The sea was never still along Limsa Lominsa's coast. Waves thundered against the stone piers, their spray painting the air with salt. Gulls wheeled and cried overhead, and the voices of sailors drifted like rough music on the wind. To most, this city was a place of coin and taverns, of daring captains and endless drink. For Reks, it had become something else entirely—a crucible.
The Marauder's Guild had taken him in, their training relentless, their expectations high. They taught him to swing the axe until his shoulders burned, to cleave through shields and stone alike. But Reks found himself always reaching for the shield when no one was looking. To cleave was to kill. To shield was to endure. His instincts had always leaned toward holding the line, even when the world broke around him.
He could not forget the trial. Five portals collapsing into one, a nightmare born of all their trials stitched together in fire and fury. He remembered Zack's laughter ringing in defiance, Aerith's light flowing like water, Galuf's fists cracking against impossible hide, Noctis soaring with fire trailing his spear. And himself—anchoring, bracing, holding. For the first time since his death in Ivalice, he had been more than a forgotten soldier bleeding out on stone. He had been necessary.
The guildmasters had scattered them, decreeing solo paths. Reks had not complained. Solitude was familiar. He had always been a shadow in larger stories, a brother left behind, a soldier buried in footnotes. Perhaps here, at last, he could carve something of his own.
Wyrnzoen had called him into the guildhall that morning, eyes sharp as cut steel. "The Sahagin grow bold," he had said. "Scouts report a raid at dawn. Take your axe. Take your shield. Stand with the villagers. Show them a Marauder's strength—but more than that, show them a Warrior's heart."
The words had struck deep. Warrior. Not mercenary. Not fodder. Warrior.
So Reks had gone.
The village lay where the sea met the sand, its huts patched with driftwood and nets, its people weary-eyed from years of raids. Children clung to their mothers, staring wide-eyed at the young man who strode past with axe and shield. He was not tall like Zack, not fiery like Galuf, not regal like Noctis. He did not shine like Aerith. But when he planted his boots in the sand and set his shoulders, something in his bearing steadied them.
At dawn, the sea broke. Dozens of scaled forms surged from the surf, Sahagin bellowing as tridents caught the light. Panic raced through the village like fire. Guards faltered, villagers scattered. Reks lifted his shield and roared over the chaos.
"Form a line!" His voice cut sharp, commanding, carrying further than he thought possible. "Archers in the back! Spears to my flanks! Don't break—whatever happens, hold!"
For a heartbeat, they froze, staring. Then, desperate for someone to follow, they obeyed. Spears leveled. Bows trembled into place.
Reks strode to the front, planting himself like stone. The first Sahagin crashed into him, trident hammering his shield. The impact rattled his arm to the bone, but he twisted, driving his axe into its ribs. Another lunged. He shoved it back, shield braced, axe arcing in a brutal sweep.
The line wavered but did not fall. Villagers fought with clumsy courage, arrows loosed too high, spears thrust too late, but together they held. And Reks was everywhere. He caught a trident meant for a fisherman. He shoved a Sahagin back before it reached the huts. He barked orders at a boy whose hands shook so badly he nearly dropped his spear.
"Stand tall!" Reks shouted, sweat stinging his eyes. "You are not prey—you are defenders!"
The tide surged harder. More Sahagin poured from the surf, their leader looming above them, armored in coral scales, wielding a barbed spear that shimmered with cruel enchantments. The creature roared, charging straight into the line, scattering defenders like driftwood.
Only Reks held.
The clash rattled his bones. The leader's spear slammed into his shield again and again, each strike driving him back through the sand. His arm screamed with pain, every muscle begging to give way. But he set his jaw, dug his boots into the earth, and shoved back. The memory of Ivalice, of lying broken in betrayal, burned behind his eyes. Not again. Never again.
With a cry, he swung his axe in a brutal arc, the blade cleaving across the Sahagin's chest. The monster reeled, blood spraying, but did not fall. Snarling, Reks surged forward, slamming his shield into the creature's jaw with enough force to crack bone. It toppled to the sand, and with one final roar, Reks buried his axe deep.
Silence broke across the shore. The surviving Sahagin fled into the waves, leaving only the crash of surf and the ragged breathing of defenders. For a long moment, no one moved. Then a single cheer rang out, joined by another, and soon the village erupted. Children ran to him, tugging at his arms, calling him hero. Guards clapped him on the back, their fear washed away by triumph.
Reks lowered his axe, chest heaving, shield heavy at his side. He had not thought himself a hero since before Ivalice—since before betrayal, since before the blood that had stained his name. Yet here, on this lonely coast, he had stood, and others had lived because of it.
The village elder, bent with age and salt, approached. His hand, weathered by years of nets and storms, settled on Reks's arm. "We'll remember you, lad. Whatever your name, you are our shield."
Reks swallowed hard, emotion knotting his throat. For years he had been a ghost, forgotten by history, dismissed as a casualty. Now he had a name worth speaking again.
"Reks," he said softly. "Just Reks."
That night, he sat on a cliff above the sea, axe and shield laid beside him. The waves crashed gently below, their rhythm steady as a heartbeat. Above stretched endless stars, the same sky he had once thought he would never see again.
For the first time in years, he felt no weight of failure. No shadow of betrayal. Only the quiet strength of endurance, the knowledge that he had stood and others had lived because of it.
He looked out across the horizon, glowing faintly with moonlight, and whispered, "Warrior. Maybe… maybe that fits after all."
The waves gave no answer, only their endless rhythm, like a promise that tomorrow would come. And for Reks, that was enough.