"Sir! The hunters have arrived."

Emergent Lang looked at the scout and nodded. He then turned around and shouted at the group.

"Prepare for departure, we leave in five minutes."

Emergent Lang's voice echoed on the desolate shore.

His cohort started to pack their things.

Their shift for the day was done.

The sun was setting, at last.

They had been guarding this area of the Cursed Shores for around an hour now. Their goal was to clear out any abominations that came out of the Dead Sea.

Of course the Hunters who were coming here were more than enough to deal with anything that can come to the shore.

But that's only because what came to the shore was the weakest.

They were simply too weak to hunt for food in the Dead Sea. Especially at daylight.

But Emergent Lang and his cohort's purpose was to give them a clean and fast departure so they don't waste energy before the hunt.

They will surely need it all.

After a few minutes of routine packing, the Hunters arrived.

"How are you doing, Lang?"

"I'm doing great. As greast as anyone can be on this shore, that is."

"Haha! Your answer never changes, cheer up my friend."

"Yeah, you always say that Orn."

Orn frowned, but he didn't show it.

"Any problems?"

"Nope. A few Void Beings came out but they obviously posed no threat."

"Ah, I see. That's good then."

"It surely is. When will you depart?"

"Eh, we have to do some extra preparations this time, so in around ten minutes or so."

"Okay then. We will be going now, stay safe."

After he said that, Emergent Lang then looked at his cohort that had just finished packing up and then gestured to them for departure.

Orn looked at their backs, or to be more specific, he looked at Lang's back.

'Ah, what a stubborn fellow.'

He then turned his gaze to one of the Awakened Hunters under him and said:

"Transfer the boat, and order the others to raise the masts in five minutes while we prepare."

"Yes sir! But shouldn't we wait just a little more for the Sun to fully set?"

"Yes, and no. Since this is your first day you may not know, but the reflections are merciful when the Sun is setting. It will be fine."

"I will summon it right away, then."

After that, the Awakend went to the shore and closed his eyes.

Even after what he just heard, he could never open his eyes infront of a reflection.

Yes, his eyes were protected by the Awakened film around his body, but one couldn't be too sure.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Next, he focused on a port far away, and started paying attention to the tether on the boat.

The Awakened stood at the edge of the shore, his breath slow and steady, his eyes closed to the pale, shifting reflections on the water. His ability hummed beneath his skin, a quiet and familiar force. The tether he sought was faint but firm—a thread of connection between him and the distant ship.

His fingers twitched as he reached for it, the sensation rippling through his nerves like plucking an invisible string.

The ship was miles away, docked at a secured port where the land was still stable. But distance meant nothing to him.

He pulled.

A subtle shift in the air followed, a brief moment of stillness as the world itself acknowledged his intent. Then, with a sound like rushing wind, space twisted. The tether surged taut, and in an instant, the ship was no longer at the distant port.

It was here.

A massive wooden vessel—its hull dark with age and brine—appeared with a violent whoosh just off the shore. The water displaced by its arrival crashed against the land, sending white foam spraying over the rocks. The masts groaned under their own weight before settling into place, the sails flapping restlessly as they adjusted to the sudden change in location.

The Awakened exhaled sharply, his knees nearly buckling from the sheer force of the transfer. He clenched his jaw and steadied himself, feeling the lingering echoes of energy rippling through his veins.

Orn watched the process without a word, his expression unreadable. The ship had arrived intact—no fractures, no anomalies.

It was a good omen.

He turned to the others. "Raise the masts. Prepare for departure."

The Hunters moved in unison, their motions practiced and precise. Ropes were pulled, sails unfurled, and the ship groaned as it prepared to leave the cursed shore behind.

Orn stepped onto the deck, the wooden planks creaking beneath his weight. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of salt and damp wood. The evening air was cold, but not yet cruel.

The Dead Sea stretched out before them, dark and endless.

Despite its name, the Dead Sea was not lifeless. Not at night.

By the time the ship had fully left the shore, the last light of the sun had faded beyond the horizon, and the water had begun to stir. The moon's pale glow illuminated the surface, and with it, the sea awakened.

Beneath the still waters, shadows moved. Sleek fish, strange crustaceans, and creatures with bioluminescent scales drifted just beneath the surface. The water reflected the night sky with a pristine clarity, making it seem as though they sailed upon the stars themselves.

The Hunters moved about the deck, their eyes keen, their hands gripping their weapons with quiet readiness.

They were not here for ordinary prey.

The creatures of the night were valuable—some for their meat, others for their hides or venom. But the true danger, the true hunt, was reserved for what lurked beneath the surface in the daylight.

For the Dead Sea was not the same when the sun rose.

At dawn, the water would change. The dark, rippling waves would turn to liquid silver, reflecting the sky with unnatural clarity. In that light, the reflections became something else entirely.

They became inhabited.

No one knew what dwelled within those reflections. They did not move as creatures did, nor did they swim. They merely existed, locked within the perfect mirror of the sea.

And so, as law dictated, no one looked at them.

There were stories, of course. Of fools who had dared to meet the gaze of something in the water. Some had gone mad, others had disappeared entirely, leaving only their empty clothes behind. Some had spoken of voices calling from the silver depths, whispers that begged to be heard.

The Hunters did not listen to such whispers.

This was why they hunted at night.

The ship moved steadily through the dark waters, its sails full of the quiet wind. The Hunters stood at the ready, watching the waves with practiced focus. Some leaned against the railing, spears in hand, eyes scanning for movement beneath the surface. Others sharpened their blades, murmuring quiet prayers to no gods in particular.

Orn stood near the helm, his stance firm, his gaze locked on the horizon.

The hunt had been fruitful—a few large fish caught, their scales shimmering under the moonlight, their bodies stored carefully below deck. The night was calm, the Dead Sea silent except for the occasional splash beneath the waves.

Hours passed. The air remained cool, the sky vast and undisturbed.

Then something changed.

Orn felt it before he saw it—a subtle wrongness in the world, like a shift in the weight of the air. It was as if something had moved without moving, as if a ripple had spread through reality itself.

He blinked. His fingers curled around the worn wood of the railing.

The unease gnawed at him, deep and insistent.

His eyes drifted downward.

He hadn't meant to look.

He hadn't wanted to look.

But something had pulled at his mind, an intrusive presence curling around his thoughts like unseen fingers, dragging his attention toward the water below.

The reflection of the moon stared back at him.

Orn's breath caught.

A jagged line ran through its surface, a fracture spreading outward like the veins of a dying leaf. It trembled, splintering further, as if the sky itself had cracked in two.

His stomach twisted. His pulse pounded against his ribs.

He had seen it.

His throat went dry, his body rigid.

The air around him had gone still. The wind no longer stirred the sails. The usual creak of the ship's wood had vanished. The sea itself seemed to be holding its breath.

A chill spread down his spine, deeper than fear—colder than instinct.

Orn clenched his jaw, forced his hands to remain steady.

He tore his gaze away.

Too late.

Something had seen him too.