White mist blew towards my face, bringing with it a damp, slightly salty smell.
The visibility is getting lower and lower, ten meters, five meters, three meters--
When Redd could barely see King Ghidorah's own neck, he ordered to stop.
"Go up."
King Ghidorah immediately pulled up and returned to the top of the fog layer.
The sun shines down from the gaps in the clouds and shines on the dragon's scales, reflecting golden light.
But this light was insignificant compared to the eerie white ocean below.
Redd was silent for a moment and narrowed his eyes slightly.
This fog is indeed unusual.
He has stayed in Stepstones for a long time and knows the climate in this area.
Occasionally fogging is normal, but if it is so thick - so thick that even King Ghidorah cannot see clearly below - then it cannot be explained by the force of nature.
He thought of the men in black robes Dawg mentioned when Lars reported.
Citadel.
Citadel people are indeed good at things that ordinary people cannot understand.
Ancient knowledge, lost skills, and even some... methods that are thought to only exist in legends.
If this fog is really man-made, it means two things.
First, Citadel's hands are longer than he thought.
Second, their target has been him from the beginning.
The corners of Redd's mouth raised slightly, revealing a sneer.
"Interesting." He said again, his voice softer than before, but with a certain dangerous meaning.
King Ghidorah's three heads turned to him at the same time, as if waiting for orders.
"Don't worry." Redd whispered, looking through the clouds and landing on the white sea of fog below, "Let's see what they want to do first."
He wasn't too worried about Dawg Russ's fleet. Although the old admiral sometimes behaved like a coward, his ability at sea was real.
This fog can't trap him.
What really interested him was the person behind the fog.
If this is the work of Citadel, then their purpose is not to simply delay time.
They must have a backup plan.
Redd patted King Ghidorah's neck gently, and the dragon let out a low roar, spread its wings, and slowly hovered above the fog layer, like an eagle waiting for its prey to reveal its flaws.
The sea of fog below was billowing, white and bottomless.
And in that vast expanse of white, Dawg Russ's fleet was moving forward slowly, and the lanterns on the bows glowed dimly in the fog, like a few weak fireflies in the darkness.
No one knows what is hidden in the fog.
But everyone knew that something was waiting for them in the fog.
The thick fog is like a huge airtight net, covering the entire sea area in the palm of your hand.
The visibility on the sea was less than three meters. Dawg Russ's fleet moved forward slowly in the white chaos. The lantern on the bow was as dim as a bean, creating circles of dim light in the heavy and wet fog.
The sailors held their breath and concentrated, hearing only the clatter of the oars and the occasional muffled sound of the sails flapping the mast.
Everyone is waiting, waiting for this strange thick fog to dissipate, or waiting for something worse to happen.
And somewhere they couldn't see - three feet under the water, another storm was brewing.
Under the sea, in the blue depths that the thick fog cannot reach, undercurrents surge.
Countless figures shuttled through the water, as agile as swimming fish and as silent as ghosts.
They emerged from the cracks in the deep sea, gathered from the reef caves, and gathered in the direction of the fleet from all directions.
The amount is enough to make any experienced seaman's scalp tingle.
The appearance of these figures is 70% similar to humans - but only 70%.
Their backs are covered with fine scales, glowing with a dark blue cold light in the weak underwater light, like bronze with a layer of rust.
Translucent fin membranes extend from the back and elbows, fluttering like tulle when paddling in the water.
Some have two thick frog legs on their lower body, with wide webs connected between the toes; some are simply a fish tail covered with scales, and can fly several meters away with a slight swing of the tail fin in the water.
Their faces are the closest to humans, with clear facial features and even some that can be called regular.
But when they open their mouths, all beauty is gone—the mouth is full of fine, sharp teeth stacked on top of each other, like the fangs of deep-sea fish, capable of tearing through the toughest skin and flesh.
There is a split gill slit on each side of the neck, which opens and closes in the water, filtering the oxygen dissolved in the seawater.
The eyes are large and protruding, and the pupils are turbid amber, glowing with faint fluorescence in the dark.
They are fish people.
The indigenous people of this sea area, the people of the deep sea, are existences that sailors have told about by word of mouth but few have ever seen with their own eyes.
The leading fish-man is half taller than the others of the same kind, and the scales on his body are thicker, with a silvery-white sheen on the edges.
It held a bone gun in its hand - it was polished from the backbone of a giant fish, with a sharp tip and bone spurs.
It stopped under the outermost ship of the fleet, raised its head, and looked at the huge black outline above through the hazy water with its amber eyes.
The bottom of the boat was covered with a thick layer of barnacles and shellfish, and the rough planks were soaked black by sea water, exuding the pungent smell of tung oil and tar.
The fishman leader turned the bone gun upside down, with the tip of the gun pointing upwards, and stabbed it hard at the bottom of the boat.
"Boom."
A dull sound spread underwater, like a stone falling into a deep well.
The tip of the bone gun penetrated the ship's plank by more than half an inch, and the wood was so hard that it jammed the head of the gun.
The fishman leader pulled it out hard, and there was a crisp "click" sound. The bone gun broke from the middle, half of the gun head remained in the ship's plank, and the other half was still held in its hand.
It let go of its hand and let the broken gun sink to the bottom of the sea. Its cheeks trembled violently, and it uttered a series of low syllables that could hardly travel very far in the water.
That is their language. It is short and murky, like the collision of stones at the bottom of the water, or the gurgling sound of bubbles rising from the depths to the surface.
But among the fish-men, this voice conveys clear and unmistakable orders--
"Hard. Enter from above."
The order spread along the water.
The murlocs in the front row were the first to receive the signal. They swung their tail fins or frog legs and clung to the bottom of the boat like geckos, making a rustling sound when their scales rubbed against the wooden boards.
The sharp claw tips embedded themselves into the gaps in the barnacle shells, easily finding the point of force.
They climbed up the ship wall, moving quickly and silently, their dark blue skin almost blending into the hull under the cover of thick fog.
At the same time, deeper under the sea, more shadows are rising.
Huge fins sliced through the water, soundlessly. Round whales, deep-sea hunters with sharp teeth, giant turtles with carapace so thick that they could smash into rocks - they seemed to be summoned by some force, emerged from the dark abyss, and rushed straight towards the bottom of the fleet.