Luckily for me, the heroes had heard my scream. They rushed to the stern without delay. As for the unfortunate sea monster—well, it had chosen the wrong ship to mess with. Of all the vessels in the world, it had to climb aboard the Argo, home to fifty of the most legendary heroes in Greek mythology.
The scene was gruesome.
The poor creature was mercilessly pummeled by every hero on board. It didn't even have a chance to fight back. In a matter of seconds, it was dead, obliterated by the overwhelming power of mythological teamwork.
And once the monster was dealt with, the heroes returned to their feasting as if nothing had happened. No one bothered to ask what I had been doing or if I was okay.
Well, almost no one.
Atalanta gave me a single-word review of my efforts:
"Idiot."
The fishing operation was a complete failure. I lost both the net and the fish along with the monster. What we gained instead was a gaping hole in the ship's hull from its razor-sharp claws. Now I had to find wood and nails to patch the damage before more water seeped in.
Looking back at the grotesque creature I had unintentionally hauled aboard, I couldn't help but wonder if it had once been someone—a beautiful woman perhaps—cursed into monstrosity. In Greek mythology, beauty is often a curse. One moment you're admired by all, and the next, a jealous god or goddess decides you're too lovely for your own good and turns you into a beast. The gods are disturbingly consistent in their pettiness.
In fact, I might go so far as to say that the sea has become a sanctuary for cursed former beauties.
So yes, I gave up on fishing.
The mysterious sea we drifted in was clearly a guarded territory of monsters. Casting nets in their domain was enough to enrage them, and every attempt at fishing brought a new leak in the ship. Our supply of patching wood was running out, and one more attack might mean the Argo sinks before we even reach Colchis.
The plan to survive by catching fish? Cancelled.
My last hope rested in one man: Tiphys.
Thankfully, the Argo was not without resourceful minds. Tiphys was a master navigator, and if anyone could find a way out of our aimless drifting, it was him.
Tiphys was a thin, wiry man. Muscles weren't his strong suit—his brain was. His genius lay in calculations and spatial reasoning. He spent his days scribbling across animal-hide parchments that cluttered the deck, covered in dizzying numbers and strange diagrams. His complexion was pale and weary, his eyes sunken and dark like he'd rubbed charcoal beneath them. The top of his head had a bald patch—likely from stress. His remaining hair was white, nearly devoid of its original color.
I had to admit, Tiphys hadn't had it easy. He'd tried every method to find our bearings—wind currents, whirlpools, whatever he could think of. But nothing worked. Direction was elusive, ever-changing, and the sea had kept us lost for nearly a month.
Still, talent always finds a way.
Tiphys, fated by the Moirai to be the greatest navigator in Greek mythology, finally cracked the code. I had no idea how. All I knew was that it cost him a few more strands of precious hair.
I wasn't about to complain.
Because now—finally—we were nearing the Hellespont.
That meant land was close. Salvation was within sight.