He left the chapel behind, he didn't look back.
There was nothing for him there, just the cold, burning reminder that he didn't belong in this world.
The path ahead was narrow, curving and foggy. He didn't have any real direction, just more of that pale gray glow, but it was thicker now. The fog hugged the ground around him like creeping things, rising slowly as he passed by, swallowing his legs as he walked.
Then, without caution, he heard a sound. He slowed his steps. It was a howl, low and sharp.
Not from any real-time animals he knew. It echoed around the forest like it came from one too many mouths at once.
Some were high-pitched, others were low growls. He stopped, cold sweat trickling down his chest. Little rodents and animals scattered away in fear.
He slowly pulled out the dagger in his pouch, but it felt useless compared to whatever was watching him.
Another howl came. It sounded like it was closer this time, and his heartbeat quickened.
The mist around him thickened, curling all around him. He couldn't see more than a few feet ahead, but he noticed shapes moving just outside his field of vision. Shadows flickering in and out like dying candles, always shifting.
Then it suddenly stopped, like everything went still.
Then, without warning, something jumped out of the fog. It hit him hard.
He turned, and it was gone. It didn't feel like a living body; it felt more like a force slamming him from behind.
He hit the ground and rolled fast, lifting the dagger just in time as it came diving again.
He caught a glimpse of it—emerald eyes, jaws wide with canines long and sharp enough to tear through his skin in mere seconds.
He slashed at it, but it vanished, dissolving like it was never really there...
He stood up, and another lunged from his side. He twisted his body as fast as he could, but its claws raked his arm and his skin burned—the cold in the wound made his teeth clench.
He swung around him, wild and desperate. The blade caught something—it hissed, then vanished in the flash of fog.
More of them appeared around him, their shapes a bit clearer now. They were circling him, never staying still.
His breaths came in fast, his legs shaking in fear. He couldn't track them—they were faster than him.
He wasn't going to win this one. He wasn't even sure he would live to see the next day.
"Tsk!" He spat, taking a stance.
Another one darted in. He turned, and suddenly everything seemed to stop for a second.
Then a flash of silver cut through the air like a rainbow curve.
The wolf decapitated mid-jump—gone just like that.
He turned and stared closer at the figure standing ahead of him. From the curves, it looked female, but he didn't want to jump to conclusions yet.
He took another stance, ready for whatever it was.
Then, in a clearing, he saw her. She was standing right in front of him, cloaked and wearing a mask. Still standing like a statue, with a blue sword in her hand.
She didn't move, and the fog seemed to shift around her.
Her blade was long, one edge worn out a bit, but it was steady in her hand.
She stepped forward, and another wolf leapt for her.
She slid beneath the wolf to the other side like water, and in a flash, she cut it down.
No wasted motions. No sounds. It died.
The rest hesitated for a second, then vanished.
The silence of the forest returned, and the fog seemed to start clearing a bit.
She turned slowly, her mask now in full view. It was bone-white, carved with faded lines. Her dark hair was tied back, but her presence showed command—sharp like steel.
Then she spoke, "You shouldn't be walking the fog alone."
Her voice sounded like a melody. Maybe it was because he hadn't heard one since he got into the game—only silence for so long.
He coughed, and blood dripped out of his mouth, the pain from the wound still there.
She didn't seem like she cared, just stood there watching him. "Get up, if you can."
He pushed himself off the ground, his legs trembling slightly, but the pain didn't allow him to stand upright.
Then, in a low voice, he asked, "Who are you?"
She didn't answer at first. "You seem lost."
He didn't deny it, because it was true.
Her eyes moved toward the glowing Rune on his palm. "You have been marked."
"But I cannot detect any grace in you. No bond whatsoever."
She stepped past him, her cloak brushing his shoulders, her sword sheathed.
"You weren't meant to survive," she said quietly, "And yet here you are."
He turned to follow, but a sharp pain hit him in the chest, and he fell to the ground. His ankle gave out with a sharp jolt of pain.
She didn't turn back, just a few steps ahead she stood.
"I don't know where I am," he called after her.
She didn't react—waited a while, then finally spoke.
"You're in the Witherlands, where the dead wander and the living wish they didn't."
She turned her head slightly, just enough for him to see the edge of her mask.
"This world doesn't care who you are or what you used to be," she said, "And it won't save you."
She turned her head and kept walking.
He tried to stand up, but his body refused.
Still, he reached out again. "Wait!"
She paused once more.
"If you want to live," she said without looking back, "Then stop being a disgrace to manhood."
Then she walked away into the fog, just like she came, leaving him in the silence once more.