Colder and more urgent than before, it seemed to blow past the skin and into the very organs, piercing straight to the soul, making one shudder uncontrollably. The fire, as if provoked by something, suddenly shrank to its limit, leaving only the crimson glow of the charcoal visible.

Before anyone could react to protect themselves—

"Whoosh..."

The campfire was instantly extinguished.

For a moment, only the charcoal glowed red, casting its light on faces filled with panic and confusion, making people look scarcely different from ghosts.

The charcoal was quickly turning black and ashen.

In their terror, the group saw a shadowy figure moving in the thick fog, and then noticed another firelight not far away, its yellow glow blurred in the mist.

That fire over there hadn’t gone out!?

"Over there!"

Someone shouted, and everyone scrambled to their feet, frantically rushing toward the firelight.

The fine rain beat against their bodies, chilling them to the bone.

Mr. Thompson, short and stout and the oldest among them, ran as fast as he could but was still the slowest. As the firelight—symbolizing safety—drew nearer, he suddenly felt a hand grab his clothes, then another clutching his arm and neck. The icy fingertips seemed to pierce his flesh. In that moment, terror overwhelmed him; he stretched out his arm, trying to grab the person ahead, but could no longer reach.

This is the end...

Facing death, he could no longer recall the flowery words he’d learned as a merchant; he only knew he was likely to die here today, perhaps to be devoured by a ghost, his flesh and soul consumed, leaving nothing behind.

At this critical moment, a calloused hand seized him, the rough skin scraping his own painfully.

Mr. Thompson opened his eyes wide and saw that it was the Guard he’d paid handsomely for, now gripping his wrist tightly, cursing furiously behind him while dragging him forward with great strength.

It was as if the two sides were fighting over him.

"Boom..."

Mr. Thompson vaguely saw a burst of firelight, as if a knot of wood had exploded in the flames. The chilling sensation vanished instantly, and the force pulling him from behind disappeared, replaced by an irresistible force dragging him forward.

Swish!

Mr. Thompson was yanked into the pavilion.

He could still hear the sound of Mr. Brooks spitting, and then, with a tone of pride and disdain, he said:

"I thought it’d be something impressive!"

Mr. Thompson snapped out of his panic and realized how peaceful it was inside the pavilion—

It wasn’t that there was no wind, but only the ordinary sound of wind, so faint it was almost inaudible. Compared to the wailing and howling from before, it was utterly calm. The fire in the pavilion blazed brightly, crackling and radiating a comforting warmth, as if the sinister wind could not enter.

Just like when they first arrived.

In the firelight, a young man in a Daoist robe still sat cross-legged on the ground. His features were delicate, his expression calm, head lowered, eyes reflecting the glow of the fire.

This pavilion truly felt peaceful.

Looking back outside, the thick fog still shrouded everything, shadowy figures still moved about, lingering as if unwilling to leave, yet seemingly afraid to come closer.

"Everyone..."

It was the voice of the young mister.

The group shivered and quickly turned to look at him, their gazes respectful.

"Let’s rest here for the night."

The young mister pursed his lips as he spoke, then turned to look outside the pavilion. Fine rain fell in the mist, and he gently added:

"Don’t worry. When the rain stops, I’ll come find you."

Chapter Three: No Worries on a Thousand-Mile Journey

"Sir, rumor has it that the fog ghost on this stretch of road is not easy to deal with!" Mr. Thompson said, still shaken. "It’s been causing trouble here for months. The Nanhua county yamen invited experts from the temple, but even they couldn’t resolve it. After this heavy rain, the mountain fog has risen, making it even easier for the fog ghost to act..."

"Yes, and the roads are slippery in the dark..."

"How about waiting until tomorrow morning, when the weather clears, before you go looking for it, sir?"

"If you go, Mr. Brooks is willing to accompany you!"

Everyone chimed in, most trying to persuade Brian Carter not to go.

Some were genuinely concerned, while others perhaps simply didn’t want Brian Carter to leave so easily—but even the latter was only human nature. With so many voices, Brian Carter didn’t know whom to answer first. He stared at the fire for a few seconds, then decided not to respond to each one, and only said to the Mr. Brooks:

"The escort chief should stay here."

This was his way of making his stance clear.

This Mr. Brooks was a principled man, trustworthy and courageous. No matter his skills, such a person deserved respect.

But after saying this, Brian Carter didn’t wish to speak further.

Before long, the fine rain stopped.

Brian Carter stood up, pulled a stick of firewood from the fire, and, under the watchful eyes of the merchants and escorts, walked alone into the thick fog.

At this moment, the night was lonely, the cold rain had just ceased, shadows flickered in the mist, the wind was biting, even the wild grass seemed wary. The only one who pressed forward without fear was that solitary figure.

The group felt both admiration and worry, but there was nothing else they could do. They could only huddle by the fire, anxiously watching the depths of the fog, unsure whether they hoped for the young mister’s return or feared the fog ghost would appear again.

Before long, a burst of firelight flared in the mist.