The shrieking grew louder, more desperate, an echoing chorus of broken voices and fragmented minds surging toward the Lorebreakers. Bodies twisted by oceanic decay and dark magic lurched forward, closing in like an incoming tide of death.
Their motions, sluggish at first, sharpened as the creature beneath Neramor's Shell tightened its grasp.
Arthur moved immediately, diving into the front lines, the weight of his dense muscles making every step heavy, crushing.
He crashed through the first rank, slamming bodies aside with brute strength. His fists alone broke bone and dented ancient armor. Yet the horde pressed relentlessly closer, unfazed by pain, driven by a singular will.
Melite fought beside him, lighter on her feet, weaving smoothly through the chaos. Her skin, now ebony-dark, shimmered softly under the runic glow. Each slash of her blade was clean, controlled, aiming for beastcores hidden within corrupted flesh, shattering them with precise strikes.
Three down.
