Heir of the Fog

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The Path Without End

Corruption—so that was what the beasts sensed each time a human stepped beyond the safety of a ward.

It happened quickly, a roiling wave of energy that licked at my consciousness. Though I could not move, my thoughts recoiled in alarm. The corruption felt suffocating, a vile torrent of mana that made the usual thick air of the crater seem mild by comparison. The creatures feeding on me must have noticed it too, for they hissed and screeched, some stumbling backward off the bridge in startled terror.

Yet as they retreated, I realized the ongoing corruption did not come from me. It gathered in the flesh of the beasts devouring me. By then, I had already lost my limbs, and my awareness wavered between flickers of light and darkness. Even so, I could still see blurred shapes. Those once tearing into my body were themselves ripped apart by a sudden surge of predators flooding in from the hole's depths and the sky. Blood and gore sprayed over what remained of me as new packs of monsters piled up on all sides.

It looked as though the other beasts had picked up on that dangerous spread of corruption and decided to stamp it out before it consumed them all. The corrupted monsters had little time to defend; they were swiftly overwhelmed by the newcomers. I watched in hazy disbelief as the vicious cycle of devouring turned on the devourers themselves, culminating in a ghastly heap of steaming carcasses.

I noticed something else, although I sensed the corruption's rapid spread, the corrupted beasts showed almost no outward changes—besides mana leaking freely through their wounds. I had always carried corruption within me, a side effect of my condition and it got stronger after I developed my heart core and manalytic channels. My entire biological system, built to use free-flowing mana, aligned with the key principles of corruption.

Typical beasts, on the other hand, harnessed mana via a rigid core to keep that taint at bay. Even in death, their infused bones and tissues maintained some semblance of containment. But in me, there was no such barrier. That made my flesh toxic to them in a bizarre way, and I had often wondered what might happen if a monster ate a large portion of me. Now I had my answer.

The strangest part was how every beast in sight—mindless or not—instinctively united to eradicate the corrupted ones. I thought I caught a glimpse of a Crimson Core creature wading into the fray, but I could not be certain. Through it all, I felt no primordial urge to stop this corruption myself. I could only watch, half-dead, as if studying an otherworldly phenomenon.

So how did they all know, to cooperate and destroy something so swiftly?

Those questions weighed on me as I drifted deeper into a dreamlike state.

I found myself motionless in the forest of my dreams, then sitting in Elina's advanced class, and so on. Subtle changes worked through my mental library, refining my ability to dodge even while standing in place. My agility and situational awareness both sharpened, presumably to help me survive on that narrow stone bridge.

That final skirmish had shredded most of my body, yet I still felt how my healing had begun to recreate mass from mana, thanks to my heart core. It was not a profoundly transformative sleep—just a minor evolution designed to keep me alive.

I awoke to find a week or two had passed according to Kara. Piles of bodies lay around and on top of me, their smell thick in the stale air. Even more surprising was that, despite so many hungry beasts roaming the area, these corpses had remained untouched. It seemed the other creatures viewed them as tainted by corruption, unfit to eat.

My first thought was simple. I'm at or near the six-hundred-meter mark, I realized, spotting one of my anchored hooks jutting from the bridge's surface. Could I just slip out from under the bodies and keep going?

But then a grim truth settled in. I had no more anchors on me—those must have slipped away or been torn off during the feeding frenzy. Besides, the instant I stirred, several beasts in the vicinity turned their attention toward the heap of rotting flesh I was buried under. They hissed, advancing warily, as if curious whether something tainted yet alive was beneath it.

I sensed the remains of those creatures still clinging to me—an ooze of gore, thick with leftover corruption. Even after all this time, its foul aura lingered. My presence must have reactivated their wariness.

With no alternative, I sprang to my feet, hauling myself free of the tangled remains. The beasts snarled, lunging at me. I wasted no time sprinting back toward the start of the bridge.

…

The next few weeks were brutal and complicated. After failing at the six-hundred-meter mark, I had to craft an entirely new set of anchors and repair my tether. It felt like starting over, except the pit below was no less dangerous, and the beasts circling overhead were no kinder than before.

Even so, I discovered I could survive more easily on the bridge now. My growing ability to dodge while barely moving became second nature. There was something empowering about learning to shift my weight by mere centimeters, evading a lethal strike that would have taken me out in an instant before. A few times each day, I practiced maneuvers on the stone bridge, forcing myself to respond calmly to incoming threats.

But the farther I advanced, the more beasts arrived. They either flew over the gap or clambered up onto the narrow bridge. Within a few more weeks—four, by my best count—I had managed to reach the one-kilometer mark. Even from that vantage, I still could not see the other side of the bridge. The swirling fog over the chasm played tricks on my eyes, making distance seem both too close and infinitely far.

What used to challenge me at the hundred-meter mark now felt oddly routine, almost like the drills Kara once forced on me. Each day, I returned to the start of the bridge at dawn, advanced a little farther, planted an anchor under constant fight, and then retreated.

Over time, my muscle memory adapted to the small space. Initially, I had been completely unaccustomed to having so little space to move when I first arrived on the bridge. So much so that my first instinct when attacked was to leap away—straight into danger. Each reckless movement left me wide open for further strikes, and if not for my artifact bracers, I would have plummeted into the abyss.

Now, I used minimal footwork to sidestep or twist out of harm's way. That compact, almost dance-like fighting style was slowly becoming more natural. When struck from multiple directions, I realized it was not purely about speed—it was about timing each motion so precisely that I could slip through overlapping attacks without retreating or jumping unnecessarily. Even my counterattacks became sharper. As soon as a beast lunged, I would pivot just enough to dodge, then slam my fists forward into its blind spot.

Of course, the monsters did not focus solely on me. They battled one another and tore each other apart just as often as they targeted me. Before long, entire sections of the bridge turned into an ever-shifting battleground, bodies tumbling off the edges with frightening regularity.

My Gauntlets of the Starving Maw proved invaluable for clearing a path, especially if I unleashed them once or twice a day. Even with only a small charge stored, the force was enough to knock terrestrial beasts off the bridge and send flyers reeling.

Kara stopped commenting on my lack of formal training, realizing this constant life-or-death struggle exceeded any regimen she could have devised. My heart core bristled with power, especially as I grew more adept at snatching cores from the beasts during the chaos. A deeper understanding of their anatomy played a crucial role—allowing me to exploit weaknesses, sever connections swiftly, and extract cores with precision. A few times, while a frenzied fight raged, I managed to grab a fresh onyx or ebony core, stuffing it into a pouch before the next wave of violence closed in. I never consumed these cores immediately; I would wait until the evening, back at my hideout, to consume them safely away.

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Over time, I felt my maximum mana capacity rising. Healing became swifter, and the occasional lethal wound or crushed limb no longer guaranteed a long sleep unless it was truly catastrophic.

With more mana at my disposal, I could sustain healing for longer, allowing me to endure the relentless battles on the bridge without succumbing to exhaustion as quickly. My body adapted to devouring obscene amounts of monster flesh each day, my metabolism warping in ways I barely understood. That's the least of my problems, I often told myself, glancing warily at the endless pit below.

Roughly two months passed, punctuated by a few unavoidable long sleeps. Eventually, I reached the two-kilometer mark, adding dozens of anchors behind me. My attempts to cross the bridge had become a daily cycle: charge forward some distance, fight, place anchors if possible, retreat or die in the process. Each long sleep returned me slightly stronger, better suited to the madness of District 3.

But as I advanced, I began attracting the attention of Crimson Core beasts, monstrous Tier 3 enemies whose raw power dwarfed the onyx or ebony creatures infesting the lower ranks. Several times, I had the misfortune of encountering them. Each instance led to my death—my tier simply could not keep up with that level of brute force and might.

Still, the same pattern repeated as before, after I fell, my corrupted flesh infected the creatures that fed on me, causing other beasts to swarm in and destroy them. When I came back, the bodies lay untouched, a grim testament to the primal fear of corruption.

I learned to value my timing above all else, I had to move, dodge, attack, and hammer an anchor into place as swiftly as possible, minimizing the time spent on the bridge. By doing so, I reached four kilometers, though I still saw no hint of the bridge's end. The further I went, the trickier it became to retreat, and dying became the norm—my life an endless cycle of pushing forward, succumbing, then resurrecting with slight improvements.

Each time I returned, more capable of surviving the abyss, I pushed farther—five kilometers, then six. Yet no matter how much progress I made, time slipped past me in a slow, aching wave of sorrow. Sometimes, I wondered if this bridge had no end at all, if it was just another twisted trick of the fog—an endless, narrow path teeming with beasts.

Every night, I sat alone in my hideout, thinking of my family. How were they now? Did they still remember me?

I also worried Kara might be withholding the truth about how long my long sleeps really lasted, though she insisted only months had gone by. What if decades had slipped past? What if District 98 was gone by the time I finally discovered the artifact? I pictured an empty land, wards extinguished, everyone lost or scattered.

Then there was the other practical concern, I reached a point where each foray either ended in me dying halfway across, or being forced back by an onslaught of beasts I could not handle. My newly placed anchor lines and tether system did save me from falling, but it became pointless. Whenever I tried to push forward, I would die out there. The time lost in each long sleep piled up, making me anxious about whether I'd ever see home again.

Again and again, I felt the dull ache of defeat when I realized I had failed to go more than a few meters further. The stone bridge stretched on, and I was slowly losing track of how many beasts I had slain or how many times I had died.

…

After weeks of failing to place the next anchor on that endless stone bridge, I decided it was time to return to District 2 and search for more artifacts. Deep down, I held a faint hope that perhaps District 2 secretly possessed a second artifact that could improve food production—though such luck felt unlikely. Still, any possibility was better than none.

I noticed at once how my instincts and awareness had sharpened since I'd last roamed District 2. Fighting clusters of beasts hardly fazed me anymore. My body moved without wasted energy, a precision I had honed while balancing atop the bridge. Now, with ample room to maneuver, I sometimes forgot I could actually leap away from an attack if needed. It took a few skirmishes before my mind adjusted to having open space again.

All the while, I combed through deserted structures and collapsed archives for some undiscovered artifact that might either aid my crossing of the chasm or help solve our food crisis. Even District 2 held few, and those that did exist were often kept secret—hoarded by families seeking an edge in the relentless game of politics.. The district's perimeter stretched widely, so searching felt like chasing phantoms, most leads turned out to be a false artifact or a worthless trinket.

Even so, I persisted, balancing my scavenging with occasional attempts at the bridge, approaching it in a calmer state of mind. After failing again and again, I always returned to District 2, rummaging among dusty corridors and vacant mansions.

It was during one such foray that I stumbled on a massive crypt in the district's ancient cemetery—a large, ornamented stone edifice resting near overgrown headstones and toppled grave markers. Its architecture immediately caught my eye: tall arches carved with heroic scenes of Chainrunner battles. Weathered columns rose at each corner, etched with names now barely legible. A sense of solemn grandeur lingered in the heavy air, despite years of neglect.

Stepping inside, I discovered a corridor lined with faded murals. Flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows across the walls, which depicted epic struggles against fog-beasts, a man wielding a colossal two-handed sword surrounded by allies, locking blades with nightmarish creatures. The centuries-old paint had chipped away, but the scenes were still recognizable, hinting at the reverence once held for those who fought beyond the ward.

I descended a short flight of steps into a dim vestibule. Lamps once mounted on the walls had rusted. I lit several as I went, an improvised gesture of respect for the fallen heroes. Thick dust cloaked the floor, muffling my steps.

At the lower level, I came upon a set of heavy metal doors. They bore intricate carvings: angels with miniature wings, each gazing downward in vigil. I recognized the style from old Chainrunner shrines, symbolizing protection and guidance for those who ventured into the fog. Fortunately, I carried a key I had found in the Chainrunner office some time ago, and it fit the lock with a satisfying click.

Inside, the crypt opened into a broad chamber lined with stone sarcophagi, each decorated with carved runes and symbols of valor. Some effigies depicted men and women in chainmail, while others bore the image of that same massive sword-lord from the murals above. Small angels perched at each corner of the room, sculpted from pale stone, their expressions solemn. Despite the decay, the crypt retained a regal atmosphere, as though history itself lingered in these corridors.

A series of inscriptions on the wall identified this place as the final resting ground for a renowned Chainrunner captain and his loyal team. They had apparently ventured far beyond the ward's limits. The name etched most prominently was Captain Sethis Vauren—celebrated for his fearless explorations into the fog centuries ago. Alongside him, the tombs of his companions lay in neat rows, each bearing a crest or symbol that likely meant something once to District 2's older families.

From reading records on the Chainrunner office of District 2, I gathered that Captain Sethis was buried with his most prized artifact: a colossal two-handed sword. Legends claimed only he had the physical might to wield it. The texts implied that his triumphant hunts beyond District 2's boundaries secured their grip over this fog dominated world. With an elite Chainrunner crew, he traveled miles from the ward, slaying huge beasts and hauling back fresh kills, resources used to create even more artifacts and equipment.

The stories spoke of the massive beasts they had managed to kill. Clearly, this Captain and likely some of his team—had access to that drug, the one that enhanced physical capabilities beyond human limits. They must have wielded powerful artifacts as well, making such feats possible. Yet, what intrigued me most was the idea that, even in small amounts, he had managed to bring beasts back.

How had he done it? That remained a well-guarded secret. But then, a realization struck me.

How did the people of the lower districts truly manage to transport large quantities of food between districts for trade?

Our Chainrunners hauled metals and other goods using man-moved carts, but feeding entire districts? That would demand countless incursions into the fog. The path had once been clearer, yet even then, simply moving from District 2 to 100 was an immense leap—especially since District 1 had been lost long before I ever arrived.

If he was interred here with his "most precious artifact," I wondered whether there might be more to find in this crypt—some hidden relic or lost knowledge that could shed light on how District 2 managed those feats.

Dust motes swirled in the flickering light as I made my way to the far end of the crypt. An imposing sarcophagus stood on a raised platform. Its surface displayed an engraved silhouette of a huge sword, etched with swirling runic designs. My heart pounded with a mixture of awe and apprehension. If what the documents had said was true, the sword still lay within, locked away for centuries.

I paused, taking in the weight of the moment. This place felt sacred, as though each footstep resonated with the echoes of forgotten battles. The angels, carved from stone, loomed above me, their unblinking stares both reassuring and unsettling. A faint smell of ancient incense clung to the air, mingled with damp earth and the faint metallic tang of rust.

Could the artifact I sought be just within reach, sealed in the tomb of a legendary Chainrunner? Hope flickered in my chest, though tempered by the old tales of how crypts often invited grim surprises—curses or traps lurking in the dark, much like what had happened in the Cathedral.