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High Inquisitor! We have to head deeper in, or else—

No.

Look up.

What? It's nothing but black overhead, I can't see—

No... that's not... that's not the sky...

They've made it their nest by now. Very close to the shore; no wonder their numbers are so great.

We can just cut them all down. Like before.

...Yes, like before.

Shark?

So that is... their eye? Why does it feel so familiar?

Mm.

It has been caked in filth for too long, unable to open its lid.

I'll clear a path. Jordi, come with us.

Ah. O-Okay... I hope I can be of help...

No. There's something only you can do.

If you can't, then we'll have to change strategies and prioritize ensuring that the Inquisition's technicians can make it here safely.

And in the battle to come, we'll have no time to care for the fate of a solipsistic Ægir.

Got it!

You seem nervous.

Ægir. You don't understand what finally reaching this island again signifies for us.

And what would that be?

...Ever since the Penal Battalion discovered remnant signals from the lighthouse, we've made seventeen attempts to make landfall, eight of which succeeded in setting foot on this reef.

Hundreds of soldiers, and three Inquisitors. No one returned alive.

Don't tell me your superior Ægir ethics teach you to respect your heroes, but forsake their memory?

The High Inquisitor and I... the Iberians will hold a memorial for those who died at sea.

I did not mean to pick at your morals. All I can say is that, in the face of the ocean, we are all alone and weak.

Do as you wish, but we are pressed for time.

A foot falls on the reef.

A colossus hides in the jet-black winds. Only by tilting one's head back and gazing far up can one distinguish it from the murky sky.

The Eye of Iberia.

A final pair of eyes, sealed shut.

So tall...

The scale of that statue in town has to be wrong...

High Inquisitor.

Mm.

This is what we once...

It is... my first time seeing it as well.

The two remain silent for a moment, dead in their tracks as they look over at this vast spectacle that's survived only in documents and records.

The enduring reality of Iberia goes far beyond what she was taught, Irene thinks. Despite the Abyssal Hunters' ample disdain for them, despite the balance of the nation well and truly crumbling.

Despite it all, this lighthouse is an emblem. Of past glory and wild ambition. Of dreams and the domination of the unknown.

Whatever feelings may roil in your heart at this moment, engrave them all.

This building, these worn swords and lanterns, these reefs, this ocean.

Carve into your heart just what humanity has built in its struggle. Keep it with you forever, at all times.

If we do not venerate our sacrifices, our scales are meaningless.

Yes, sir!

Enter carefully.

Got it!

What are you doing?

Have we come home?

No, not yet.

But if we find what Kal'tsit and the Captain are looking for here, maybe we can.

Just hold on... we're almost there.

It's too quiet.

But it still stinks.

Yes. The reef is coated in remnant nethersea brand. I can see traces of man-made objects too, rotted for the most part.

Gladiia paces slowly. She looks up at the tower, standing against the tenebrous sky.

The Eye of Iberia is directed towards the heavens, as if upon this finite soil, life cranes its neck, wanting to see the future.

The nations of the land have done all they can to reproduce Breogan's remaining legacy. These so-called lighthouses are an emulation of Ægir technology through and through.

What can this lighthouse be awaiting, sat in this void and empty sea?

Does it watch the ocean, or the land, I wonder.

Captain.

I know. Within is a Sea Terror nest. The lack of an immediate attack may merely be defensive, a guarding of the den.

It is about time they come.

(Ominous slithering sounds)

There's not... too many.

The sea. The coast is already out of sight.

Sentimental?

No... I just mean, we can't bleed here. It'll be extremely dangerous.

They can't pierce our skin. So long as you do not cease your dance, these numbers are insufficient to kill us.

(The lighthouse... It really is just like the statue in town.)

(Which means, those blueprints at home really were from my mother and father. For the Eye of Iberia...)

(My parents were once... in this very place.)

Jordi looks back towards the shore.

Each and every day, his mind went back to his view of that overcast shore. A lifeless gray, a hopeless crowd.

But, ah, look at this lighthouse, he thinks.

Uncle Thiago was right. They were all heroes. They were all meant to be legends.

...The Abyssal Hunters should be regrouping not far from here. They will be joining this battle too.

Don't forget what you experienced in Sal Viento. Their blood is highly unusual, and Kal'tsit hardly told us everything.

U-Understood. So they can't be trusted.

What did you see, beneath the Inquisition?

—Erk.

'Seaborn.'

You should still remember their twistedness, their vitality, their... serenity.

In Sal Viento, the Hunters did battle such a monster, and emerged victorious.

I... I know that.

You've seen the truth, so now you must reassess your past, and Iberia.

Tear apart the old, swimming through your head! Make your own judgments.

Y-Yes, sir!

—(Rough sounds of slithering over reef)—

They're ready for us. Withdrawn to defend their nest, waiting for the chance to strike. Here to drive out the invaders.

Jordi. Report?

R-Right! It's a miracle, really. These control panels outside are still responding, but I'm not sure what theory these things are based on...

I-I'm looking though! I have all those research notes from home with me in my bag!

...Be quick about it.

I know! It's this one... No, that's not it... Eek, when did this one get wet?

High Inquisitor! They're here!

The billows rage forth.

Their arrogance surges dozens of meter high, shattering one day after another, succumbing to the reef and the three moons.

One moon is bright. One moon is dark. These are the moons spoken of throughout time, hung in the sky.

The remaining moon comes from the intervals betwixt the waves, at the peaks of every crest.