The title of the figure he saw a glimpse of stuck out to him as he looked straight at the bearded nomad, getting interested now.
"Strongest adventurer? Why did I see him in my vision?"
"There's only one reason: he's a reincarnator like us," Bastian told him, "I'd venture to guess since the Oracle showed you that, you're meant to go find him soon. If not, I imagine the Children of Chaos are going to try their hand at him."
"I see…"
"Well, it can wait until you've had some rest," Bastian said, "You need it."
"Yeah, you're probably right," he nodded.
Returning to his designated room in the oddly quiet undersea temple, he laid in the bed, finding it to be somewhat comfortable, though nothing in comparison to his bed at home.
'I just want to see them again. I knew that time of peace wouldn't last forever, but…to be ripped out of it that way–I have to get back to my family. Still, even I know that it means nothing if the Children of Chaos simply come back and a repeat of what happened comes. I can't allow that,' he thought.
Sleeping off the weirdness of the day he faced, he surprisingly didn't experience any dreams nor disturbances in his sleep. As he woke up, he was greeted by the sounds of the bellowing ocean around the temple; the reverberations of the vast, seemingly boundless depths of aqua.
"Greetings, revered otherworlder."
–The words that suddenly met his ears made him spun his gaze around towards the bedside, almost jumping at the sight of the unknown figure:
Who stood there, or perhaps what stood there, was a short, hammer-headed shark-humanoid dressed in black-and-white, butler attire.
"Err…Hi?" Emilio responded.
"Forgive me for the intrusion–I was made aware by your companion that you would be famished upon your awakening," the hammer-headed butler said, "I am Consurge, the dutiful servant of the Atlan royal keep. I am here to ease your time here."
Emilio slipped out of bed, fixing his hair with a quick-and-light usage of wind magic to get rid of his messy bedhead. It was a juvenile usage of magic, though to him, magic embodied convenience.
As he looked down at the short, gray-and-white skinned Atlantean, he was confused about one thing, speaking it out, "Hey, you called me an otherworlder, didn't you?"
"Why, yes, I did."
"You know I came here from a different world?" He asked.
Consurge nodded, "Of course! Atlan's alliance with the otherworlders is very important. You're all considered valued heroes here, Mr. Dragonheart."
"Alright," Emilio said, still somewhat thrown off before he threw his green cloak around his shoulders.
Following the hammer-headed, polite butler, he went on his way to find the dining hall, undoubtedly feeling that his stomach was empty. As he walked behind the short-and-stout, shark butler, he found himself once more enamored with the layout of the isolated temple.
It was a certain truth that the Atlan temple's halls were extravagant, in their own way; the way that they used the oceanic, cerulean marble was certainly unique from any architecture he'd seen, especially with the curvy walls.
"Who built this place?" He asked.
Each step he and the butler took echoed throughout the cerulean halls, bouncing off and transmitting like the low calls of a whale.
Consurge responded, keeping his hands held behind his back in an orderly fashion, "My, that is a good question."
"You don't know?" Emilio asked, surprised.
"Hmm…How should I say this? There are many names given to the one said to have constructed this temple, though nothing is known about this figure–not anymore," Consurge told him, "The Cerulean Keep is an impervious domain; through hellfire and lightning, it will remain unscathed. If the world should fall, it would likely remain intact."
"...I see," he said with a slight exhale, feeling as though he was merely listening to the patriotic words of the butler, "The way you're talking–it makes it sound like it was only a single person that built this place. I mean, this temple is enormous…that sort of seems impossible."
"I understand your doubts, however, if there is one truth in the process of the Cerulean Temple's construction, it was that it was the work of one figure. It was a great gift. It's a shame that the true identity of the builder has gone washed away by the tides of time. It's because of him that Atlan survived that d–ah, excuse me. We're here–right this way," Consurge suddenly stopped.
Breaking from his own words, the short-in-stature butler turned and opened the double doors on the left of the corridor, revealing the dining room beyond.
"Fancy," he muttered under his breath.
What immediately caught his gaze was the sparkling chandelier that was suspended above the dining table; made out of translucent, light-blue glass of some sort that made any light that passed through it somewhat twinkle.
"Please, take a seat, Mr. Dragonheart," the shark butler gestured for him.
"Sure."
As he brought himself to the empty table in the lonesome, but extravagant room, he sat at a chair directly in the middle. The table itself seemed to be made out of a dark-brown, almost black wood that was finely carved and smoothened over.
Around the dining hall were plant vases, containing colorful coral or swaying seagrass; paintings hung on the walls, large and expansive as they covered the huge walls, containing scenic depictions of the deep sea.
"So…what's for breakfast?" He asked.
"Breakfast? Ah, you mean Crumpel–the chef will bring out your dish shortly," Consurge assured him before bowing, seeing himself out of the dining hall.
As he sat there, he looked around at the room, gazing towards the paintings before checking out the utensils atop the illustrious table. There was a napkin, with a light-blue, curvy fork and knife.
'Weird. He called it "Crumpel"--is that the Atlan equivalent of breakfast?' He thought.
There was still an odd feeling he got while sitting there; perhaps it was the unique sensation of existing far beneath the surface of the ocean, surrounding him with a sensation of being completely trapped. It was the truth, when he thought about it: he couldn't actually leave the Atlan temple on his own.
'If I want to leave, I'd need Bastian to make a gateway again. Would he do it if I asked? I'd like to believe so, but I don't exactly know him that well. If I tried leaving on my own, well…either I can manipulate the water enough to rise to the surface, or I'll end up crushed by the pressure. That, or those leviathans will hunt me. Not a fan of any of that,' he thought.
After a few minutes, the doors to what he could presume was the kitchen opened, and with it, an Atlan walked out with a silver platter hoisted. It was a creature he recognized: an eight-legged octopus with dark-red skin, only this time, it was wearing a white chef apron and hat.
"...Err, hello," he greeted.
The slimy steps filled the dining hall as the eight-legged chef approached the table before using its many limbs to hold the platter, moving it to the table and removing the cover.
"Greetings, Mr. Dragonheart," the octopus said to him with an elegant, silvery voice, "What I have for you today is a fried krompali with veran sauce, accompanied by deep-sweet leaves. An early day, nourishing meal."
The amethyst-eyed man didn't understand a word of what was said to him in describing the meal he was looking at; there was a green-shelled, fried entree on his plate, with a creamy, white sauce and dark-blue leaves encircling the meal.
"Err, looks good?" He said, hesitant as he didn't even know the first thing about judging Atlan cuisine.
At the very least, the smell was familiar to him; that enticing scent of chicken somehow resonated from the shelled entree. As he picked at the dish with his fork, trying to make sure it wasn't dangerous to eat, he could feel the chef looming over him as if waiting for his reaction to the dish.
'What does he expect? This stuff is completely alien from the food I'm used to–seriously, I'm not trying to end up with a stomach bug,' he thought.
Feeling the gaze of the octopus chef watching him closely, he opted not to appear rude as he gulped, using the fork to lift some of the meat within the green shell up to his lips.
'It doesn't smell bad, I suppose. What was that saying again? "The uglier it looks, the better it tastes"--let's see if that logic holds up,' he thought.
Bringing the fork past his lips, he allowed the cream-lathered, mysterious meat to fall into his mouth as he prepared himself for the worst.
As he chewed it for a few seconds, hesitant and cautious, he finally swallowed it, with the eight-legged chef leaning in close, rubbing his tentacle limbs together with anticipation of the man's thoughts.
"It's…good?" Emilio said, surprised at his own discovery, "Really, this is actually delicious."
"Oh-ho! A fine palette you have, Mr. Dragonheart!" the eight-limbed chef said in delight.
After receiving compliments to his dish, the octopus chef finally left after constantly looming over the man. It wasn't like he was lying just to satisfy the cuisine expert, though–it truly was a tasty dish.
'This sauce sort of reminds me of alfredo. Weird…I mean, what even is any of this stuff? I want to look around some more around this place,' he thought.
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