The rotten smell thickened with every step.
At first it had been a faint stench clinging to the wind, something they could tolerate by tightening their jaws and breathing shallowly through their mouths.
Now it was a wall.
Each breath scraped through their throats like damp cloth dragged across mold. The air grew heavier, denser, soaked in Yin Qi and the remnants of too many deaths. Even those with stronger constitutions felt their chests tighten unconsciously.
The path itself had begun to change.
What had once been a relatively clear strip of hardened ground between the swamps was narrowing–slowly at first, then more quickly. Each step forward shaved away width until two people couldn't stand side by side without brushing shoulders.
Rotten flesh pressed in on either side.
The "path" was no longer true earth. It was sediment–compressed, flattened remains of those that came before. Bones ground fine and mixed with mud. Tattered clothes, broken weapons, and decayed armor peeked through in patches, half-swallowed by grey-brown sludge.
Everyone's breathing became shallow.
The first defense line they had already broken through had been terrifying enough. Now, with every step into this suffocating corridor, the unknown of the second defense line loomed over their hearts like a shadow.
No one knew what waited deeper in.
The long staffs in their hands were their only comfort.
Wooden poles hardened with spiritual energy, they served as both support and test. They probed the path ahead, poked at suspicious ground, and pushed aside flesh or bone obstructing the way.
Sometimes, when they pressed a patch of seemingly solid ground, it would sink slightly and emit a wet squelch. Then they would adjust their steps, shifting away, choosing a different point to land their feet.
Every step was a negotiation with death.
A few steps later, one of the front-runners jabbed the staff ahead and pushed aside a thick bundle of rotting flesh that lay like a collapsed sack.
The mass rolled sluggishly away and split.
Beneath it–
A cluster of worms writhed.
They were small, their thickness about that of a little finger and their length no longer than a palm, but densely packed like knotted ropes. Their bodies were smooth and glossy, the kind of sheen that made them look almost wet even in this lightless place.
Their color–
Pure red.
Not the red of blood spilling fresh, but the deep, smoldering red of coals left in a dying fire.
They had no eyes. No visible mouths. They simply moved–curling, stretching, threading over one another in a mass of silent, mindless motion.
Chief Azriel and the more seasoned treasure hunters visibly tensed.
They carefully withdrew their staffs and instinctively kept their distance, their bodies angling away from the worms.
"Don't touch them," one of the older hunters murmured quietly to his nearby companions. "Don't stir them."
Even without anyone naming them, Kiaria and Diala could guess.
Infant Blood Worms.
The adults would be worse.
The group adjusted their steps, giving a wider berth to places where flesh bulged oddly or where faint red glows wriggled beneath torn skin. No one wanted to be the one who misjudged and stepped into a nest.
For a while, the only sounds were the muffled squelch of boots on corpse-sealed soil and the faint sliding of worms beneath.
Then–
Someone fell out of rhythm.
One of the newer treasure hunters–his gear still relatively pristine, his eyes holding more greed than caution–slowed his pace at the back of one cluster.
His attention drifted.
His gaze had caught something in the swamp to the right.
Floating there, half-submerged in viscous dark-grey sludge, was a ring.
Not an ordinary one.
A luminous pearl ring, its surface glimmering faintly with its own soft light, rotated lazily near the surface. The filthy swamp water that touched it did not seem to stain or dim its glow.
His heart leaped.
"Hey! Don't be careless, newbie. Keep pace with us. Ornaments… don't be fooled…" a lean, weak-looking old man behind him tapped his shoulder and spoke in a low, dry tone.
The old man did not even stop as he warned him. He simply walked past with the others, his staff sweeping lightly before him.
The rookie clicked his tongue.
"Tch. What do you know?" he muttered under his breath. "As long as it turns into spirit jades and beast cores in my hands, I don't give a shit where it comes from. I'll take this."
His eyes fixed greedily on the ring.
He shifted his grip on the long staff and extended it toward the swamp.
The staff dipped into the murky, foul liquid with a soft plop.
He used the tip like a hook to drag the ring closer.
For a moment, it seemed to work.
But–
The swamp wasn't simple mud.
It clung.
Thick, almost gelatinous, it wrapped around the staff and hissed faintly where its fluids touched wood and spiritual energy both. Corrosion spread along the staff's length like ink soaking through paper.
The rookie's eyes widened.
The hardened wooden staff began to soften and darken at an alarming speed, the outer layers melting away as if eaten by unseen teeth.
He panicked.
Instead of letting go, he leaned more of his weight onto it, stretching forward farther. His upper body tilted out over the swamp as he tried to pull the ring in quickly before his tool collapsed.
The ring came closer.
Just a little more.
He forgot.
Forgot that the ground beneath his feet wasn't firm soil.
Forgot that the "path" was living on borrowed balance.
His front foot shifted half an inch.
The compressed corpse-sediment beneath his toes crumbled.
The path edge gave way like rotten crust.
With a sudden lurch, the entire section of ground he was standing on collapsed and slid into the swamp with him on top of it.
There was no time to shout.
His face and hands hit the surface first with a sickening splash.
The foul liquid surged over his head, soaking his clothes, burning his skin.
He flailed.
He did not sink at once–the swamp was thick and dense, more like a semi-solid ooze than water. His upper body was half-supported by the decayed chunks he'd fallen with. But his strength, thrust into his upper body earlier, betrayed him now. He struggled wildly, trying to push himself up.
That was when the worms came.
The red, eyeless, finger-thick creatures surged upward in a tide from below. They crawled over him in a wave, smearing across his arms, face, chest. There was no visible biting, no tearing–instead, they simply forced their way in.
Through his open mouth as he gasped.
Through his nostrils.
Through his ears.
Through the whites of his eyes.
He gargled.
His limbs jerked.
His Yang energy, the warmth of life inside his dantian and meridians, became a feast. The worms devoured it greedily, draining the vitality from his flesh as easily as they moved through the sludge.
The thick Yin Qi in the air made everyone's senses duller than normal.
Their breathing was already shallow.
Communication was delayed.
The sound of his fall was muffled by distance and the squelching ground. Those ahead were focused on their own steps, eyes locked on the narrowing road.
No one noticed that one treasure hunter had disappeared from their number.
The path continued to narrow until, at last, it ended.
"Dead end…" Chief Azriel muttered, his voice low.
The way in front of them terminated abruptly in a wide curve of swamp on all sides. There was no visible continuation of solid ground–only the sluggish, thick surface of the corpse-saturated mire.
The inexperienced treasure hunters tensed.
Murmurs crept through their lines.
"Is that it?"
"Did we take the wrong way?"
"Maybe there's a hidden path…"
Some, unable to suppress their nerves, began quietly discussing what they'd seen along the way–shiny artifacts half-buried in the swamp, armor pieces, rings, pendants. The words "treasure," "inheritance," and "loot left by the dead" seeped into their whispers like poison.
A few started calling for companions they couldn't see in the immediate crowd.
"Has anyone seen Huo?"
"Where did that idiot go?"
Those who had experience did not answer.
They simply tightened their grips on their staffs, jaws set, eyes scanning the surroundings while keeping their backs turned just enough to keep the newbies from seeing their grimness.
Chief Azriel's expression cooled.
He turned around to face the group.
The moment his gaze swept over them, the air shifted.
The experienced hunters reacted first.
As if they had rehearsed it, several of them grabbed the nearest newbies and clamped hands over their mouths, cutting off their mutters mid-whisper.
The younger hunters froze in shock.
Eyes wide.
Bodies stiff.
They stared at the older men restraining them, confusion tangled with fear. They wanted to ask why, but the pressure of calloused fingers kept their lips shut.
Chief Azriel met the eyes of his veterans.
He gave a single, short nod.
At once, they released their holds and stepped back into place, staffs angled once again toward the swamp, postures watchful.
The newbies gulped air in, ready to complain.
But something in the way the Chief stood–silent and steady at the edge of the dead-end–kept their tongues pressed to their teeth.
"Don't panic," Azriel said, his voice calm but carrying. "We are safe for now."
Silence spread like slowly falling dust.
The treasure hunters, shaken by the sudden tension and then the quiet, turned their full attention to him.
"My subordinates have already evaluated both sides of the swamps around this path," Azriel continued. "As well as the path itself."
He tapped the ground with his staff.
"The path ends here."
No one interrupted this time.
"The place we have been walking on," he went on, "is not natural road. It is accumulated sediment–the debris of dead bodies compressed together. Bones. Flesh. Armor. All packed by time and pressure."
He pointed his staff toward the swamp on either side.
"On the way here, both sides were swamps. The depth is not great–but they are filled with the young of Blood Worms. Those little red things you saw under the rotting meat."
Several newbies swallowed hard, remembering the sight.
"Adult worms cannot swim and crawl in shallow depths like that," Azriel said. "That is why we were safe until now. They cannot reach us in such low levels."
He turned back toward the swamp ahead of them.
"But from here forward, there is no more path. And those 'ornaments' you see floating in the swamp?"
He flicked his chin toward a glittering necklace half-submerged not far away.
"They are not blessings of luck. They are bait. Camouflage to lure beasts–and people like us–closer."
A hush fell.
Those who had glanced at treasures earlier now turned their eyes away, faces paling.
At the back, the lean old hunter narrowed his eyes, scanning the group. His gaze swept once, twice, then stopped.
The greedy newbie he had warned moments before was nowhere to be seen.
"As expected…" Elder Mu Li murmured under his breath, too softly for anyone but those nearest to hear.
Chief Azriel finished speaking, then turned his gaze toward the old man as if pulled by a thought.
He stepped through the line of hunters and approached him with steady strides.
"Greetings, Elder Mu Li," the Chief said, bowing his head slightly. His tone held respectful weight.
The old man snorted lightly.
"Azriel," he said, voice dry, "cut your formalities. Just keep things straight."
The Chief smiled thinly beneath his grimness.
"Elder," he said, "you are our senior Calligraphy Master. I would like to request your help to move forward. Will you…?"
The way he spoke was not the order of a leader to a subordinate.
It was the request of a student to a teacher.
Mu Li sighed, his gaze going briefly to the swamp and then to the paths behind them.
"This era's youngsters…" he muttered. "Too energetic. Too eccentric. If they all had calm heads like yours, that newbie might still be breathing with us."
Azriel's eyes sharpened.
"Newbie?" he asked. "Someone troubled you?"
Mu Li shook his head.
"Let it be," he said, his face smoothing into a weary calm. "He took his own path. Nothing you can fix now. Tell me what you want from me this time."
His pale face carried a faint, almost ghostly smile.
Azriel's gaze softened for a moment.
"Master," he said, "can you draw Wind-Leaf Boats for each of the team members?"
His words bore no hint of command.
Only earnest request.
Mu Li's thin lips twitched.
"Oh, I'm old now, Azriel," he replied. "My Wind Leaves can't handle the weight of such energetic youngsters."
His voice carried a double meaning.
Azriel understood.
"I see," he replied.
He turned slightly and called his twin subordinates forward. The two young men approached quickly, stopping at his side.
Azriel leaned in and murmured instructions into their ears.
They listened, nodded once, then turned to face the crowd.
"Newbies," one of the twins called out. "Everyone except Ghost Shade, step forward."
Newcomers moved hesitantly ahead. Fear, confusion, and a faint sense of impending loss flickered across their faces.
They didn't dare argue.
"From each of your spatial rings," the twin continued, "take out one auxiliary valuable treasure. Submit it as a contract and payment to Elder Mu Li–in exchange for his aid, and as a pledge of your obedience."
His tone was firm.
"These treasures will be returned," the other twin added, "after we cross the Swarm's core. But if you can't trust this sacrifice, turn back now."
Reluctance flickered in some eyes.
A few younger hunters opened their mouths as if to protest, but the memory of the collapsing path and the stories of the Swarm weighed heavily on their tongues.
One by one, they began to comply.
Reluctant faces softened under the looming pressure of the dangers ahead. Shiny daggers, rare herbs, small jade slips, talismans, rings, and pills were pulled out and offered.
The second twin produced an auxiliary ring and began collecting the items, accepting each piece and sending it into the ring's inner space.
Once the last item had been submitted, he closed the ring and carried it back to Azriel.
Azriel took it with both hands and turned to Mu Li.
He presented it to the elder without hesitation.
Mu Li accepted the ring, weighed it briefly in his palm, and a faint chuckle escaped him.
"Good, good," he said. "Youngsters these days have quite a lot of treasures on them. Now their 'weight' better matches what my Wind Leaves can carry."
He flicked a glance at Azriel.
"I will help," he said. "This once."
From his sleeve, Mu Li withdrew a long, slender brush.
Its handle was made of an unknown dark material, smooth and cool. Its tip was formed from fine, layered fur–black and white strands twined in a subtle spiral, swaying gently with unseen spiritual breeze.
The Feather-Tail Yin-Yang Brush.
He held it in his right hand.
Spiritual energy gathered at the tip. Black Yin and pale Yang twisted into each other, condensing into a single droplet of rich, oily ink.
He flicked the brush downward.
A single drop of ink fell and struck the ground.
Tap.
The ink splattered outward in a spreading, irregular pattern.
The moment it touched earth–
The world changed.
Color drained away.
The rotting browns, the sickly greens, the dark reds–all of it bled into black and white. The sky above, already dim and lifeless, turned into layered greys. The swamp, the corpses, even the hunters' faces were rendered in shades of monochrome.
It was as if they had all stepped into a painting.
Mu Li lifted the brush and began to draw in the air.
Each stroke left behind a temporary line of black that took shape on the ground below.
Long, wide leaves unfurled under his brush-tips–broad enough for several people to stand on each, their surfaces slightly arched, veins faintly visible, edges gently curved upward for balance.
He drew one, two, three–
Until there were enough for every person present.
Kiaria watched with a faint, private curiosity. The way the calligraphy affected the world reminded him of his own monochrome vision waves, but this was different. This was art turned to path of immortality.
When the final leaf finished forming, the single ink drop that had triggered everything began to dry.
Thin cracks appeared in it.
The monochrome tint of the world faded with it–slowly, the browns, greys, and bloody reds seeped back in. The leaves, however, remained solid and ready.
"Get on," Mu Li said.
His tone held neither impatience nor indulgence.
One by one, the treasure hunters obeyed. They stepped onto the leaf boats, testing them briefly with their weight. The leaves remained firm, bobbing slightly like anchored boats on still water.
When everyone was aboard, Mu Li loosened his grip on the brush.
The Feather-Tail Yin-Yang Brush didn't fall.
Instead, it floated upward, hovering horizontally in the air, its furry tip pointing into the mist beyond the dead-end.
Every leaf beneath their feet rose with it.
Chief Azriel raised a hand.
"Silence from here on," he ordered quietly.
No one argued.
Kiaria glanced once at the air around them. With his own strength, he could fly above the swamp without assistance. But there was no benefit in displaying power here. Nemesis had warned them already: this place watched.
Safest to move with the crowd.
He stepped steadily onto a leaf with Diala beside him.
The brush's fur-tip slowly turned, aligning with an unseen path deeper in the Swarm.
"We don't have much time," Mu Li said, glancing back at the group. "Youngsters–don't play tricks. Once the ink fully dries, these leaves will vanish along with it."
"Elder," Azriel said, "shall we go?"
Mu Li nodded.
"Alright," he replied.
He waved his hand lightly.
The floating brush moved.
The leaves followed.
They drifted forward, gliding above the swamp along a path only the brush could sense. Below them, the mire seethed with hidden worms and unseen things, but none of it reached the height of the floating leaves.
Up here, the rotten smell lessened slightly.
It was still there, heavy and sour–but no longer pressing against their faces like a hand. Some hunters cautiously lowered their masks, taking the chance to breathe a bit deeper.
The long staffs that had once been their safety were left behind on the corpse-packed path. Mu Li had insisted. The reason was simple: beneath the staff tips was always denser Yin Qi. Bringing them onto the leaves would bring that saturation with them.
Yin and Evil energy resembled one another too closely in this place. Even experts could mistake one for the other if careless.
Their armored foot-guards had not been corroded earlier because the Yin here was heavy but armors were tainted by Evil energy. Yin is refined Qi from Evil energy. The staff tips, however non taint, often probed deeper.
Carrying them would increase both weight and risk.
No one wanted to add more instability.
So they obeyed.
The Feather-Tail Yin-Yang Brush moved in slow, steady arcs, always choosing the line of least danger. It detected shifts in Yin and Yang, sensing where the balance tipped too far into death.
The leaves slid silently over the Swarm's front regions.
Nothing attacked.
No worms leaped from below. No corpse beast exploded out of the sludge. For a time, the flight was eerily smooth.
But the air grew colder.
The Yin Qi, though less stifling to the nose, coiled thicker in the soul.
What had been the frontal region of the Swarm fell away behind them.
Ahead–
Something else waited.
The air turned heavier again, but in a different way. Even without Mu Li saying anything, those sensitive to energy could feel it.
The density of Yin Qi was condensing.
The brush slowed.
Its furry tip trembled faintly and refused to tilt forward.
The leaves drifted to a gradual stop.
They hovered above a stretch of swamp where the stink was strangely muted and the surface unnaturally still.
Mu Li's gaze hardened.
"The safe part ends here," he said, turning back to look at the wide eyes and pale faces behind him. "From this point on, I can only tell you one thing–"
He let the words hang for a breath.
"Pray your luck hasn't run out yet."