We leave the station and step fully into Low-Beach Mangrove Forest.
The part near the rails still works as a small commercial center. Wooden stalls fill both sides of the main passage, protected by improvised roofs of broad leaves and dried fibers. Merchants shout product names, advertising potions, ammunition, updated maps, Beast parts, travel food, and quick equipment repairs. Some stands have claws and fangs hung up as advertising. Others display used weapons, still marked by recent cuts.
The place is loud.
The people passing through it, less so.
Divers cross the streets with their heads down, eyes alert, gear close to their bodies. Almost no one stops to watch another person longer than necessary. I saw dozens board the trains when the Academy plates marked safer regions, but no one besides us got on when Low-Beach came up.
Now I understand the profile of who really moves through here.
Rank C and up.
People used to going out to hunt and coming back covered in blood.
