As they drew nearer, a strange pressure began to settle across the vessel. The mist rolled out toward them like a curtain parting, yet the sky above remained gray and distant, its cloud cover unbroken. Moonlight dulled, flattening the world into monochrome.
Then the moment came.
The ship crossed into the mist, and everything changed.
A jolt—a feeling not unlike walking through a door and finding the air heavier on the other side. The sea’s gentle rhythm remained, but the space around them shifted. The light dimmed unnaturally, as though the mist itself was absorbing it.
And then, the notifications came.
[As an Undead, you cannot suffer mind-altering or mind-compelling illusions.]
[Your Death Point has been set to: The Sorrowful Mist.]
[Feelings of Sorrow, Pain, and Agony are amplified!]
[As an Undead, you are unaffected.]
[You are in a Hostile Environment.]
[You have entered the domain of the Thorn-Wombed Queen.]
Ludwig’s frown deepened. The name was new. He didn’t like new.
Another prompt blinked into view.
The Thorn-Wombed Queen has already Descended.
Urgent Quest Triggered.
Objective: Discover the cause behind the Descent at both Bastos March and the Dawn Isles.
Secondary Objective: Complete your task before the Holy Order’s vessel reaches the islands.
He dismissed the system screen with a thought. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, scanning the mist-choked landscape ahead. The fog was so thick it clung like cobwebs to the edges of the deck, creeping inward, seeping into wood and breath alike.
Behind him, the sailors had begun to mutter. Their voices carried tremors, quiet and strained.
“This isn’t normal,” someone whispered.
“Something’s wrong,” came another, louder. “I… I shouldn’t be here.”
The panic spread quickly, the kind that brewed not from violence, but from the deep, primal sense of being watched by something far too big to comprehend.
It was in their bones.
In the marrow of their limbs.
Mass Hysteria was spreading, and it was doing it fast. To the point that the whole ship felt contaminated with it.
“Everyone calm the hell down!” a voice barked as a Vampire Hunter burst onto the deck, sword half-drawn. His falchion gleamed even in the dulled light, and his boots thudded sharply as he moved with practiced authority.
“This is just mist!” he shouted. “You cowards never seen fog before? Pull yourselves together and get us to shore!”
The sailors hesitated, caught between obedience and overwhelming dread. The falchion did the rest. Most of them moved without a word, hands shaky on ropes and rails.
The other two hunters followed shortly after. One was already inspecting the edges of the mist with narrowed eyes.
“This wasn’t like this before,” said the man with the twin Sais, his tone clipped.
“No, it wasn’t,” the third muttered. “We’ve only been gone a month. Something’s changed.”
From the crow’s nest, another voice rang out, shrill and panicked.
“What… what is that?”
Heads turned.
Ludwig followed their line of sight, and his grimace deepened.
There, high above, the crescent moon that had followed them quietly for days had changed. No longer small or distant, it now loomed—massive and grotesque. A red-tinted sphere that pulsed with unnatural light. And in the center of it, unmistakably, an eye. Wide, lidless, and unblinking. A pupil that tracked movement. A gaze that knew them. That judged them.
Ludwig inhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t blink.
“That,” he murmured under his breath, “is what would’ve happened in Bastos March… if the Moon Flayed King had fully descended.”
Thomas’s voice whispered in his mind, soft but grave. “Then let’s hope this one isn’t worse.”
The Knight King’s voice followed, more direct. “Focus. Don’t let the eye distract you. Look ahead. The largest island.”
Ludwig squinted into the fog.
Amid the swirling gray, something moved.
Massive. Silent. Indistinct.
He wasn’t sure if it walked or slithered or floated—but it shifted with the presence of something ancient. Something far beyond the boundaries of mortal scale.
The ship crept forward, cutting a path through the veil. The water remained still. Too still. Not even the soft splash of waves against the hull. Just silence. As though the sea itself was holding its breath.
Debris began to appear, floating slowly past the sides of the ship. Bits of broken wood. Torn sails. Rotted ropes. They bobbed gently, lifeless remains of ships that had come before.
None had made it back.
Ludwig said nothing, but he didn’t need to. His body was already tense, muscles coiled just enough to act—but not enough to betray worry. His hands remained at his sides, though his fingers had curled slightly.
Then the ship lurched.
It wasn’t violent. Just… abrupt. A soft, jarring stop.
Everyone aboard jerked forward.
“What the hell was that?” one of the hunters barked.
“We hit sand!” came the reply from the helm.
“That’s impossible,” another said. “We’re still too far out. Look at the shore!”
“We’re not moving anymore,” the sailor confirmed, his voice shaking.
“Can’t you fly us there?” the hunter snapped.
“The Baron’s ship doesn’t have flight magic! This isn’t some royal vessel, it’s a trade ship!” the captain shouted back.
“Worthless nobility…” the falchion-wielder muttered under his breath, gripping the side rail. “Fine. Drop the rowboats. We’re going in the old way.”
The crew rushed to obey. Thick ropes were released. A rowboat groaned as it was lowered into the water. The hunters clambered in, armor clinking, blades resting across their laps with practiced ease.
One of them turned, eyeing Ludwig.
“You coming?” he asked.
Ludwig gave a single nod and stepped forward, calm and silent as ever. He climbed into the boat and sat at the edge, hands folded, unmoving.
Two unlucky sailors were chosen to row—neither of them volunteers.
Blades did the convincing.
Ludwig didn’t glance at them. He just stared forward as the boat began to cut across the last stretch of black water.
When they reached shore, the silence was so complete that even the scraping of the hull against wet earth sounded intrusive.
And then they stepped off.