The arena lights abruptly cut to black.

A deep, distant ship bell tolls once…

Then again.

Low fog begins to spill across the entrance, thick and rolling like a cold tide creeping inland. A faint creaking of wood and groaning hull timbers echo through the darkness.

A slow, ominous rhythm begins—heavy, pounding, and deliberate—like waves slamming against stone.

Cold blue-green lights flicker to life beneath the fog, moving as though refracted through deep water. The sound of chains dragging across the deck cuts through the air.

Then—

A thunderous crash of sound hits as Morcant Blacktide steps through the fog.

He moves slowly, methodically, shoulders squared, head slightly lowered—like something hauled from the ocean floor that does not need to rush.

The lights briefly strobe, revealing the silhouette of an anchor behind him on the screen—submerged, wrapped in chains, surrounded by drifting souls. The fog thickens as he begins his march to the ring, boots cutting through the mist like waves parting around a prow.

At ringside, he grips the ropes and pulls himself up with deliberate force, as if dragging himself onto a deck once more. He steps inside, slowly turning in a full circle, eyes locked forward.

The music fades—but the bell tolls one last time.

The Dead Tide has arrived.