"Woo..."
The cold, damp sea breeze whistled through the jagged rocks, echoing eerily in the air like the wailing of ghosts.
The continuous sound of the tides, for the island villagers who have lived by the sea since childhood, has long become a kind of white noise instinctively filtered out of their minds.
But at this moment, those seemingly endless splashing sounds of the water breaking were so noisy and piercing, it was aggravating.
Steven, the head of Qiao Yan Village, stood at the very front of the group.
In his right hand was a well-maintained Iron Sword, though the handle bore the marks of time; in his left was an equally old and mottled Ironwood Shield.
Behind him were a dozen or so villagers holding various weapons, scattered and filling every gap, their expressions tense; in front were hastily arranged crude traps, and further beyond, the rocky cliffs and the vast sea.
