Ishmael's Viewpoint: Pallid Sight

Something called to me.

It wasn't a voice. It wasn't a thought. It was a pull—deep, instinctual, undeniable.

My fingers twitched as I felt it well up inside me, the sickly, familiar sensation crawling through my veins like liquid instinct. A beckoning force urging me to manifest—to conjure.

And without hesitation, I answered.

The Harpoon of Endless Blood materialized in my grip, surging forth from nothingness, forming from that crimson gel-like substance that pulsed and twisted like something between living flesh and molten resin. It was warm, as if it had a heartbeat, as if it remembered every time it had been used before.

And then—before I could even register my own intent—the Landship's defenses crumbled.

I barely remembered reaching for the timepieces—the core components of this bastion's defensive mechanisms, the unseen gears of their machinery. Yet, there they were. Suspended in my grasp. Severed from time itself.