Dusk had nearly faded, and the forest was cloaked in a pale golden gloom. Through the dense canopy, the last rays of sunlight cast long, dappled shadows along the path. Sern and Qian moved slowly, their exhausted bodies barely holding up as they followed the trail back the way they came. Their clothes were torn and stained with dirt and the charred remains of nightmare vines.

  “Where do you think that blue energy went?” Qian asked, her voice laced with fatigue and thought. “It didn’t feel like natural magic. It… gathered itself, like it had a will of its own, and then—”

  “—And then it vanished,” Sern finished, his brows knit tight. “Maybe it wasn’t dispersing. Maybe it was relocating. We just haven’t figured out how.”

  Before he could say more, a faint rustle interrupted the silence of the woods. Sern halted abruptly, hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his sword as his eyes swept the darkening forest. Qian sensed it too. She stopped, her fingertips glowing faintly with blue light as mana gathered in her palm, ready to be unleashed.

  “There were still leaves rustling just a moment ago,” Sern whispered. “Now... nothing.”

  A thin mist began to rise from the damp, loamy forest floor. At first it was barely noticeable, but within moments it spread rapidly, curling around the air like a living thing. In the fading light, it took on an eerie bluish-gray hue. Visibility dropped sharply, and even the roots and stones beneath their feet began to blur and vanish.

  “Something’s wrong,” Qian murmured, reaching out to touch the fog. The moment her fingers brushed it, she winced. “It stings. This isn’t just water vapor—it’s laced with magic.”

  Sern slowly drew his longsword. The silver blade caught what little light remained, glinting cold and sharp. “Stay alert. Keep moving. We can’t spend the night here. This place... it’s not natural anymore.”

  They quickened their pace, hoping to escape before the fog thickened further. But the mist grew denser at an alarming rate. Soon, they could see only a few feet ahead. The shapes of trees distorted and twisted in the fog, familiar paths seeming to shift direction entirely.

  “This path... doesn’t look right,” Sern muttered, pausing. “There should be a bent oak tree here. But now...”

  Qian closed her eyes and grasped her staff tightly, beginning to chant a wind spell. A soft blue glow lit the tip of her staff as the air around them began to stir. A gentle breeze radiated outward.

  But the moment it touched the fog, it faltered—slowed, scattered, and died, as if hitting an invisible wall. Only the mist directly before her was faintly dispersed, revealing a sliver of ground.

  “The magic is being suppressed,” Qian said grimly, opening her eyes. “This fog… it’s a spell barrier. Some kind of magical interference field.”

  Sern pulled a compass-stone from his satchel—a dwarven artifact embedded with rare magnetic minerals, guided by mosslight to always point north. But the runes flickered and dimmed erratically, the directional pulse spinning wildly.

  “Even the compass is useless now,” he muttered, putting it away, his tone tight with unease.

  Just then, a subtle rustling emerged from the fog—barely audible, like something brushing against dry leaves. It grew louder, closer. The silence of the forest made it all the more jarring.

  “Someone’s there,” Qian whispered. She adjusted her staff, its glow intensifying, casting a faint halo of light through the mist.

  A silhouette emerged from the fog—a humanoid figure, moving slowly toward them. There was something oddly familiar about its shape.

  “Allen?” Sern called out cautiously.

  The figure halted at the sound, then slowly turned. The two crept forward, weapons ready. Qian raised her staff, light piercing through the fog just enough to see…

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  —and then the figure shattered.

  Like a mirror breaking, the form dissolved into writhing black vines—hundreds of them, coiling like snakes and lunging toward them in a sudden, violent swarm.

  “Look out!” Sern shouted. His blade flashed silver, cutting through the first wave of tendrils. Viscous, dark green fluid spattered from the severed ends, burning the ground with its acrid stench.

  Qian recited a quick chant and summoned a faint wind shield, barely deflecting a few of the incoming vines. But these vines were different—faster, more precise, as though they could anticipate their movements. Worse, every tendril they cut regenerated within seconds, as if the vines were... alive.

  “These aren’t ordinary vines!” Qian gasped, sweat beading her forehead, her voice strained. “They’re conscious! And they’re draining mana!”

  Sern fought back with everything he had, his swordwork still precise but slowing. After an entire day of battle, his body was nearing its limit. His muscles ached, his breath came in ragged gasps.

  “We have to retreat!” he shouted, grabbing Qian’s arm and pulling her along. “There’s too many—we’re in no shape to fight them!”

  Stumbling through brambles and thick roots, they fled blindly, directionless in the fog. Without realizing it, they reached the edge of a steep slope. Just as the vines surged again, Qian lost her footing. Sern reached out to catch her, but a thick tendril slammed into his arm.

  Together, they tumbled into the darkness.

  They rolled down the incline and landed hard at the bottom of a damp ravine.

  Agony shot through Sern’s arm as he struggled to his knees. Qian lay nearby, unconscious but breathing. Strangely, the vines did not follow. It was as if something in this valley repelled them.

  Sern crawled to her side. There was a shallow cut on her forehead, but her breathing was steady.

  “Qian, wake up,” he said gently, tapping her cheek. His eyes remained sharp, scanning the cliffs above.

  They had landed in a semi-enclosed basin surrounded by high rock walls. The mist was thinner here, and visibility had improved. A narrow stream trickled nearby, its sound calming in the otherwise silent night.

  Qian stirred, groaning. “Where... are we?”

  “We fell,” Sern replied, glancing at his arm. A deep gash ran across it, the fabric soaked in blood. “The vines didn’t follow. But... we’re lost.”

  “You’re hurt,” Qian noticed immediately. She tried to sit up but faltered, groaning from the pain.

  “Don’t push it,” Sern steadied her. “We’re safe for now. Let’s find shelter. We’ll figure things out in the morning.”

  They found a shallow depression in the cliffside, dry and defensible. Sern gathered dry branches and used his flint to light a fire. The warmth eased the night’s chill and pushed back the shadows.

  “Let me see your arm,” Qian said, pulling out basic medical supplies: clean bandages, water, and a small jar of fragrant herbal salve.

  She carefully tore away the blood-soaked sleeve. The wound’s edges had turned an unnatural shade of purple.

  “It’s venomous,” she muttered. “The vines might’ve been coated in poison.”

  She cleaned the wound with stream water, then applied the salve. Sern clenched his jaw, his body tense, but made no sound.

  “That should slow the infection,” Qian said, tying the bandage. She leaned back against the stone wall, visibly exhausted. “But we need to get you to Allen. You’ll need proper treatment.”

  “Have you recovered any mana?” Sern asked, concern in his eyes.

  Qian shook her head. “Almost none. Maybe after a night’s rest… but not much in this place.”

  They sat in silence, listening to the crackling fire and the gentle stream.

  “I’ll get some water,” Qian said after a moment, standing slowly. “You rest.”

  Sern moved to stop her, then let his hand fall. She was right—they needed water. “Be careful. Call me at the first sign of trouble.”

  Qian nodded and took the water skin, stepping carefully toward the stream. Moonlight filtered through the thinning mist, casting a faint glow that lit her path.

  She knelt at the water’s edge, hands trembling slightly from exhaustion. Just as she dipped the flask—

  Thwack.

  A black-feathered arrow struck the rock beside her foot, quivering with precision. The shaft was carved with silver runes, elegant and ancient, gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

  Qian froze. Her instincts told her—if the archer had wanted her dead, the arrow would’ve gone through her throat.

  A tall silhouette emerged from the mist, her form gradually illuminated by moonlight.

  It was a dark elf girl.

  She wore deep-toned leather armor and held an unusually shaped longbow. Her skin shimmered with violet hues, and her silver-white hair was tied in a high ponytail. Her eyes sparkled like stars—cold, sharp, and watchful.

  “Don’t move,” the elf’s voice rang out, cold as ice.“Human. State your purpose.”