The mist in the forest grew denser and denser. By afternoon, even the battle-hardened Witcher could no longer tell direction from direction. Fortunately, they still had a way to roughly orient themselves, allowing them to continue forward.
Yet the once small group of thirteen could no longer even see one another from head to tail. At the Witcher's warning, everyone followed cautiously, keeping their eyes fixed on the shoulders of the person ahead.
Leading the way, Ted finally raised a hand, signaling for everyone to stop and rest. Together with Captain Rockfell, he made his way to the Witcher's side, while the rest formed a loose circle, taking advantage of the brief pause to catch their breath.
"What's wrong?" Aldric asked, noticing the grim expression on Ted's face.
"Something isn't right," Ted said quietly. "We've been walking for nearly five hours. At our pace, we should have reached the Arnhem River by now. But look!" He pointed to the small stream beside them.
The brook flowed lazily, its clear waters gliding gently over the stones. Even Aldric could tell—if they were anywhere near the river's fork, the current should have been much faster, far more turbulent than this.
"I've lived in these forests all my life," Ted muttered, his brows furrowed. "Thirty years, and I've never seen fog like this." He looked expectantly toward Witcher Gonz and Captain Rockfell, hoping either of them would provide an explanation.
The Captain frowned, exchanging a glance with the Witcher before speaking. "Once, I encountered a fog like this at sea," he said slowly.
"We had six ships in total, bound for the New World—Floridia. Just one more day, and we would've seen the Floridia Strait. Then one morning, a thick fog rolled in. We sailed in it for two days and a night, and no matter how far we went, we never came out of it. The compasses worked fine, the mages aboard each ship confirmed with spells that our course was correct. By our calculations, we should've already sailed right into Vice City itself."
The old sailor's eyes narrowed, his voice turning heavy as the mist around them thickened. "Then suddenly, the fog lifted—and the Celeste was gone. Completely gone. Gods bear witness, not half an hour before the fog cleared, I had my mage speak to her captain. They were no more than two hundred meters off our starboard side. And the poor Rosalie, our lead ship… When we finally found her, not a soul remained aboard. Not even rats or cockroaches."
"You were lucky, Captain," Gonz interrupted coldly. "Let me guess—your cargo hold was full of slaves from the Black Continent, wasn't it?"
The captain's uneasy silence was enough of an answer.
"There's no time for ghost stories," Gonz said sharply, his tone hard as steel. "You only need to understand this—what's happening now is dangerous. Extremely dangerous. Dangerous enough that if you ever truly learned the truth, someone like me would be sent to… pay you a visit afterward. You understand me, Captain?"
Under the Witcher's piercing stare, Aldric saw the old man stiffly nod, cold sweat beading on his forehead, yet too afraid to wipe it away.
Ted, sensing the tension, wisely chose not to press further. After a brief ten-minute rest, he urged the group onward, following the stream once again in silence.
…
"You don't seem to enjoy talking to them," Aldric murmured to Gonz, who was walking at the very back of the line.
The thick fog seemed to sour the Witcher's mood further. He turned to glance at Aldric, his eyes calm but distant. "I'm two hundred and sixty-four years old. Every friend I once had—those from my generation—either died or disappeared long ago. When you've lived as long as I have, you'll stop trying to befriend mortals. Give it a few decades as a witcher, and you'll understand."
He studied Aldric's youthful face and added quietly, "Most apprentices don't realize that until after their first century—if they survive that long without being eaten by monsters."
Aldric, of course, couldn't comprehend that kind of lifespan. As a player, such worries were far from his mind. "About this fog," he asked, "you do know something about it, don't you, Sir?"
"Someone's opened a gateway to the Realm of Chaos," Gonz said grimly. "Every time this happens, it means a guardian has failed their duty. I should've known better than to trust those fanatical priests. This fog disrupts perception. Soon, you may start smelling sulfur, or feel the temperature drop. Worst case—you'll see things. Huge, disgusting worms, maybe more, depending on what's come through the gate this time."
As they walked, Gonz used the opportunity to educate his apprentice. "Normally, I wouldn't tell you this—not until you survive your first trial in the valley. But given our situation, you'll have to learn as you go."
"To open a gate to the Chaos Realm requires hundreds, sometimes thousands, of living creatures—sacrificed in blood and soul. Judging by how thick this fog is, I'd say at least two thousand sentient beings have already been offered. I don't know how much time we have left, but when danger comes, you'll fight as a witcher should. If you falter or show weakness… I won't hesitate to cut you down myself." His tone was icy, his expression unwavering, leaving no doubt that this was no idle threat.
"I will not bring shame upon the witchers," Aldric vowed firmly.
As the hours slipped away, the forest began to darken once again. A whole day of marching through the suffocating fog had left everyone exhausted. Even the white wolf was panting heavily, its tongue lolling out in fatigue.
Captain Rockfell drew closer to Aldric and whispered, "Xu Aldric you're really a witcher now, aren't you?"
Aldric looked at the captain's nervous expression and chuckled. "That's right. Though I'm only an apprentice. Why are you so afraid of him?"
The old sailor glanced around nervously. "You've never heard of them? Witchers—they hunt warlocks, monsters… they live forever, like vampires. And everyone who's ever learned too much about their kind—anyone they've 'visited'—ends up dead afterward."
"Those are just exaggerated rumors, Captain," Aldric said with a wry smile. "Do I look like someone who'd kill without reason? They just live too long, that's all. They'd rather keep their distance from normal folk."
"So, they are immortal, then—like vampires!" Rockfell's eyes widened, clearly latching onto the wrong part of the explanation.
Before Aldric could respond, a strange horn echoed through the mist—a haunting, drawn-out wail, as if some dying creature was crying out its last lament. The sound was mournful, eerie, and ancient.
"Run! Move! Don't stop!" the Witcher barked, his voice cutting through the fog like a blade.
The survivors instantly felt the urgency in his tone. Fear surged through the group as everyone began to push their exhausted bodies to their limits, stumbling and gasping as they tried to move faster.
Aldric hurried alongside Gonz, shouting over the pounding of his own heart. "What is it? What's chasing us?"
The Witcher's reply came between ragged breaths. "Not the worst kind," he said tersely.
"If they catch us, these mortals won't stand a chance. You and I will have to fight to the death." He tossed Aldric a short sword taken from one of the sailors. "Stay close."
The horn sounded again—and again. It came from all directions this time, echoing through the fog, relentless. Panic tightened every chest. Everyone pushed harder, desperate not to fall behind.
The young guard Terry, still riding on the white wolf's back, looked around nervously, eyes wide. The mist seemed to twist and coil, forming shapes that might at any moment lunge out at them.
Aldric felt a wave of nausea and dread rise in his gut—his instincts screamed danger, coming from ahead and slightly to the right. Death was waiting there.
"Danger!" he shouted, pointing to the left. "That way—move!"
Gonz didn't hesitate. He trusted the young man's instincts. "Left! Everyone, move!"
The survivors, too terrified to think for themselves, obeyed without question. They veered left, following the stream's edge, their footfalls splashing frantically through the shallow water.
The night deepened, shadows thickening among the trees. The fog made the towering trunks loom like monstrous arms reaching inward, as if the entire forest were closing its grasp around them, determined to keep them trapped forever.
The exhausted survivors began to slow. Ted's eyes were bloodshot, his breath ragged. Only sheer willpower kept him moving. Each step was agony. At last, he stumbled over a jagged stone and fell hard, bringing the wounded guard he was carrying down with him.
The injured man, grimacing in pain, pressed a small necklace into Ted's hands. No words were needed—everyone understood what he meant.
"No! I can still—" Ted tried to get up, but his trembling legs made it impossible.
"Quiet!" Gonz hissed. His eyes flicked ahead, his body tensing. "I hear hoofbeats!"
(End of Chapter)