The first volley doesn't land with a thud. It lands with the wet, rhythmic sound of steel tearing through flesh and tissue in a hundred places at once.
The screaming mass of the Red Tide doesn't stop. It implodes.
The front rank of monsters is nailed to the desert floor, transformed into a carpet of twisted limbs and dark blood. The creatures behind them trip over the fallen, their momentum launching them headfirst into the next volley.
Bodies pile on bodies. The sand turns black.
The sky keeps spitting death. Pull, release, kill. Pull, release, kill. The repeating ballistae scream TUF-TUF-TUF in an endless, mechanical cycle that shakes dust from the wall behind us.
But the numbers are surreal.
For every ten that fall, fifty more pour over the dune line. The tide doesn't thin. It deepens. Wave after wave after wave, crashing against the carpet of their own dead without a fraction of a second's hesitation.
How did Lost Ark survive this when they were just a handful of people?
