Several days passed without incident.

That alone felt wrong.

The sea remained calm, but not in the comforting way sailors prayed for. . It simply existed—flat, gray, and watchful. Waves rolled beneath the ship with mechanical regularity, as if the water had settled into a pattern and refused to deviate from it.

The crew adjusted accordingly.

Watches grew longer. Sleep came in shallow fragments, broken by instinct rather than sound. No one complained openly, but conversations shifted. Fewer jokes. Fewer glances over the railing. When sailors spoke of the sea now, they did so indirectly, as if naming it too clearly might draw its attention back.

Noel felt the change as well.

He stood alone near the bow, cloak pulled tight against the cold wind, eyes fixed on the endless stretch ahead. Noir lingered close, her shadow pooling at his feet even when she wasn't fully visible. She hadn't wandered far in days. Neither had he.

There was no combat to focus on. No immediate threat to react to. Just time—slow, grinding, inescapable.

Noel closed his eyes for a moment, checking himself the way he'd learned to do when adrenaline wasn't there to drown everything else out. His body felt fine. No lingering injuries. Mana flow stable, if heavier than usual. His mind, though… alert in a way that never fully powered down.

Too many days of listening to the sea breathe.

He opened his eyes and spoke quietly, barely more than a breath.

"Status."

The system answered without ceremony.

[Mission Status]

[Remaining Time: 102 Days.]

Noel exhaled slowly.

"We burned more time getting here than I expected," he thought, gaze fixed on the dark horizon. The journey itself had taken a toll—detours, caution, survival. Necessary, but costly all the same.

Another line surfaced.

[Current Core Progress: 90.44% — Mana Core: Ascendant]

The number sat there, stark and undeniable.

Noel didn't feel pride looking at it. Just weight.

Every percentage gained meant enemies that hit harder, pressures that pushed deeper, situations that didn't allow mistakes anymore. Growth, yes—but never freely given.

Beside him, Noir shifted slightly, ears angling toward the horizon as if she felt it too.

'You grow faster when things try to kill you,' she remarked calmly.

Noel huffed under his breath. "That's not encouragement."

'It's observation.'

He didn't argue.

For a while, they stood in silence again. The ship cut forward through water that reflected nothing clearly, lantern light stretching and breaking with each slow swell.

Then Noel noticed it.

At first, it looked like a trick of the mist—a faint interruption where the sea should have been uninterrupted. A shadow that didn't move with the waves.

He narrowed his eyes.

It stayed.

Low. Distant. Indistinct.

But unmistakable.

Land.

The light never fully broke.

Morning came in layers of gray, the sun a pale smear behind cloud and mist as the ship continued north. The sea had lost its glassy stillness, replaced by slow, deliberate swells that rolled beneath the hull with quiet intent.

Noel stepped onto the deck just as the lookout lowered his spyglass.

"There," someone said quietly.

No one rushed forward.

Ahead of them, the horizon had changed.

What had been a single, distant interruption the night before had resolved into shape—many shapes, in fact. The Northern Isles did not rise as one landmass but as a fractured spread of silhouettes scattered across the water. Some were tall and jagged, their peaks cutting into the low clouds. Others lay flatter, darker, almost swallowed by mist. Fog clung to several like a living thing, while patches of broken light revealed glimpses of green, stone, or something in between.

Even from this distance, they didn't match.

Different heights. Different contours. Different atmospheres.

Different rules.

The deck filled quietly as the others emerged, drawn by instinct more than announcement. Marcus leaned on the railing, squinting as if expecting the islands to blink first. Garron stood with arms crossed, weight planted solidly, eyes never leaving the water between them and land. Laziel hovered near the mast, unusually quiet.

Selene said nothing at first.

Her gaze moved from one silhouette to the next, not lingering, not reacting, but cataloguing. Noel noticed the slight tightening of her jaw.

"Those aren't random," she said finally. "The spacing. The way the fog settles. That cluster to the east—that's not natural drift."

Elyra didn't respond, but Noel could feel her mana brushing outward in careful threads, already testing the air, already measuring what the islands weren't saying yet.

Noel was about to speak when the world shifted.

A familiar presence surfaced at the edge of his awareness—precise, clinical, unwelcome in its timing.

[New Objective Detected]

Survive and defeat the local apex threat.

Reward: ???

Noel stopped breathing for half a second.

Not because of fear.

Because of timing.

The system had always hidden rewards. That part wasn't unusual. It had done so from the very beginning.

What was unusual was this.

A new objective appearing now.

Right as land came into view.

Right as the journey's first true phase should have ended.

Noir reacted immediately, shadow tightening subtly around his boots.

'That wasn't there a moment ago.'

"I know," Noel replied quietly.

His gaze never left the islands.

The timing bothered him—not because the mission was dangerous, but because the system rarely interrupted transitions. It usually waited until a line was crossed.

And they hadn't crossed it yet.

'So it's not the islands,' Noir said after a beat. 'It's what comes before them.'

That fit too well.

The creatures in open water.

The test.

The retreat instead of annihilation.

Noel exhaled slowly as the sea beneath them shifted again—not violently, not aggressively—but with a subtle tension, currents tightening like muscles preparing to move.

"They're not letting us land cleanly," he murmured.

Noir's ears flicked once. 'Looks like it dad...'

The moment Noel turned from the railing and started moving with purpose, the people who mattered noticed. It wasn't authority in volume—it was authority in direction. He crossed the deck toward Elyra first, Noir pacing at his side like a living shadow, ears angled toward the sea even as her eyes tracked him.

"Elyra," Noel said quietly. "We're about to be hit again."

She didn't ask how he knew.

Instead, she closed the sigil she had been maintaining and straightened fully, her expression sharpening as if she'd been waiting for permission to act. "Timing?"

"Soon," Noel replied. "Before we reach shore."

That was enough.

Elyra turned immediately, mana already flowing as she expanded her network of sigils across the deck. The faint lines etched into the planks brightened, spreading outward in layered formations—stabilization first, then reinforcement, then contingency.

"Non-essential crew below deck," she called out, voice calm and precise. "Combat-capable personnel to assigned sectors. Assume mental interference."

That last part made heads turn.

Charlotte looked up from where she had been checking a sailor's bandage, reading Noel's face in an instant. She didn't smile this time—but she nodded once and rose, already gathering light into her palms.

"I'll be ready," she said softly.

Noel hesitated for half a heartbeat. "Don't push yourself unless you have to."

She met his eyes. "I won't," she replied, gently but firmly. "You have my word."

Elena was already moving along the starboard side, roots unfurling beneath her boots and sinking into the ship's structure. They didn't crack the planks—they threaded through them, reinforcing stress points, bracing rails, thickening the hull where it mattered most.

"The ship will hold," Elena said without looking back. "But only if we don't let them swarm."

"We won't," Noel answered.

Marcus joined them near mid-deck, rolling his shoulders once as azure sparks danced faintly around his hands. "So," he said, glancing at the sea, "same theme as before, or worse?"

"Smarter," Noel replied. "They know what didn't work."

Garron cracked his knuckles nearby. "Good," he muttered. "I was worried they'd get predictable."

Selene arrived last, frost already creeping along her forearms as she surveyed the horizon. "The pressure's wrong," she said. "The sea's bracing itself."

Noel nodded. "Which means we don't wait for the first strike."

He turned, projecting just enough for the crew to hear.

"Listen up," he said evenly. "We're not landing yet. Whatever's coming wants us tired, scattered, or rushed. We don't give it any of that. Formation holds. Orders come from the helm and from me—no exceptions."

The crew moved.

As Noel returned to the railing, the water ahead darkened.

Gustave's boots sounded on the deck before Noel even turned.

The captain stepped up beside him, coat snapping softly in the tightening wind, one hand already resting on the wheel as if it belonged there more than anywhere else. His eyes swept the darkening water ahead, calm and appraising, the look of a man judging weather rather than monsters.

Noel spoke without preamble.

"Captain," he said, voice low but clear. "Do you think you can keep us moving—safely—until we reach the islands, even if this turns into a running fight?"

Gustave didn't answer immediately.

The sea ahead rippled again, subtle but deliberate. Currents pulled at odd angles. Lantern reflections stretched too long, then snapped short. The kind of water that lied about its intentions.

Then the old sailor chuckled.

A quiet, gravelly sound, more amused than arrogant.

"Son," Gustave said, finally turning his head just enough to look at Noel, "I've sailed through storms that tried to eat my thoughts and waters that remembered my name long after I left them behind." His grip tightened on the wheel, veins standing out beneath weathered skin. "If something wants to chase us all the way to land, then it'll be doing so on my terms."

Noel watched him for a beat, then nodded once.

"Good," he said. "Because we're not letting it set the pace."

Gustave's smile sharpened. "That's the spirit."

He turned fully back to the helm, voice carrying without ever rising.

"Helm steady. Sails trimmed. We don't slow, and we don't drift. Whatever comes at us does so while we're moving."

The ship responded as if it understood.

Ropes tightened. The hull cut forward, pushing into the tense water instead of waiting for it to push back. The faint groan of wood and metal deepened.

Noel rested a hand on the railing, Revenant Fang humming softly at his side as lightning gathered just beneath his skin, patient and ready.

Around him, the deck had changed.

The sea ahead darkened further, surface dimpling as something massive shifted below. Far off, the blurred shapes of the Northern Isles loomed through mist and shadow—still distant, still unreachable.

For now.

Noel's eyes narrowed.

"Alright," he murmured, more to the water than to anyone else. "Your move."

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