The black tide surged up to Leon's chest in an instant, its current pulling like a living thing.
Every drop of it was heavy with memory—soldiers' last breaths, their rage, their despair—all pressing against his skin, trying to sink him.
Kaelith strode easily across the surface, each step parting the water like a commander walking through his own army.
"War is not won by those who fight against the tide. It is won by those who command it."
Leon clenched his jaw. His Shell Pulse still beat steady under the crushing weight, but every echo was muffled, distorted by the voices in the tide.
If I try to brute-force this, I'll drown in seconds.
The spectral soldiers in the water began lunging upward—arms of steel and bone breaking the surface, grasping for his legs.
Leon's eyes narrowed. "You want me to fight your army in your rhythm? …Not happening."
He let his breathing slow.
