The Golden Tide and the Crisis

The mist over the sea had thickened, flowing against the water's skin without rising or dispersing, like a pot of overcooked golden oil slowly tipped across the sea by an invisible hand.

Tiny flecks of dark light lay beneath the mist, flickering with the undercurrents. Wherever it passed, the ink-blue seawater turned a rotten dark green, its surface coated in a greasy, slippery film.

On the lookout tower, Old Zhou pulled his worn leather coat tighter around him. His left eye had been injured years ago, and everything he saw through it was veiled by a cloudy film.

At first, he had taken it for sea vapor after the tide receded. Fog was common at sea, and the dampness of the salt marshes spread every night—a familiar sight to those who guarded the dike.

But half a cup of tea later, the mist had not dispersed. Instead, it grew ever more viscous. Fine golden glimmers saturated the haze, leaving tiny scorch marks wherever they landed on iron armor. A faint, scorched, fishy smell drifted up to the tower on the sea breeze.

Old Zhou's heart suddenly tightened.

Then all sound between heaven and earth abruptly ceased.

The vast sea held its breath. The thunder of waves pounding the reefs vanished entirely, leaving only an oppressive dead silence that weighed heavily on their eardrums.

He reached for his horn. His fingertips had barely touched the cold brass tube when the tidal flats erupted.

Mud churned like boiling porridge. Dark golden slurry splashed several feet into the air, landing on the rocks with a corrosive hiss.

One, two, ten, a hundred Mutated Reef Crabs burrowed out from deep beneath the tidal flats. The golden patterns on their shells had grown so dense that droplets of light spilled from them, making them look