The salt collecting ship is docked with a little distance from the shore, avoiding getting stranded.
The shallow water just covering their calves is crystal clear, revealing the meandering white quicksand beneath, with foamy emerald tides gently moving. The glaring sunlight reflects off the lake's surface like a kaleidoscope, casting shimmering patches of light on everyone, turning the waves into a murderous intent in the silence.
Magnus is surrounded in a fan shape by Heavy Priests and Time Swords, trapping him in the shallows, one hand holding an Aran Standard Military Saber, the other a broken knife, the extreme sharpness of the cold glint slicing through every whisper of the wind, as if they were Death God's cold laughter.
A few priests lie slumped on the shore, their plate armors sliced open, their bulky chest plates removed, exposing monstrous purple-black veins and rough skin covered in brownish-red lumps.
