Thomas produced thousands of chips and thousands of bottles, casting his net wider than ever before. He wasn't looking for four whales anymore; he was looking for an army.
The presence of Alley, Garrison, Angel, and Hook—already visibly "intoxicated" and laughing loudly—acted as a beacon. Their high-tier energy signatures stabilised the ship's presence in the fog, making it easier for lost souls to find the gangplank.
Slowly, new figures began to coalesce from the mist. At first, they were hesitant, their foggy forms flickering with suspicion.
"Is this a trap?" one new arrival whispered, a mid-tier hero by the look of his spectral gear. "I've heard of dream-eaters that lure you in with lights."
"Are you telling me my power will increase just by drinking?"
"Dude, if there is anything that can help in purifying one's Qi, it should be sold at an astronomical price in a secured fortress, not served like cheap ale on a ghost ship! I don't f*cking buy any of what you're saying!"
