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The kingdom’s shores churn with the wrath of ancient tides, serpentine shadows coiling beneath the waves. Goldblade’s edge gleams under storm-wracked skies—a beacon against the abyss. For centuries, the Leviathan’s brood has drowned villages in their wake, salt and blood staining the cobblestones. No army dares tread where the deep calls, but steel sings louder than fear. Rally to the cliffs. Grip your hilt until knuckles pale. These creatures know no mercy, their jaws snapping throne and hovel alike. Strike where the currents writhe—slice through scaled flesh, sever sinew, let their ichor blacken the foam. Every beast felled weakens the Leviathan’s grip. Every spark of courage fuels the kingdom’s last stand. This is no song for poets. It’s a hymn written in split bone and shattered fang. Fight not for glory, but for the gasps of air as the waters still. For the silence after the storm. The crown’s fate hangs by a thread of gold—your blade. Now rise. The tide waits for no one.
