Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!!

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Fyudor's lips as he crossed his arms and stared at Art. "Don't tell me you're getting emotional all of a sudden? Oh! Wait—" he raised a brow, eyes gleaming with amusement, "—you're lamenting the fact that you couldn't kill her. Isn't that right?"

Art maintained a perfectly calm exterior. His voice was steady, his posture unmoved. "Yes. I am lamenting," he admitted without hesitation. "It's such a pity that I couldn't kill her with my own hands. I suppose… I'll have to redirect my bottled-up frustration onto those filthy spawns instead."

Fyudor let out a genuine laugh, one filled with unexpected warmth. "Now that's what I like to hear! I commend such thoughts. That's the way it should be."

He stepped forward slightly, his grin widening. "So go. Get stronger. Push your limits. Defy everything I expect from you."

His voice deepened, serious now. "I'm still alive, Art. I will remain alive. And you—" he pointed a finger at him "—you still have a person you want to kill. Don't let your lament be the end of your story. Let it be your fuel."

Art nodded slowly, he acknowledged his words. "But… there's still a question that keeps bugging me." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Where are Lucian and Isolde?"

Fyudor exhaled deeply and rubbed the back of his neck. "Lucian is currently engaged in battle with the White Dragon of Grief."

His tone turned more reserved as he continued. "As for Isolde… there's no trace. She's a mystery right now. Maybe she's helping Lucian. Or maybe she has her own plans. We don't know."

He paused for a moment, then looked back at Art. "That all?"

Art straightened his back a bit more, his bearing unwavering. "Yes, that's all. Please send me to the same place you sent the others."

Fyudor gave a curt nod and stepped forward, placing a hand on Art's shoulder. "Bring me results, not excuses. And don't come back just to be stubborn. Either come back stronger or don't come back at all."

Then, without waiting, he flicked his fingers. A portal unfolded before Art.

Without hesitation, without a backward glance, Art stepped into it.

The world shifted in an instant.

The air changed. The temperature dropped. The ground beneath his feet was no longer smooth polished marble but cracked, dry stone. Art took a moment to adjust, stabilizing his stance as his senses expanded to take in the terrain.

He was standing alone in a barren, dried-out ravine. There were no lush trees, no signs of life, just jagged, cracked rock formations and sun-bleached mountains that looked like bones jutting out of the earth. The land was exposed, offering no place to hide from predators.

Art scanned the area. 'No one's around. Not a soul. Where are the others…?'

He narrowed his eyes and began searching for traces—footprints, disturbed gravel, marks that would indicate recent movement. After a few tense minutes, he found them—faint, but discernible. A cluster of footprints leading toward a narrow cleft between the rocks.

He crouched beside them, tracing the prints with a hand. 'Why would they go this way? It's narrow, claustrophobic. Were they being chased? Cornered, maybe… by a monster?'

There was no way to be sure. But one thing was certain: that path was the only clue he had.

Without wasting another second, he began following the trail. The passage narrowed the deeper he went, the walls pressing in from both sides, like a throat swallowing him whole. The further he walked, the more the air felt heavy, like something was watching.

But eventually, the tight passage opened.

And what greeted him was not another cavern or small clearing—it was a vast, sprawling plain. A desolate battlefield stretched endlessly in all directions. The horizon kissed the sky in the far distance, and the ground beneath was flat, cracked, and stained with old traces of blood and ash. This was no ordinary land.

'This… feels like a battleground forged for the sole purpose of training.'

He could see monstrous figures lurking in the distance—creatures of various shapes and sizes, all prowling, searching for prey. But more importantly—his eyes sharpened—he spotted a small group of people several kilometers away.

His friends.

Relief flickered in his chest but quickly dissolved. Now wasn't the time for sentimentality.

Art's gaze lingered on the battlefield. 'At least something good will come of this… as long as we train and grow stronger.'

His expression darkened.

'The world is shifting. It's entering an era that will be written in blood. All we can do now… is pray that the blood won't be ours.'

***

In the boundless expanse of Cronica, there existed a city—forgotten by time, untouched by war, untainted by blood. A sanctuary removed from the sprawl of civilization. Hidden from the cruelty of men, veiled from the devastation of empires.

A city birthed in the earliest whispers of history, standing since the dawn of the First Epoch. Unfettered by the harsh march of eras. Untouched by the long, grueling centuries of steel, fire, and death.

Its name was Aquis Vanlur.

Not just a city, but a nation dwelling in the very depths of the Silver Sea, that coursed like a luminous vein across the lands of Alaris. It shimmered with life and secrecy, a cradle woven from starlit waters.

Aquis Vanlur—the home of the Merfolk.

A kind people, born of myth, shaped by water and song. They lived in harmony, far removed from the chaos above. Their lives flowed in rhythm with the sea, calm and serene.

But today… Today, celebration stirred the stillness.

A banquet was underway. The entire city pulsed with jubilant life. Lanterns drifted like glowing scales in the water, laughter echoed through coral halls, and silver trails of magic shimmered in the currents.

For they had achieved the impossible.

They had slain an Abomination of the Sky—a behemoth whose voice had once made the sky tremble.

And more than that… they had awakened their deity.

Their god—who now slumbered no more beneath still waters.

A being not of form, but of sea itself.

It had risen, cloaking the once-silver waters in a rich, reverent red.

A tide of awe. A sea dyed not in blood—but in divinity.

The Red Sea.

Their god was the sea itself. And now, it watched over them once more.