Came to Their Lair

A moment later, the door opened, and a group of figures draped in black cloaks filed out.

Strangely, not a soul could be seen on the street; beneath the mist, only a line of shallow footprints stretched toward the outskirts of the village.

The ground outside the village was soft, making the footprints clearer, yet the pervasive mist obscured everything.

Rustle, rustle...

"Captain, did you hear something?" a voice asked, laced with suspicion from beneath a cloak.

"Halt!" the middle-aged Captain barked, and the team stopped instantly.

Rustle, rustle...

The middle-aged Captain's hair stood on end. He spun around, peering into the surroundings, but the faint sounds had abruptly vanished.

The unease in his heart deepened.

The mist had grown thicker at some point, a grey, murky shroud that rendered everything invisible.

"Could it be bamboo shoots breaking through the soil? It just rained," one team member speculated.

The words exploded in the middle-aged Captain's mind like a thunderclap. His pupils constricted, and he shouted urgently:

"It's underground! Run!"

Before the words had even left his lips, he drove force into his legs and bolted, his invisibility effect flickering and fading to reveal a blurred silhouette.

He had only run a few meters when he stopped dead, staring ahead with a face ashen and grey.

"Captain, you..."

The lean Ranger followed close behind, but as his gaze swept across the night, he was struck dumb.

Surrounding them, shrouded in thick fog, things were constantly breaking through the soil and crawling out. They swayed as they gathered around—a sea of silhouettes, their numbers uncountable.

Bones gleamed, the stench of rot filled the air; it was as if they had been instantly cast into the Shadowfell, and despair spread like the mist.

The middle-aged Captain felt a chill seep into his very bones. "Undead..." he muttered.

The lean Ranger roared in desperation, "Where are the scouts? Why didn't they report..."

It was a foolish question; the scouts had long since vanished into the fog.

But only by venting could he feel that his body still belonged to him, rather than being governed by despair.

He turned to look at the Captain, his heart filled with regret. The Captain's instincts had been right; something was truly wrong here.

The other team members stared with hollow eyes, subconsciously drawing their weapons, gazing at their surroundings in a stupor.

"Aren't those the corpses we buried?" the Dragonborn pointed forward, trembling.

The middle-aged Captain followed his gaze. A group of blood-stained zombies was swaying toward them, wearing the tattered clothes of refugees, yet showing no signs of decay.

By their appearance, they were the very refugee corpses they had disposed of over the past few days.

"We've been living in their nest all along," the Dragonborn muttered.

"Calm down!" the middle-aged Captain roared. "Do you want to live or not?!"

He kicked out at them, forcibly rousing their fighting spirit. "Get a grip! Draw your weapons! Formation for a charge..."

Hearing the orders, everyone obeyed instinctively, a sliver of hope igniting within them.

The middle-aged Captain drew his Longsword with a metallic clang and pointed it forward. "Everyone, follow my lead! Break through toward that camp! Charge—"

"Kill—"

The dozen or so men pierced into the undead horde like a sharp blade, cutting through with unstoppable force and advancing a hundred meters in an instant.

But the undead that had just crawled out reacted quickly, gathering toward the humans and surrounding them completely.

The squad was trapped as if in a quagmire, unable to advance or retreat.

In his sleep, a wave of intense unease surged into his heart.

Anse woke with a start. The tent was pitch black, and outside was deathly quiet—everything was as it should be.

Click. His pocket watch snapped open. On the faintly glowing dial, the hour hand had just passed two.

"This sense of unease..."

He rose quietly, put on his shoes, and picked up his Staff. As he pulled open the tent flap, a damp, misty air rushed in, carrying a faint, fishy stench.

"Where is that stench coming from?"

He secured the tent and stood up, scanning the area.

A faint snoring sound came from Brat's tent. A large bird was perched on a nearby Tree Stump, with a figure sitting beside it.

Noronos, who had been sleeping standing up against the tent, heard the movement and trotted over, rubbing his large head against Anse's chest and nearly knocking him over.

Finn walked over carrying a lantern. Seeing Anse's grave expression, he paused. "What's wrong?"

"Something isn't right!" Anse felt deeply uncomfortable, though he couldn't put his finger on it. "A fog this thick—since when?"

"Probably... around dawn." Finn was not entirely sure.

"Have the Gray Hawk go up and take a look immediately." Anse patted his arm.

Upon receiving Finn's command, the Gray Hawk let out a dissatisfied cry, but still flapped its wings to take to the sky, circling at a low altitude around the area several times.

"There's nothing." Finn shook his head at Anse.

"No, no, no..." Anse muttered.

That uncomfortable feeling returned; his chest felt tight and stifled, yet he could not pinpoint the source.

He glanced inadvertently at the Staff in his hand and felt a jolt in his heart, a word slipping out: "Magic!"

The magical environment here was problematic, very subtle. His "Magic Control" sensed something amiss, yet it could not discern where the issue lay.

"Go pack your things."

Leaving those words behind, Anse vaulted onto Noronos and spurred the horse toward the grassy slope on the east side.

The sound of hooves shattered the silence of the night, startling many awake.

Just as Anse crossed the grassy slope, the Holy Symbol in his breast pocket suddenly turned scorching hot, its radiance leaking through the gaps in his cloak and illuminating his face brightly.

However, all he could see before him was gray, murky mist; there was nothing else to be seen.

He turned around and left without a moment's hesitation.

Noronos galloped all the way, charging straight into the camp and leaving the night watchmen dumbfounded.

"Wake everyone up! Leave immediately, hurry—"

Emon rushed out of his tent, shirtless. "What happened?"

Anse did not speak; he grabbed the chain around his neck and pulled it upward, revealing the Holy Symbol attached to the diamond necklace from beneath his cloak. The radiance it emitted dazzled everyone.

"The Holy Symbol!" Emon froze for a moment before reacting. "Quick, quick, quick! Wake everyone up!"

He did not know what had happened, but he recognized the Holy Symbol of the God of Justice!

"Forget the tents, forget the gear! Put on your boots, grab your weapons, and start running..."

Emon sprinted through the camp wielding his axe, slapping anyone who dragged their feet, his expression growing increasingly frantic.

Anse returned to the campsite, where Finn and Brat had already packed everything except the tents into their backpacks.

"Head west."

As he spoke, he tied the backpacks together, hoisted them onto the horse's back, and rode off without any intention of waiting for Emon and the others.

Finn jogged along behind him, while Brat's eyes showed a struggle. He hesitated for a few seconds, but ultimately chose to follow Anse.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know."

"Huh?"

The people from the Stonemason Guild camp also straggled out in small groups, looking resentful as they trailed far behind.

It took several minutes for Emon and Alva to emerge. They kept looking back as they ran, but behind them, there was nothing but fog—not even the sound of insects or birds.

Just then, a brilliant light suddenly flared up in the rear, drawing everyone's gaze.

From the churning mist, a scorching radiance erupted, tearing through the fog and the night, spreading for dozens of meters.

Wherever it passed, dark shadows collapsed to the ground, the mist dissipated, and even the moonlight seemed to brighten.

The remaining thin mist could not hide the scene below, revealing hundreds of dark shadows. The faint, flickering lights in their pupils—some ghostly blue, some sickly green, some ash-gray—merged into a single expanse, like the descent of the underworld, making everyone's hair stand on end.

"Undead!" Emon squeezed the word through his teeth.

Within the horde of undead, barely hundreds of meters from the camp, a group of blurred figures was charging and dodging, yet they could not break out of the encirclement, falling one by one.

With the cover of the mist gone, the undead on the perimeter sensed the scent of the living. They paused for a moment before chasing toward them in twos and threes.

Everyone stood stunned for a heartbeat, then turned and ran with every ounce of strength they possessed; all traces of resentment had vanished.

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

Anse had a mount, so he was not particularly panicked.