A short while later, the door opened, and the group filed out in black cloaks.

Yet not a single person could be seen on the street. Beneath the fog, only a faint line of footprints led toward the village outskirts.

The soil outside the village was soft, making the footprints even clearer, but the spreading fog concealed everything.

Rustle, rustle...

"Captain, did you hear something?" a doubtful voice asked from beneath a cloak.

"Stop!" the middle-aged captain called sharply, and the entire group halted at once.

Rustle...

Every hair on the captain's body stood on end. He spun around and searched the surroundings, but the faint sounds vanished again.

His unease intensified.

At some point, the fog had grown much thicker. Everything was gray and indistinct, and he could see nothing clearly.

"Could it be bamboo shoots breaking through the soil? It just rained," one of the team members guessed.

The words exploded through the captain's mind like thunder. His pupils contracted, and he shouted,

"They're underground! Move!"

Before the words had even left his mouth, he drove strength into both legs and shot forward. Most of his invisibility dispersed, revealing a blurred silhouette.

After running only several meters—a few yards—he stopped dead and stared ahead, his face ashen.

"Captain, you..."

The lean Ranger followed close behind, but one look at the night ahead robbed him of speech.

Dense fog surrounded them. Things continually broke through the soil and crawled out, staggering into a ring around them. Shadowy figures crowded the mist, too numerous to count.

White bones gleamed, and the stench of corpses assaulted their noses. It was as though they had fallen into the Shadowfell in an instant, with despair spreading like fog.

Cold flooded the captain's body. "Undead..." he murmured.

The lean Ranger roared in despair, "What happened to the sentries? Why didn't they warn—"

It was a foolish question. The scouts had already disappeared into the mist.

Only by venting his emotions could he still feel that his body belonged to him rather than to despair.

He turned toward the captain, his heart full of regret. The captain's instincts had been right. Something was truly wrong with this place.

The other team members stared with vacant eyes. They drew their weapons by instinct and gazed numbly at the surrounding mist.

"Aren't those the bodies we buried?" The black dragonborn pointed ahead with a trembling hand.

The captain followed his finger. A group of blood-covered Zombies staggered toward them. They wore the tattered clothes of refugees, and their bodies showed no signs of decay.

They were unmistakably the refugees the group had disposed of over the past few days.

"We've been living inside someone else's lair this entire time," the black dragonborn muttered.

"Calm down!" the captain roared. "Do you want to live or not?!"

He went down the line, kicking each team member and forcing their fighting spirit awake. "Get a grip! Ready your weapons! Charge formation..."

At the sound of his commands, everyone obeyed instinctively, and a faint thread of hope appeared in their hearts.

The captain drew his longsword with a ring of steel and pointed ahead. "Everyone, follow my command. Break through toward that camp. Charge!"

"Kill!"

There were barely more than a dozen of them, yet they drove into the Undead like a sword and advanced over a hundred meters—more than a hundred yards—with unstoppable momentum.

The newly risen Undead soon reacted, however. They rapidly converged on the humans and surrounded them completely.

The team became mired in their ranks, unable to advance or retreat.

—

A powerful sense of unease roused Anser from sleep.

He jolted awake. The tent was pitch-black, and everything outside was quiet. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Click. His pocket watch sprang open. A faint glow illuminated its face, and the hour hand had just passed two.

'This unease...'

He quietly rose, put on his shoes, and picked up his staff. The instant he opened the tent, damp fog rolled against his face, carrying a faint rancid stench.

'Where is that smell coming from?'

He closed the tent and looked around.

Soft snores came from Bratt's tent. A large bird perched on a dead tree stump nearby, with a human figure sitting beside it.

Nornoth slept standing beside the tent. Hearing movement, he trotted over and rubbed his enormous head against Anser's chest, nearly knocking him down.

Finn approached with a lantern. Anser's grave expression stopped him short. "What's wrong?"

"Something feels wrong!" Anser could not shake the discomfort, but neither could he explain it. "When did this fog get so thick?"

"Sometime... after midnight," Finn answered uncertainly.

"Send the gray eagle up immediately." Anser patted his arm.

After receiving Finn's command, the gray eagle cried out in displeasure but still spread its wings and flew into the sky, circling the area several times at low altitude.

"There's nothing there." Finn shook his head at Anser.

"No, no, no..." Anser muttered.

That uncomfortable feeling returned. Pressure built in his chest, but he could not identify its source.

His gaze fell on the staff in his hand, and realization struck. "Magic!"

Something was wrong with the ambient magic. The disturbance was extremely subtle. Mana Control had detected an anomaly but could not see through to its source.

"Pack our things."

Leaving those words behind, Anser swung onto Nornoth and galloped toward the grassy slope east of the camp.

The pounding hooves shattered the night's silence and woke many people.

The instant Anser crossed the slope, the holy symbol inside his clothes became searing hot. Radiance poured through the gaps in his cloak, illuminating his face.

Yet all he saw was gray fog. Nothing else was visible.

He turned around and left without the slightest hesitation.

Nornoth raced straight into the camp, leaving the night watchmen stunned.

"Wake everyone! Leave immediately! Hurry!"

Aemon rushed out of his tent bare-chested. "What happened?"

Anser said nothing. He caught the chain around his neck and pulled it upward, revealing the holy symbol fastened to his diamond necklace. Its radiant glow dazzled everyone.

"A holy symbol!" Aemon froze before immediately understanding. "Hurry! Wake everyone!"

He did not know what had happened, but he recognized the holy symbol of Tyr, God of Justice!

"Leave the tents! Leave your belongings! Put on your shoes, grab your weapons, and run!"

Aemon raced through the camp with his axe, slapping anyone who dawdled. His expression grew increasingly anxious.

Anser returned to their campsite. Finn and Bratt had already packed everything except the tents into their backpacks.

"Head west."

He tied the backpacks together, slung them over Nornoth's back, mounted, and left without waiting for Aemon or the others.

Finn jogged behind him. Conflict filled Bratt's eyes, and he hesitated for several seconds before choosing to follow Anser.

"What's happening?"

"I don't know."

"What?"

People from the Masons' Guild camp straggled out in small groups, their faces full of resentment as they trailed behind at a distance.

Aemon and Alva did not emerge until several minutes later. They kept looking back as they ran, but there was nothing behind them except fog—not even the cry of an insect or bird.

Then brilliant light erupted behind them and drew everyone's gaze.

Scorching radiance burst from the churning fog, tearing through both mist and darkness and spreading across dozens of meters.

Wherever it passed, shadowy figures collapsed one after another. The mist broke apart, and even the moonlight seemed to brighten.

The remaining wisps of fog could not conceal the scene below. Hundreds of indistinct shadows emerged, the dim blue, ghastly green, or deathly white lights in their pupils joining into a vast field. It was like the arrival of a netherworld, and the sight made everyone's hair stand on end.

"Undead!" Aemon forced the word through clenched teeth.

Within the horde, only several hundred meters from the camp, a group of blurred figures charged left and right but could not escape the encirclement. They fell one after another.

With the fog no longer hiding them, the Undead at the perimeter sensed the living. They paused, then began pursuing in groups of two and three.

Everyone stood frozen for an instant before turning and running with every ounce of strength they possessed. Their resentment vanished.

"This really has nothing to do with me, right? They would've encountered all this even if I hadn't come."

Anser had a mount, so he was not especially panicked.

Thank you to all my dear readers for your support and suggestions!

(End of Chapter)