The mist had returned.
It crept into Qingshan like a thief in the night, rolling down from the mountains until the narrow paths and fields were swallowed whole. What should have been a cheerful spring dawn carried instead a pall of dampness, muting sound and blurring shapes.
Villagers went about their work hesitantly. The smith, usually loud with hammer and song, struck his anvil with subdued rhythm. Children who once chased chickens through the square now huddled close to their mothers, too frightened to play when they could not see more than a few paces ahead. Even the roosters crowed late, their voices muffled as if swallowed by the fog.
Liang Shen noticed it most on the walk to the eastern ridge. He had taken the path to gather herbs, a habit from his youth, yet every step seemed accompanied by echoes that did not belong to him. Once, he thought he heard soft footsteps padding just behind, but when he turned, there was only white mist curling through the air.
The mark on his chest prickled faintly, as though stirred by the presence of something unseen. He pressed a hand to it beneath his robe, his brow furrowed.
"Strange," he muttered. "The mountains were never like this before."
Later that day, while returning through the village square, Shen saw a small crowd gathered around Old Man Zhang, the village chief. The elder's face, usually calm, was grave.
"This mist is not natural," Zhang said, leaning heavily on his cane. "I've seen it once before, in my youth, when beasts left their dens too early and the harvest soured before ripening. It is an ill omen."
The villagers muttered uneasily. Some crossed themselves in old protective signs. Others glanced toward the mountain paths as though expecting the mist itself to lunge forward.
Uncle Wen, his voice firm despite his worry, tried to soothe them. "The seasons change, that is all. We've weathered bad years before. Keep your children indoors at night and light incense at your doors. No harm will come."
But even as he spoke, his eyes flicked toward the eastern ridge where the fog lay thickest.
That evening, Shen lingered outside his small hut. The mist had settled close to the ground, turning the world pale and ghostly. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw a shape moving through it—a tall shadow, gliding without sound. When he blinked, it was gone.
The mark on his chest pulsed once, a faint shimmer beneath his robe.
Shen stood still for a long while, the village quiet around him. He could not shake the feeling that Qingshan had become a stage, and the mist was the curtain rising.
Something was watching.