Although their hearts were filled with fiery battle spirit and determination, it had to be said that there was a very good reason why the people of Bilgewater deeply feared the Harrowing.
Normally, nightfall began gradually with the fading of dusk. But this time, almost the exact instant the time shifted to what people considered "night," the sunset-ignited sky on the horizon vanished completely without a trace.
The darkness was absolute, without a single sliver of starlight.
In the distance, over the murky sea, the black mist that had originally just been floating in sparse patches suddenly surged and churned. Like boiling ink, it swept toward them from the ocean's surface, carrying a bone-chilling cold and the foul stench of rot.
Wherever it passed, the wooden pillars of the stilt houses groaned and creaked. Ropes instantly became brittle and fragile, snapping apart at the slightest touch.
The roars echoing from the sea were no longer distant wails, but deafening bellows right next to their ears. It sounded exactly as if countless tormented souls had been crammed into a narrow space, thrashing wildly to break free from their confinement.
Sensing the enemy's approach, Sarah stared into the black mist and shouted sharply: "They're here! Prepare for battle!"
The moment Sarah's order fell, countless twisted, undead figures lunged out from the endless black mist over the distant sea.
Some dragged rusted ship anchors, their lower halves completely merged with the black mist. The next second, as they neared Bilgewater, their bodies became fully solid, their heavy iron chains dragging across the wooden boardwalks with ear-piercing screeches.
These were the victims who had died in the waters surrounding the Shadow Isles. After their deaths, their souls were corrupted by the Shadow Isles' power. Under the polluted power of the Life Rune, they became husks trapped between life and death, left with nothing but an insatiable craving for life essence.
Some were missing limbs, with intestines woven from black mist and rotting flesh hanging outside their bodies. Others wielded broken cutlasses, the blades coated in blackened blood. Eerie green ghost-fires danced in their empty eye sockets, glaring dead straight at the living on the docks—that ravenous, greedy lust for souls was enough to make anyone's scalp tingle with fear.
"Ah—!"
Before a young fisherman could react, a phantom violently tackled him to the ground. The phantom's razor-sharp nails easily tore through his flesh and skin as it opened its jaws and bit fiercely into his neck. Fresh blood instantly sprayed out, staining the wooden floorboards beneath him red.
The surrounding sailors roared and charged over, hacking their cutlasses at the phantom. But it only produced muffled thud sounds. The phantom didn't even turn its head; it just continued tearing frantically at the fisherman's body. The scene was so gruesome it was hard to even look at.
"Use fire and guns! They fear things that emit light!"
Sarah let out a low shout, firing both her pistols simultaneously. The silver bullets tore through the air, whistling as they shot directly into the phantom's eye sockets. The eerie green fire was instantly extinguished, and the phantom went stiff for a split second before crashing heavily to the ground, dissolving into a puddle of black mist.
But the Harrowing wouldn't stop just like that. In the very next second, even more undead surged forward, crashing like a tidal wave against the first line of defense—a barricade of logs set up along the coast of the port.
Heeding Sarah's reminder, the residents snapped back to their senses. They frantically pulled their triggers and hurled the burning pitch they had prepared well in advance.
Even if this pitch landed in the seawater, it would still float on the surface and burn for quite some time. In past Harrowings, the light and heat it produced had been proven countless times to deal highly effective damage to these undying spirits.
Participating in this kind of battle for the very first time, Lulu and Tristana were extremely nervous. However, before arriving, Faen had already provided them with the necessary "training."
He would even conduct post-battle "evaluations." If they didn't remember their training, the next time, they would be forced to watch helplessly as Faen fucked someone else. Or, the massive load that was supposed to be pumped deep into their flower rooms would be roughly blasted all over their faces and bodies, forcing them to watch in defeat as their precious life essence was eagerly swallowed up by the other girls while they were entirely forbidden from resisting.
Under these circumstances, the girls naturally learned how to maintain their lucidity amidst intense waves of carnal pleasure, allowing them to better control their bodies to completely cater to Faen—and, coincidentally, to study as well.
Just like right now. Once she realized the battle had begun, although her heart was filled with intense nervousness, Lulu still mustered her courage and yelled to the people in front of her: "Watch your backs!"
Accompanied by Lulu's youthful, childish voice, the magical light motes at her fingertips flew out and landed on several sailors. The phantom's ship anchor swung down toward them, but before it could even get close, the light motes transformed into glowing shields, blocking the attack with a heavy, muffled thud.
Tristana wasn't slacking off either. Gripping the hand-cannon that Faen had personally enhanced for her, she aimed toward the thickest cluster of undead and rapidly pulled the trigger.
Flashes of fire tore through the black mist. The moment the explosive shells struck, they burst into a massive eruption of flames, scattering light and heat in all directions. Feeling the scorching heat and blinding light, the phantoms shrieked in agony, blasted to pieces under the terrifying force of the explosion.
But the undead that followed weren't deterred by this in the slightest. Driven purely by their instinctual cravings, they continued to relentlessly surge toward the living.
Faen didn't make a move, because this battle was meant to establish Sarah's absolute authority, and it was also a crucial step in building the future spirit of Bilgewater.
Rather than directly joining the slaughter of these small fry, Faen's true focus was locked entirely on the thick fog further back, the part that had yet to reach Bilgewater.
Soon, the muffled, rolling sound of galloping hooves—sounding exactly like rolling thunder—echoed from deep within the black mist:
THUD! THUD! THUD!
This sound was far louder than the chaotic noise of the ordinary undead. It carried a rhythm that struck absolute terror into the soul; every single hoofbeat made the sea churn and the port's wooden boards violently tremble. It wasn't just the people of Bilgewater; even the undead that had been frantically charging the defensive lines seemed to sense some sort of calling. They parted to both sides, instinctual fear appearing on their mindless faces, making way for a clear path right through the middle of the black mist.
"What in the world is that..."
A sailor's voice trembled uncontrollably, the hand gripping his cutlass shaking wildly.
Everyone's eyes were locked dead onto the depths of the black mist. They watched as a massive, towering figure—one that seemingly blocked out the sky itself—slowly emerged from the ink-black fog. It was a silver warhorse entirely wreathed in eerie green ghost-fire... No, more accurately, the horse's neck and head were replaced by the upper body of a knight clad in heavy iron armor.
"Hecarim! It's Hecarim!" An old, reformed pirate yelled in absolute terror: "It's Hecarim of the Iron Order! During the last Harrowing, he slaughtered seven entire ships and completely wiped out seven pirate crews!"
Galloping out from within the black mist, Hecarim let out a twisted, low roar. The giant halberd in his hand gleamed with a freezing, bone-chilling light. The ghost-fire dancing in his eye sockets burned fiercer than any ordinary phantom's, radiating an aura of apocalyptic madness.
"REAP THEIR SOULS!!!"