Kaya needed to stay by the seashore for a few more days. After all, she hadn’t forgotten the real reason she came here—salt. And the only way to get it was by boiling down seawater.
So, she roped in Vayu and Cutie, ordering them to find as much firewood as possible and, if they could manage, a stone bowl—huge one. "Bigger than your heads combined," she added, just to be sure they understood.
They groaned, but they listened.
But as she sat cross-legged on the sand, staring at the ocean, a thought hit her.
How the hell are we even supposed to get clean seawater? The sea was... the sea—salty, sure, but full of dirt, particles, fish pee, floating seaweed, gods know what else. Even if the mermaids helped and brought her water, how were they supposed to carry it up the shore without mixing it with the rest again?
It’s not like they had thermos flasks or giant water bottles lying around in some mermaid Costco.
But as usual, Kaya had underestimated the sea people.
When the mermaids came gliding onto the shore, her mouth fell open. In their hands, they carried strange, shimmering orbs—perfectly round, floating balls of water sealed within a thin, transparent membrane.
It looked like someone had wrapped ocean water in a bubble of magic plastic.
"What the—" Kaya stood up, squinting at the strange floating spheres. "What the hell is that?"
One of the mermaids, clearly smug, simply smiled. "Pure seawater," they said, holding up the orb proudly. "Unmixed. Untouched."
Kaya stared. It’s like... a water balloon. But magic.
And for once, she had no sarcastic comeback. Just a quiet, "Huh."
This tribe really had their own ways.
But apparently, the mermaids had made it their personal mission to keep shocking Kaya again and again.
Just as she was examining the floating water orb with a bit of awe still clinging to her expression, the little lord tilted his head, glanced at the seawater in his hand, and casually asked,
"By the way... why do you even need this pure seawater?"
Kaya blinked and looked at him like he’d just asked why she needed air to breathe.
"To make salt, obviously."
The little lord paused. His brain stopped working for a second. You could almost see the loading symbol in his eyes.
"You mean... you’re doing all this... just to get salt out of the water?"
Kaya gave him a firm nod, proud and confident.
Then, the little lord—bless his innocent soul—asked the most sincere, earth-shattering question of the day:
"Then... why didn’t you just ask for salt? We could have given it to you."
Kaya froze.
Completely.
Her brain glitched.
"Wait. Salt? You... have salt?"
The mermaids looked at her like she had grown horns, antlers, and maybe a chicken feather crown.
The little lord narrowed his eyes, a little confused.
"Of course we do. We live in the sea. It’s salt everywhere. How do you think we season our food?"
Kaya slowly turned her head toward them, her voice low and suspicious.
"Then why haven’t you ever given us salt with the food?!"
The little lord just shrugged, completely nonchalant.
"I thought you people didn’t eat salt."
Kaya didn’t respond.
She couldn’t.
She just... slowly slid to the ground like a puppet with cut strings, clutching her head in both hands.
"What the hell... Now even fish know how to make salt... and share it," she muttered into the sand, absolutely, soul-crushingly dumbfounded.
After a long, laughter-filled session—mostly at her expense—Kaya wisely decided to keep her mouth shut. Of course, sometimes silence was golden, especially when you needed something done. There’s an old saying: If you want your work done, even a donkey deserves to be called ’father.’ And right now, the mermaids were her golden donkeys.
Compared to her grueling, smoke-filled fire method of boiling seawater—where making just a cup of salt took nearly two hours—the mermaids’ method was like watching magic. In five to ten minutes, they were extracting salt like pros, and within an hour, they had gathered over 50 kilos of it. Impressive for most people.
But not for Kaya.
Kaya had two walking, talking carts—Vayu and Cutie. Each could easily carry 50 kilos like they were feathers. So naturally, she doubled the order. A hundred kilos of salt. Because why not?
Once all the salt was ready, a new problem popped up: Where to put this mountain of salt? Kaya didn’t exactly carry sacks around.
But the mermaids were one step ahead—again. They handed her bags woven from dried seaweed. Not exactly small bags either. They packed the salt neatly, stacked it into two big baskets, and hoisted them onto Vayu and Cutie’s shoulders. Kaya took a basket too—slightly larger than her entire torso, but manageable.
Still, there was a bit left. Kaya didn’t want anyone overburdened, but then Cutie, with a grin, took another 60 kilos on her back like it was nothing. Vayu added 40 more. Which meant Kaya’s shoulders were free—and free space is wasted space in Kaya’s world.
So, she got creative.
She traded her leftover gratitude for seafood—rare herbs, edible fish, healing plants, oysters, and a delicious seaweed soup. She refused the snails, though. "I’ll pass," she muttered, "not hauling a seafood parade on my back."
Her own pack now carried around 10 kilos of the useful stuff—light enough to travel, heavy enough to matter.
Everything was ready. She thanked the mermaids properly—no sarcasm, no sass. Tomorrow, they’d leave for real.
But that night—just as she was resting, stomach warm with seaweed soup and brain tired from calculations—the silence broke.
He appeared.
The one who had been missing for days.
Kaya woke up, her eyes still heavy with sleep. She blinked once... twice... and then paused. Just a few meters away from the hut, she saw him—standing still, silent, like he had been there for a while.
The master.
She slowly got up from her makeshift bed, her white top slightly crumpled, her pants loose and comfortable. She wasn’t even wearing her usual blazer. Her bare feet touched the cold ground as she stepped outside.