Chapter 12: In the Gray Mist (1)

“My lord, all the goods are packed and ready. The spoils from last night’s collection—including seven cows, twenty sheep, one horse, and everything else—have been recorded in your ledger and properly handled.”

Steward Kaor wore a neat linen shirt, but his expression was utterly dour. No one was happy about entering the north. They stood atop the walls gazing outward—nothing but gray mist as far as the eye could see.

He had considered fleeing, but Phield gave him no chance.

Those slave-soldiers, corrupted by coin, had become Phield’s fanatical loyalists. Kaor was certain that the moment he tried to run, those damned curs would cut him down—and Phield would reward them with a silver each.

Damned dogs—selling their souls for money, not even caring for their lives, Kaor cursed inwardly.

That was the nature of slaves: give them a sliver of hope and better treatment, and they would offer their lives in return.

“By the way, my lord.” Kaor hesitated repeatedly, glancing at Ashina several times before finally asking, “That slave—no, I mean Miss Ashina—is she truly a Divine Chosen?

You’re not… deceiving us, are you? Could she perhaps demonstrate a miracle?”

To boost morale, Phield had gathered everyone last night and announced the news of the Divine Chosen.

“Do I still need to prove it to you? Or perhaps you’d like to pioneer this land while I serve as your steward? Though I wonder if you’d survive the empire’s purge.” Phield stopped Ashina from summoning her Drakewolf with a glance.

He snorted coldly, frowning at the steward.

This disloyal man had done nothing but spout discouraging words the entire time. If not for his useful knowledge, Phield would have gladly demoted him to stable boy.

It was time to put him in his place.

Kaor felt the pressure instantly; cold sweat slid down his forehead. He let out a choked “Uh” and fell silent.

His master was like a completely different person now. Perhaps the family’s pressure had been too much? It must be that—after all, even he didn’t want to enter the cursed lands, and a pampered noble would want it far less.

“No objections? Then we depart!”

Phield ignited a mist-dispelling lamp—one lamp costing twenty-five gold, every minute of burning like tossing coins into a fire.

Gritting his teeth, Phield stepped across the boundary into the northern frontier. All sounds and signs of life vanished abruptly around them. In their place: only terrifying silence.

Looking up, Phield saw the oppressive gray death-fog enveloping everything, eerily still, the sun itself invisible. Staying too long created the illusion of being deep underwater. Even Phield felt tension and fear; the slaves were far worse.

Without the lamp’s protection against corruption—and Phield’s revelation of the Divine Chosen—many would likely have lost their minds by now, charging straight into the mist to become monsters.

The ground writhed with red-black tendrils—corrupted plants with no attack power but capable of tangling wagon wheels.

Phield forced himself to stay calm, walking at the front of the column so everyone could see him, guiding them forward and lending them courage.

After all, if a life-loving noble pressed on, what excuse did they have to flee?

“Quack quack quack…”

“Roar!”

Strange, eerie cries echoed ceaselessly through the gray mist. The mist-dispelling lamp illuminated only a hundred paces ahead, while the roars came from farther away, offering the group no sense of security whatsoever.

Ruined walls and broken remnants lay everywhere; withered heads impaled on rusted spears dotted the ground. Phield even spotted faded banners of the Sacred Griffin Empire.

The empire had sent many pioneering legions, but they had all perished—and admirably become permanent residents here.

Phield swallowed hard.

“My lord, fall back behind me.” Ashina’s crimson eyes scanned warily to the right front. “Monsters are approaching.”

Soon, a corpse missing half its face staggered into Phield’s view.

Whoosh!

Ashina loosed an arrow from her bow; a silver streak cut through the air.

The corpse’s head burst like a melon. The body rolled twice on the ground before lying still.

“Careful! More monsters incoming!” Phield’s minimap flared with a massive wave of skull icons. Since they’d been spotted, he dropped any attempt at stealth. “Form the wagon wall as before! Crossbowmen and archers—fire!”

At Kazan Fortress, Phield had acquired eighty crossbows and a hundred imperial standard bows. Unfortunately, only two or three slaves knew how to shoot properly, but crossbows were easy to use, so he had armed twenty ranged troops.

The monstrous cries grew more frenzied, accompanied by dense footsteps. A vast horde of corpses surged into view. Thanks to the minimap, Phield knew their positions, but the density was too high—they were forced into close combat.

“Damn it—fire!”

No further orders were needed; the slaves were already shaking as they loosed their bolts.

Whoosh whoosh—the front rank of corpses slammed into an invisible wall, seven or eight dropping at once.

Ashina holstered her bow, summoned her Drakewolf, and charged. Though only a first-tier Divine Chosen, her combat power far surpassed mortal limits.

Her longsword danced like a butterfly, felling corpse after corpse.

Heads severed by the blade, bodies crushed beneath massive claws—Ashina plunged into the densest cluster, commanding the giant wolf to spin while breathing fire. A whirlwind of flame erupted; surrounding corpses were reduced to bone ash in moments.

“It… it really is a Divine Chosen?” Kaor rubbed his eyes, face full of disbelief.

Ashina absorbed massive pressure, but the tension never eased. Limited visibility in the gray mist, combined with endless waves of emerging corpses, inflicted crushing psychological strain.

“Kill!” Ben growled low, thrusting his halberd toward the oncoming horde.

Three or four halberds stabbed into corrupted chests in unison, then flicked upward. The corpses flew like ragged sacks, slamming to the ground. More monsters crashed into Ben’s slave-guard line; fists and claws rained against shields and plate in a frantic clanging like hammers on an anvil.

“Hm? Something’s flying overhead?”

Phield spotted a fast-moving skull icon on his map—directly above them. Without hesitation, he rolled off his horse. He was the only one still mounted and elevated—far too exposed.

He’d barely regained his footing, head still lowered, when a rush of wind assaulted him.

“Watch above!”

Phield ducked instinctively, thrusting his longsword upward. In that fleeting glance, he caught sight of a bat-woman.

Bald, eyebrowless, grotesquely ugly—save for feminine body contours. Her arms were bat wings; her legs ended in razor-sharp hooked talons.

The bat-woman’s wings beat the air, her sagging, rotting breasts jiggling with each flap—hideous, utterly devoid of anything remotely alluring, only nauseating.

In a single swooping dive, she snatched up a female slave. The poor woman thrashed and screamed desperately, but no one could reach her. Moments later, the creature tore her in half mid-air; blood rained down, drawing gasps of horror from the column as the bat-woman let out a mocking, screeching cackle.

“Shoot that ugly freak down!” Phield roared, fury blazing in his eyes.

He didn’t even need to give the order—the crossbowmen and archers were already livid, raising their weapons in unison.

A heartbeat later, bolts and arrows wove a lethal storm through the sky.

The bat-woman had clearly underestimated human firepower. Multiple shafts struck her in mid-flight; her body jerked, momentum lost, and she plummeted in an ungainly crash to the ground.

“That filthy thing dared attack my people! Every single one of them cost me coin!”

Phield snatched a halberd from the wagon in a rage, abandoning all pretense of noble grace, and smashed the creature’s head into pulpy muck.

The chaos on the flank left an opening. Without ranged fire holding them back, a massive wave of corpses surged forward.

“Clear the way!”

Ashina channeled her power at once. Black scales along the Drakewolf’s neck began to hiss and smoke; terrifying energy gathered, warping the very air around it.

Boom!

A torrent of ghostly blue flame erupted from the wolf’s maw. Scorching heat rolled outward in waves; the azure inferno swept the battlefield ahead of Phield. Every twisted silhouette vanished almost instantly, consumed utterly by the blaze.

Phield felt it clearly—even the surrounding gray mist thinned noticeably under the intense heat.

“So hot!” The guards, clad in full plate, winced and grimaced from the proximity, baked like iron on a forge. Corrupted blood baked dry and crusted onto their armor.

Ashina stuck out her tongue sheepishly.

“Sorry.”

The continuous flames wiped out the bulk of the horde. What remained posed little threat; the group successfully repelled the first wave of the corpse tide.

Three slaves and one slave-guard dead—acceptable losses.

“Rest in place for half an hour. Women—go recover the arrows.”

Phield took a waterskin from Kaor and gulped deeply. The cold liquid stung his throat, grounding him, reminding him this nightmare was real.

“Thanks to you, Ashina.” He reached out and ruffled her hair affectionately. Ashina flushed bright red, her wolf tail whipping like a propeller, as though she might lift off the ground.

She shook her head, feigning modesty, face still burning. “It was my duty.”

But inside she was screaming: Keep praising me—don’t stop!

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