "Perhaps an old woman can still be of use."
Before Meruem could respond, a bearded merchant stepped closer, his clothes heavy with the scent of dried fish and sea salt. His smile was wide, friendly, almost invasive.
"Travelers, eh?" the man said. "You look new around here."
"We want to go to Whale Island," Meruem answered simply. "How do we get there?"
The old woman tilted her head apologetically.
"I'm sorry, child. I don't know that place."
A faint disappointment crossed Meruem's face—brief, controlled, but real. He turned away, already preparing to continue forward without direction, trusting instinct as he always had.
"Wait," the bearded merchant called out. "Whale Island… yes. I've heard of it."
Meruem stopped.
"If I'm not mistaken," the man continued, scratching his beard, "it's far to the east, beyond the coast of Mitene Port. I heard about it years ago when I returned from Roshin Bay, trading salted fish with some coastal merchants. Quiet island. Honest folk. Not much happens there."
He went on, offering details Meruem had no need for—about the weather, the stubbornness of the locals, the way the sea changed color near the shore—but the important part came last.
"If you take the same convoy heading east," the merchant said, lowering his voice slightly, "you should reach the port in about two weeks. Tell Harlan you're friends of Beso—that's me. He'll take you aboard."
Meruem nodded once.
"So we head east."
Without another word, he turned and began walking.
"Wait for me, my king!"
Komugi had lingered behind, the old woman gently pressing a few biscuits into her hands. She accepted them with a bright, grateful smile, bowing repeatedly.
"Thank you so much," Komugi said. "They're delicious already."
Her smile lingered as she ran to catch up with Meruem, her small steps quick but light.
They left the city behind as the sun dipped lower, the stone paths giving way to a narrow dirt road bordered by bushes and broken fences. That was when the silence changed.
Meruem sensed them before he saw them.
Figures emerged from behind shrubs and rocks—vagabonds, thin but sharp-eyed, their laughter uneven and forced.
"Well, well," one of them sneered. "Looks like we've got ourselves some lost travelers."
"Hand over everything you've got," another said, stepping closer. "Or we'll really hurt you."
Meruem did not respond.
The man closest to him grinned wider.
"You there, with the prince's face. You've got gold, don't you? And if you don't… well, the little girl looks fragile."
Something shifted.
Meruem felt it rise—not explosive, not wild, but dense. Heavy. His anger no longer roared; it pressed inward, coiling tightly.
His tail moved.
The air cracked as it lashed forward, stopping a breath away from the man's face.
"Manama—!" the vagabond screamed, collapsing as fear overtook him, his legs giving way. His companions fled instantly, disappearing into the brush without looking back.
"I'm sorry," the man whimpered, soaked in terror. "I'm truly sorry."
Meruem stared at him for a long moment… then turned away.
He did not kill him.
As they resumed walking, the silence grew thick.
Meruem did not understand why his hand had stayed. Was it his transformation? Or was it Komugi—walking beside him, unaware of how close death had come? He felt a familiar pressure in his chest, a frustration without shape, a discomfort born not of weakness, but of change.
They continued forward.
Then—
A scream.
Distant, sharp, unmistakable.
And above the treeline, a thin column of smoke rose into the darkening sky.
Something was happening.