The sound of the army's steady marching rhythm had faded, replaced by the muffled, rhythmic thud of hooves on damp soil and the heavy breathing of exhausted men. They moved slowly, a long line of steel and shadow being swallowed by the grey.
As they pushed deeper into the valley, the world seemed to shrink. The mist didn't just swirl; it pressed against them, thick and cold. Soon, the scouts could barely see ten meters in front of their horses. The tall, jagged trees of the Aldoras foothills had vanished into a wall of white.
Greg, one of the lieutenants, pulled his horse alongside Luceran. His face was pale, and he was gripping his reins so hard his knuckles were white.
"Your Highness," Greg said, his voice straining. "Half of our soldiers are struggling to keep the pace. They can barely walk. I've never seen them like this."
Before Luceran could answer, the merchant and his daughter, who had been traveling in the center of the formation, nudged their horses forward. The father looked haggard, but it was the girl who spoke. She leaned forward against her horse's neck, her eyes drooping.
"Please, Your Highness... can we rest here? I am so tired," she said weakly, offering a small, fading smile that looked more like a grimace of pain.
Luceran stopped his horse and turned in his saddle. He scanned the ranks. Greg was right. The discipline he had instilled in them was the only thing keeping them upright, but they looked like walking zombies. Their movements were sluggish, their eyes unfocused, and even those on horseback were swaying as if they might fall at any moment.
He frowned, his golden eyes cutting through the haze. He didn't just see the fog; he felt the weight of it.
"The mist is... weird," Cassandra said. She was riding near the front, her eyes shimmering with a faint green light as she tried to use her wind magic to clear a path. "It's not moving with the wind. It's just... sitting there."
Vena, who was always more sensitive to the shifting currents of mana, pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "This is not a simple mist, Prince. My core feels heavy. It's like the air itself is trying to put me to sleep."
Luceran didn't hesitate. He reached out and grasped the empty air in front of him. To the soldiers, it looked like he was catching a fly, but as he closed his fist, colorful lights began to swirl around his fingers. A second later, the vibrant colors died out, turning into tiny, dull grey dust particles that fell from his palm.
"The mist is made of magic," Luceran said solemnly, his voice carrying through the quiet line. "It is most likely a defense mechanism left by the ruins. Its function is to sap the strength of any intruder or invader."
Borrin wiped a hand across his tired eyes, his breath coming in shallow hitches. "No wonder I feel like I've been marching for three days straight without sleep. My limbs feel like lead."
"Your Highness, can you expel it?" Rhody asked, leaning heavily on his staff. "If we stay in this much longer, the men won't be able to lift their swords if something jumps out at us."
Luceran looked at the vast expanse of grey stretching into the heart of the valley. "This is not something I can expel. At least not yet. The scale of the formation is too large, and I haven't found the source."
He looked at the slumped shoulders of his men and let out a long sigh. "Fine. Let's camp here."
The moment the order left his lips, it was as if a string had been cut. Half of the army collapsed right where they stood, dropping to the damp ground without even unrolling their bedsheets. They were too drained to even complain.
Cassandra dismounted and walked over to Luceran, her expression worried. "But Your Highness, this is not a complete solution. Resting won't stop the drainage. After all, we're still in the mist. We're just staying in the trap."
"I know," Luceran said, looking down at his hands. "While we rest, I'll think of something."
As he watched his unit struggle, he began to analyze the effect. He noticed a clear pattern. For him and Cassandra, the mist was a mere annoyance. Being in the Mana Engraving stage meant their internal structures were refined enough to resist the external pressure.
For those in the middle stages, like Borrin at Bone Tempering or the mages at the Mana Core stage, it was a battle of will. They could resist, but it was costing them a massive amount of mental and physical energy. But for the rank-and-file soldiers, the ones at the lowest stages of Flesh Strengthening, they had no defense. They were being drained like leaking buckets.
He sat on a nearby stone, his mind already spinning through the formations and engravings he had memorized, searching for a way to shield a hundred men at once. They had reached the gate of the ruins, but the city was already fighting back.
Luceran leaned back against the damp stone, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The weight of the mist wasn't just physical; it was a puzzle, one he hadn't seen since his days at the Immortal Academy. He had never been particularly fond of the Formations course. Perhaps it was the way Mentor Velis used to drone on about geometric mana paths, or maybe it was just the sheer, tedious nature of the craft.
Regardless, Velis's voice echoed in his mind now, sharp and dry: "There are only three ways to kill a formation, boys. You either smash it with a bigger hammer, build a better cage around it, or find the heart and cut it out."
Luceran looked at his hands, then at the thick wall of grey around them. Option one, raw power, was out. Whoever had laid this defense was likely a master compared to his current stage. Option two required a level of formation expertise he simply didn't have the patience for back then. That left the third option: finding the source. It was the "thief's way," the only way a weaker cultivator could dismantle a superior's work by exploiting its mechanics.
"But the core is most likely deep inside those ruins," he muttered, his brow furrowing. "And leaving the army now is not a wise move."
He looked around the camp, and the sight was grim. Borrin and Greg were trying to help the others set up tents, but their movements were heavy and uncoordinated. They were fumbling with ropes and struggling to light fires, their faces etched with a fatigue that sleep wouldn't fix. Even the stronger soldiers were clearly hitting a wall.
Cassandra stood a few paces away, her eyes scanning the mist. She was the only other person standing tall, her Mana Engraving stage protecting her from the worst of the drain, but she looked just as stressed. She was a combatant, a wind mage whose power was meant for the sky and the battlefield. She didn't know a single healing spell or a shielding technique that could cover a hundred men.
Luceran let out a long, frustrated sigh. "I guess I can only ask for help."
He reached into a hidden pocket of his cloak and pulled out a small, intricately carved amulet. It felt cold, pulsing with a faint, dormant energy. He closed his eyes, channeling a steady thread of his own mana into the device. The engravings on the stone began to glow, casting a soft, rhythmic blue light against his face.
He spoke into the amulet, his voice low and commanding. He didn't say much, just enough to convey the urgency of their location and the nature of the threat. The blue light flared once, bright and piercing, before slowly dimming back into a dull grey.
He tucked the amulet back away, his gaze drifting back toward the path they had come from.
"I hope he can arrive here fast," Luceran said quietly to himself.