The ship held firm, but the sea was shifting.

Orn felt it—a disturbance beneath the waves, subtle yet deliberate. The ocean’s movement wasn’t natural; something below pressed upward, warping the currents in a way that had nothing to do with the wind. It was calculating and patient.

He adjusted his stance. The crew followed suit, gripping their weapons tightly as their eyes flicked between the water and him. They were waiting, knowing this wasn’t a fight they could rush into. The thing beneath them had studied their reactions and capabilities, and now it had decided to act on its own terms.

Alya pressed her fingers against the deck, channeling her power outward. “It’s not pulling us anymore,” she said. “It’s forming.”

Orn’s jaw tightened. A depth dweller taking a deliberate shape was a bad sign—it meant it had already chosen how to attack. Tark’s grip on his spear tightened. “And what are your orders?”

“Same plan,” Orn replied. “Force it to manifest. The moment it stabilizes, we strike.”

Ikar’s gaze remained fixed on the water. “It won’t make the same mistake twice.”

“It doesn’t need to,” Orn said. “We won’t give it a choice.”

The crew moved immediately, with no hesitation. They trusted him—after all, that was why they had survived this long. But Orn wasn’t thinking about trust; he was focused on what came next.

Chief Olav had taught him that there were two kinds of depth dwellers. The first were driven by instinct—hunters that attacked on sight, tearing apart anything entering their territory. They were dangerous, but predictable. The second kind was different. They were patient. They did not lunge or rush; instead, they spread their influence first, shaping the battlefield before striking. These were the ones that destroyed entire fleets, turning the Dead Sea into a place of legends and graves.

“Orn,” Chief Olav had warned, “if you ever find yourself in a fight where nothing is attacking you, assume you’ve already lost.” Orn never forgot that lesson.

Right now, the thing beneath them wasn’t attacking—it was waiting.

The first sign of danger wasn’t the typical stillness of a quiet night but the complete absence of sound. Orn’s body reacted before his mind caught up; his instincts screamed that something was horribly wrong. Then the water stopped moving. No, it wasn’t just the water immediately beneath and around them—the entire Dead Sea was still. The waves had frozen into glass-like reflections, trapping the shattered moonlight, and the restless ocean had become motionless.

Orn exhaled sharply. They still hadn’t prevented the entity from forming; they had only given it time to finish.

Alya’s breath caught. “Orn—”

Without warning, the sea collapsed inward. Instead of churning or crashing, it folded on itself, as if something enormous had clenched a fist beneath the surface. Then, it rose—a massive, jagged maw breached the water. It wasn’t a mouth in the traditional sense; it wasn’t meant for feeding. Instead, it was a void outlined by shifting, serrated edges, and it was aimed directly at them.

“Now!” Orn shouted.

Tark struck first, slamming his spear against the deck. Energy rippled outward, sending a shockwave through the water that disrupted the entity’s structure and forced it to react. Ikar followed, his severance cutting through the creature’s presence and disconnecting it from the ocean itself.

For a single moment, it was vulnerable, but it would regenerate in an instant. Orn didn’t hesitate. His blade slashed through the exposed mass, cutting deep; there was resistance—not just flesh, but something fundamental holding it together. Then it bled, and the water darkened as thick, oily streaks spread across the surface, the ocean reacting as though something had been fundamentally altered.

Orn stepped back, bracing for retaliation—but none came. The entity stopped. Its form, once shifting and unstable, froze in place before suddenly exploding without a sound, as if a titan had stepped on it. It died instantly.

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The sea returned to normal; the unnatural stillness vanished, replaced by the familiar movement of waves. Yet in the entity’s place, a perfect circle of untouched water remained, as though nothing had ever existed there. At its center, a shape began to rise—a form that was impossibly precise and perfectly symmetrical. A doorway emerged.

Orn’s grip on his weapon tightened as a figure stepped through. The man wore grey robes—a hue that shifted continuously, never settling on a single color. He studied Orn for a moment before offering a small, knowing smile. “I see,” he said calmly, as though he had expected this all along. “So this is where you were sent this time.”

Experience, training, and instinct—these were the three things that had kept Orn alive all these years, and right now they all told him the same thing: this was no ordinary man.

There was something uncanny about the way he moved. Not overtly—he wasn’t floating or defying physics—but space itself did not resist him. Every step on water should have produced ripples, yet as he advanced, the ocean remained undisturbed, a testament to absolute control.

Tark shifted beside him, gripping his spear tightly. His knuckles whitened as he spoke a single word: “Orn.”

Orn understood the unspoken command. His mind raced through the implications. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t facing something he had to kill—he was facing something that wanted to talk. His grip remained firm as he met the man’s gaze directly.

“And who,” Orn said evenly, “are you?”

The man simply smiled. And for the first time since the battle began, Orn knew he had lost.

The man paused before answering, then stepped forward with deliberate calm. His movements were smooth and measured, and his robes, ever-changing in hue, moved as if guided by an unseen force rather than the wind.

Orn remained alert, every fiber of his being tense as he prepared for what might come next. He had confronted foes that defied logic and form, yet this encounter felt different. This was not an intrusion—it was a presence that belonged here, making it far more dangerous.

Tilting his head slightly, the man regarded him with an unreadable expression. “You’re cautious,” he observed, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Good.”

Orn’s grip stayed firm. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

A faint smile appeared on the man’s lips. “Does it need to?”

Tark exhaled sharply. “You’re dodging the question.”

For the first time, the man turned his attention to Tark, studying him as one might examine a long-forgotten book. Tark met his gaze steadily, spear at the ready.

Alya narrowed her eyes, and broke the silence. “What are you?”

Without hesitation, he replied, “A traveler.”

Orn interjected, “That’s a title, not an explanation.”

And Orn was wary, as well. After all, who could travel alone in the Dead Sea? Even the Chief would have trouble doing such a feat.

The man’s eyes flicked back to Orn as he studied him intently. For a brief moment, Orn sensed an intangible presence—a pressure that wasn’t physical—before it faded away. The man sighed lightly. “You are… perceptive,” he said, his tone measured, as if confirming a long-held suspicion.

Orn remained silent. “And you’re still avoiding my question.”

The man smiled. “You expect answers too quickly. That impatience could get you killed.”

Alya’s fingers tightened on the railing. “If you meant to kill us, you would have already done it.”

“Correct,” he nodded. “That means I’m here for another reason.”

Orn kept his expression unreadable. “And what reason is that?”

The man turned his gaze outward, beyond the ship and the ocean, and after a pause said quietly, “How much do you know about the Dead Sea?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Orn’s mind sharpened; this wasn’t small talk but a test, and he didn’t appreciate being put on trial. Choosing his words carefully, he replied, “Enough.”

The man’s smile returned slightly. “Not enough.”

Alya frowned. “What are you implying?”

“In your battles, what you’ve been hunting isn’t the true threat,” he replied evenly.

Tark’s grip on his spear tightened. “What do you mean?”

Gesturing toward the still waters, the man continued, “Have you ever considered why the Depth Dwellers remain confined to the sea?”

It was a puzzling question. They had all wondered about it, yet no definitive answer had been found. Depth Dwellers were seen as creatures of the ocean—bound by nature, rarely venturing onto land. That was the accepted truth.

Orn frowned. “They can’t leave.”

The man exhaled softly, as if expecting that answer. “That is the lie you’ve told yourselves.”

Orn’s jaw tightened. “Then what is the truth?”

Fixing his gaze on Orn, the man replied with quiet certainty, “The Dead Sea is not a prison for them—it is your prison.”

Alya stiffened, Tark stepped forward slightly, and even Ikar’s focus intensified. Orn did not flinch. “Explain.”

After a long silence, the man turned to face the perfect circle of water where the disturbance had occurred. The doorway from which he had emerged remained open and unaltered by the world around it. Then he spoke clearly: “Your people call it the Dead Sea. You believe it to be cursed, that the creatures within are abominations, that nothing beyond its borders can be reached and nothing within can ever escape. For generations, you have accepted this as truth—you hunt within its boundaries, map its currents, and battle the beings that rise from its depths. Yet, you have never asked why.”

Orn’s chest heaved as he responded, “You talk too much.”

The man smiled calmly. “No, you listen too little.”

A heavy silence settled over them as his words sank in. Finally, he continued, “I did not come here to fight you. I came to see how far you’ve progressed.”

Orn narrowed his eyes. “And?”

The man turned to face him fully, his smile fading. “You are behind schedule.”