At the hour of Mao, dawn still pressed low beneath the clouds.
Outside the gates of Red Dust Pavilion, a dense cluster of figures had already gathered. Morning fog drifted like pale silk, wrapping more than twenty young faces—tight with nerves, sharp with anticipation, heavy with the kind of resolve that comes only when there's no way back.
Jiang Mucheng stood at the front. The early wind lifted the hem of his faded robes.
Behind him were the fifteen members of the Commoners' Mutual Aid Society.
Lu Hanshan's grip on his blade was corded with veins. Wang Duobao ran through the supplies one last time. Zhou Xiaohuan's knuckles were white around her medicine pouch. Zheng Xiaoqi checked rope knots again and again, as if his life depended on them—because it did. Qian Duoduo's mechanical case sat open. Sun Erniang's herb basket leaked a bitter medicinal scent. Liu Sanpao's lightning talismans pulsed faintly against his chest. Feng Wuhen scanned the surroundings like a hawk.
And Zhao Tieniu—
His metal arm hung at his side. Five steel fingers opened and closed unconsciously, clicking softly.
Beyond them stood the outsiders.
Nangong Feiyue, dressed in blazing red, like a living flame cloud.
Dongfang Qingluan, in green robes, folding fan at rest, calm as bamboo in wind.
Lin Hanshan, three zhang away, sword on his back—silent, upright, like a blade planted in earth.
The people from Mirage Mist Manor hadn't arrived yet.
"Brother Jiang," Lu Hanshan said quietly, voice tight as a drawn bowstring. "Everyone's here."
Jiang Mucheng nodded. His gaze swept across every face. Fog billowed with their breathing, like beasts waiting for dawn.
"Everyone," he said.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried—like a stone dropped into deep water.
"This trip into the Mistbound Forest is nine deaths out of ten. But some roads—if you don't walk them, they never exist."
He paused.
At that moment, sunlight pierced the clouds and struck his brow, lighting eyes far too calm for what lay ahead.
"Three rules. I'll say them once."
"First. Once we enter the forest, my word is final. If I say east, no one goes west. If you disagree, turn back now. No shame in it."
"Second. Lives come before everything. Loot can be lost. Missions can fail. People must survive. Only the living get a second chance."
"Third. Avoid conflict whenever possible. Endure when you can. We're here to gather resources—not to die proving bravery."
Silence followed.
No one moved.
Only the morning wind passed through the trees, carrying away the last scraps of hesitation.
Just as Jiang was about to give the order—
A sweet, cloying floral scent drifted in from afar.
Two women emerged from the fog like blooming illusion-flowers.
The one in purple led, beauty so refined it felt unreal—Huan Xinyue. Behind her, a girl in green carried a bamboo basket, bottles clinking softly inside.
"Junior Brother Jiang," Huan Xinyue smiled, gaze brushing the crowd like spider silk. "Up early. Everyone's here? Then let's go."
She spoke as if the group already belonged to her.
The air froze.
Jiang Mucheng didn't change expression. He cupped his hands politely.
"Senior Sister Huan honoring us with her presence is our fortune. But before departure, we should divide responsibilities."
"Responsibilities?" Her brow arched—perfectly.
"Exactly." His tone remained mild. "The forest is deadly. Everyone should play to their strengths."
He continued smoothly.
"Senior Sister Huan handles illusion-breaking and scouting. Senior Sister Nangong's fire arts counter阴 entities. Brother Dongfang oversees spatial stabilization and array repair. Brother Lin protects the formation. The rest of us—each assigned accordingly."
Every piece placed where it belonged.
Respect given. Control retained.
Huan Xinyue stared at him for three breaths.
Even the fog seemed to hold still.
Then she laughed—ripples on water, beautiful and unreadable.
"Fine," she said. "We'll follow your lead."
Her smile sharpened slightly.
"But fair warning, Junior Brother—if you take a wrong step inside, I'll take command immediately."
"As you should," Jiang replied.
The Mistbound Forest lay three hundred li southeast.
Flying artifacts could have reached it in an hour, but Jiang chose to travel on foot. Twenty people in the sky were too obvious—like torches in the dark.
They followed ravines, animal paths, dense woodland.
By noon, the legendary sea of fog stood before them.
A true wall of mist.
Thick, roiling white—like a wound in the world, slowly oozing. Shapes formed and dissolved: beasts, faces, twisted trees. Deeper in, ancient trunks loomed like drowned giants' bones.
"That's it," Feng Wuhen said, unease clear on his dark face. "I've gathered herbs near the edge before. Never gone deeper. The illusions inside… they eat people."
Jiang unfolded Murong Xueli's map.
Three entrances marked.
They took the southwest—where the remains of an ancient teleportation array lay.
"Rest for half an incense," Jiang ordered. "Eat. Check gear. Once we enter, we may not get another chance."
They sat.
Crunching rations. Water skins knocking together. Steel whispering against leather.
Jiang didn't eat.
He stepped to the fog's edge and reached in.
Ice-cold.
Not simple damp chill—this was cold soaked with distorted spiritual energy. Something flowed within the fog. Not wind.
"Feel that?" Dongfang Qingluan approached, bronze compass in hand, star sigils carved across its face. "Spatial distortion. A natural illusion array needs three conditions—chaotic qi, light refraction, unstable space. This place has all three."
The compass needle spun wildly.
"Can the teleport array still function?" Jiang asked.
"Hard to say," Dongfang replied. "Distortion interferes with stability. A ten-zhang deviation would be lucky. Ten li wouldn't be rare. If it hits a spatial tear…"
He didn't finish.
"I understand," Jiang said. "But forcing our way through? Less than half would reach the core. At least with the array—everyone's on the same ship. If it sinks, it sinks together."
Dongfang studied him, then nodded.
Half an incense later, they regrouped.
Jiang stood before the fog and looked back one last time.
Twenty faces—lit and shadowed—burning with something different in each pair of eyes.
"Once inside, stay close," he said. "If you're separated, don't panic. Trigger your signal talisman immediately."
He paused.
"The forest's greatest danger isn't monsters—it's illusion. It shows you what you desire most… and what you fear most. Guard your mind. Don't trust your eyes."
Then he stepped into the fog.
Cold swallowed him whole.
Visibility dropped to three steps. Beyond that—blurred silhouettes.
Sound thickened. Wind mixed with water. Bird calls bled into beast cries. And underneath—
Crying. Laughter. Whispers.
"Stay together!" he shouted, the sound dying within three zhang.
He pushed All-Being Resonance Art to its limit.
Five zhang. That was all he could sense.
Footsteps. Breathing. Heartbeats.
And something else—soft, alien rustling.
"Something on the left," Lin Hanshan's voice cut through the fog. "About ten zhang."
Jiang sensed it too—dragging movement. Slow. Uneven.
"Ignore it. Keep moving."
They advanced like a silent serpent.
The deeper they went, the thicker the fog became.
Branches twisted like grasping hands. Moss slick underfoot. Every step landed on uncertainty.
After half an hour, the fog thinned.
A clearing appeared.
At its center stood a towering tree, crowned with golden fruit—each fist-sized, glowing like molten gold. Exotic flowers carpeted the ground, colors violently bright. The scent was dizzying.
"Golden Spirit Fruit!" Qian Duoduo shouted. "Upper Yellow-tier! One could replace half a year of cultivation!"
Eyes reddened. Breathing quickened.
"Don't move!" Jiang barked. "It's an illusion!"
"But the qi—" Qian protested.
"The more real it feels," Huan Xinyue said coldly, "the more lethal it is. Look at the colors. Real spiritual plants are restrained. These scream hunger."
She raised a hand.
Purple light struck the tree.
The entire scene shattered like glass.
Behind it lay reality—a filthy swamp, half-rotted bones floating, black beetles crawling through skulls.
Cold air rushed through the group.
"Move on," Jiang said evenly. "In this place, your eyes are the first traitors."
They pressed deeper.
Illusions came endlessly—spirit stones, rare herbs, dead relatives reaching out from the fog.
Huan Xinyue broke each one—but slower now. Sweat beaded at her temples.
"Rest?" Jiang asked quietly.
"Can't," she said, breathing hard. "The deeper we go, the stronger they get."
Before she finished—
The fog churned violently.
A massive shape pushed through.
A spider.
The size of an elephant.
Eight legs like iron pillars. Its back studded with countless crimson eyes. Its abdomen—
A twisted human face, mouth open, crying like a newborn.
Soul-piercing sound waves slammed into them.
Several weaker disciples staggered, clutching their heads.
"Human-Faced Spider," Feng Wuhen whispered. "One of the forest's lords. At least mid–Qi Condensation. It shouldn't be here!"
"Formation!" Jiang roared.
The front line snapped into place.
The spider spewed white silk—blanketing the sky.
"Fire!"
Nangong Feiyue's flames roared upward.
"Lightning!"
Talismans exploded.
The beast lunged.
Steel clashed.
Blood sprayed.
Poison mist poured out.
Two disciples fell.
Chaos.
Jiang's mind raced.
"We can't brute-force this."
"Huan—confuse it!"
Illusions bloomed.
The spider faltered.
"Now!"
Blade. Sword. Flame.
They struck together.
The scream tore the fog apart.
The spider fell.
Dead.
And this was only the beginning.
Ahead—
The forest waited.
Tongue of the Licking Dao · Saying No. 61
Real trouble is never the enemy standing in front of you.
It's arriving late—and realizing the trap is already set,
the table is full,
and you're both the guest and the main course.
That's a trap within a trap.