Someone took the lead.
A second, a third, and a fourth novice monk ran forward after him.
One figure after another vanished into the black mist.
"Don't run!"
An older monk shouted.
But... it was too late.
Those novice monks had already run off.
Their footsteps rapidly receded into the black mist.
The crunch of their feet on broken bones grew fainter.
And sparser.
Then...
They suddenly stopped.
All of them stopped.
As though everyone had reached some place at exactly the same time.
But no sound ever came back.
No screams.
No cries for help.
Not a sound.
It was as quiet as the deep sea.
The older monk wanted to chase after them.
He gritted his teeth and strode toward where the novice monks had disappeared.
Three steps.
He took just three steps.
Once he crossed that three-meter line, the black mist abruptly thickened.
It was as thick as ink poured into water.
Everything around him was swallowed in an instant.
The path ahead vanished.
The group behind him vanished too.
He was the only person left in the world, standing in black mist so dense he could not see his hand in front of his face.
Never mind finding anyone.
He could not even tell which way was north, south, east, or west.
He lowered his head to look at his hands.
His hands were still there.
But black mist coiled around his fingers, writhing as though alive.
He turned and walked back.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
Judging by the distance he remembered, he should have returned to the group.
But there was no one.
No sound.
No light.
Only black mist.
And, coming from deep within the black mist...
An extremely faint sound of breathing.
It was not his own breathing.
He spun