Yè Chényōu followed the guidance left by the divine beast, moving cautiously as the fog thickened, wrapping around him like a damp, suffocating blanket. Each step pressed into soft mud and fallen leaves, the sound echoing faintly through the valley, yet somehow swallowed by the void. The surrounding trees twisted unnaturally; every leaf seemed to watch him like an eye, and when the wind blew, low, mournful groans resonated through the forest.
His heart raced, chest heavy as if weighed down by a stone. Yè Chényōu suddenly realized there was no turning back. With every step, the fog seemed to consume the path behind him. He felt as though he were adrift in an endless black ocean, the unknown ahead both vast and terrifying.
Suddenly, faint whispers reached his ears, almost imperceptible, seeming to emerge from the mist—or perhaps from his own mind. He could not tell reality from nightmare, catching only fragments:*"Do not… look back… do not… trust…" *Each word pierced his mind like a needle, shaking his grasp on reason.
He tried to suppress his fear, reminding himself: "This is the Lingyu. This is the unknown. This is a trial…" Yet the harder he tried to convince himself, the more the unease swelled. Shadows flickered at the corners of his eyes—creatures without form or substance moving silently. Every time he turned, he saw only twisted tree trunks, yet he felt someone—or something—following, its breath brushing his neck.
The mud beneath his feet suddenly glimmered with an unnatural light. Squatting, he touched it and found strange symbols, ancient writing trembling faintly. The symbols radiated an inexplicable force, making his scalp tingle and his heartbeat quicken. He tried to scream, but his throat blocked the sound; only suppressed sobs churned within his chest.
Deep in the mist, he saw a patch of still water, its surface flickering with an eerie green glow. The light twisted as if alive, reflecting his own distorted, pale face. The water rippled suddenly, as if manipulated by invisible hands, revealing the deepest fears in his heart: isolation, helplessness, disorientation. Doubt gnawed at him—could he ever leave this valley? Could he preserve his sanity?
His legs went weak, knees barely supporting his weight. Leaning against a dead tree, he drew several deep breaths, yet the air carried a hint of decay, as though someone—or something—watched him from afar. He closed his eyes; memories of childhood fears, adolescent loneliness, and youthful loss surged, all suppressed terrors converging in this moment.
He felt as though darkness had swallowed him, his consciousness blurring. The whispers became clear and urgent:*"You… cannot… turn back…" *Yè Chényōu's eyes snapped open. The fog still enveloped him, yet now it carried an almost tangible pressure. Each breath felt like inhaling icy thorns; each step seemed to tread the edge of an unknown abyss.
Yet, at the brink of utter despair, a strange power rose from deep within—a pull of the unknown, an irresistible sense of purpose. He gritted his teeth, slowly standing, eyes flickering with a faint, resolute light through the mist.
He did not know what lay ahead, nor whether he would survive. But he understood this: no matter how terrifying the fog or how warped the illusions, the Lingyu was calling to him, and his steps could no longer stop.
In the Misty Abyss, strange lights and shadows intertwined, ancient symbols flickered, and unknown whispers echoed—Yè Chényōu's figure moved forward, slow but determined, disappearing into the darkness.