— Bridge of Ill Omens —
The newly built bridge sprawled across the Blackwater River like a slumbering beast, its dark form pressing heavily against the ink-thick waters.
Red silk ribbons coiled around its frame, glowing ominously beneath the dim sky—a crimson so vivid it seemed to have drunk its fill of blood.
The riverbanks were littered with spent firecrackers, their remnants mingling with mud. The air hung thick with the scents of gunpowder, liquor, and greasy roasted meat. Though the celebratory drums and gongs had fallen silent, their echoes seemed to linger—beneath the fading excitement, a deeper stillness loomed, one that threatened to swallow all joy.
Crowds from nearby villages swarmed the banks, their eyes fixed on the bridge as though it were a ladder to heaven.
"Finally, no more four-hour detours around the mountains!"
"We can make it to town and back in a single day now!"
Laughter and excited chatter rose and fell, full of fervor and relief. Yet amid the noise, a whisper, thin as a breeze, slipped through:
"Does the river seem...blacker than usual?"
"It's called Blackwater River for a reason!"
"No—this blackness...it's like it's swallowing the light."
A few curious onlookers stepped closer to the water. The river's surface, though windless, seemed to breathe—slowly exhaling tendrils of black mist that coiled and twisted like invisible hands clawing from the depths. One observer shuddered, but a burst of laughter from the crowd quickly drowned his unease.
In the village, feasting continued. Children ran through the crowds clutching rare pieces of meat, elders laughed with drunken cheer, and toasts were raised to a brighter future. Hope shone on every face.
No one looked down into the churning black water below the bridge.
No one remembered the name sealed within the concrete of the bridge's foundation—the young man who had vowed to lead them toward a better life, only to be buried in the darkness he sought to escape.
---
— The Night of Fog and Vengeance —
The village chief leaned against his doorframe, his clouded eyes peering into the night.
"Strange, this fog..."
It was thick, unnaturally dark. Here, they were accustomed to thin white mists, not this swallowing blackness.
He took a sharp draw from his pipe, the bitter smoke burning his throat like a warning—tonight was not a night to be outside.
But his thoughts turned to his son, Cleaver Zhang, who had stumbled home drunk. What if he fell into the river? They were so close now—with the two million taken from Lung Pan, they could finally move to the city, buy a house, start a new life. They couldn't afford any mishaps now.
Restless, the chief threw on his coat and stepped out, grumbling under his breath:
"Lung Pan, why didn't you bring back more? Two million...it's not enough for a palace, not enough to live like kings!"
Regret burned in him—why hadn't he demanded more? Three million? Five?
Just as he reached for the gate, a shadow staggered toward him.
"Cleaver? You—"
Cleaver Zhang stood shrouded in the murk, dark vapors writhing around him like living shadows. In his hand gleamed the butcher knife he always carried.
"Give me the knife!" the chief demanded, reaching out.
A silver flash—then a scream.
The chief's right hand fell, blood spraying into the dark. His cry was sharper, more terrible than any sound from the slaughterhouse.
"Cleaver! Have you lost your mind? Help me—!"
His voice broke. His eyes bulged.
Behind his son, a familiar figure emerged from the fog.
"Pan—Lung Pan? Are you a man or a ghost?"
Terror overwhelmed the pain. The chief collapsed, losing control of his bladder.
The only answer was another slash of the Cleaver.
His left hand flew off. Then his left leg.
One by one, his own son hacked away his limbs, until he lay limbless in a pool of his own blood—a human stump, silent and broken.
Blood loss stole his voice, but his mind screamed with regret—if he had known Lung Pan would return from death for vengeance, he would sooner have been the bridge sacrifice himself.
With his last breath, he saw the Cleaver descend toward his throat.
The scent of blood hung heavy in the night—a Long-delayed judgment, finally delivered.
---
— Realm of the Unliving —
That night, the village became a slaughterhouse.
"Lung Pan has returned! Save us!"
"I was wrong, I beg you—spare me!"
"I'll kowtow, just let me live!"
Screams and pleas filled the air. But no matter how far anyone ran, they always circled back—the village had become a prison, walled in by unseen forces.
The killing went on until dawn. Blood soaked the soil, staining the black mist a somber crimson.
By morning, only Feng remained alive. Even the dogs and chickens had fallen silent.
Rain poured down, washing hundreds of corpses into the Blackwater River, where they gathered around the central bridge pier as if in penance.
The river began to boil and churn, its waters like acid, rapidly dissolving the dead.
Sunlight strained to break through the clouds, but the black fog refused to yield. The village no longer belonged to the world of the living.
Feng appeared by the riverbank, her gaze fixed on the dissolving bodies. At first, her lips curled into a cold, sharp smile—then it widened into a broken, howling laugh.
"They're dead...all of them! They deserved it!"
Her laughter echoed through the fog, tinged with madness and triumph.
"Lung, do you see? Those heartless monsters have paid! May they rot in the deepest hell for eternity!"
Her voice rose, frenzied with the thrill of vengeance—until the laughter broke, warping into a sob.
"Now your revenge is complete...you can rest..."
Tears streamed down her face. She looked around at the ruins shrouded in mist, the satisfaction of revenge fading like a tide, leaving only emptiness.
"But Lung..." Her voice softened, suddenly young and fragile, "Don't leave me... You promised to marry me once the bridge was finished. It's done...but you're gone."
"Take me with you... How can I go on in a world without you?"
She rushed madly into the fog, stretching her hands out like a lost child, calling his name again and again into the darkness:
"Lung—where are you?—take me with you—"
The mist swallowed her form. Only her cry lingered—an echo that refused to fade.
---
— Oath Against Resentment —
By the time the story ended, rage burned in every heart.
Aveline wept openly, unable to speak.
Eren gasped for breath, his chest heaving as though he had lived through that cursed night himself.
He wished it were only a nightmare—but the black mist shrouding the land was all too real.
This was a calamity born of boundless hatred, a darkness twisted from the depths of human hearts.
"Lung Pan...this isn't you," Eren murmured, his voice low but resolute.
"It's the resentment consuming you. I will set you free."
He steadied his breathing, pushing down the fear coiling in his gut.
Though his body felt hollowed out, his will remained unbroken. He knew the path was razor-thin—
First, absorb the mist.
Then, release Lung Pan.
Eren sat cross-legged and began to circulate his energy.
The shadow energy surged toward him, but he drew it in carefully, all while shifting his position—
creating the illusion that it was the corrupted Vigil-Wyrms devouring the foul energy.
An hour passed.
A faint smile touched his lips—
the colossal blood-red hand from his nightmares had not reappeared.
But his relief was short-lived.
The absorption was too slow.
At this rate, cleansing the mist would take years.
Frowning, Eren drew a sharp breath and cautiously increased the flow of his power.
shadow energy roiled around him like wrathful spirits.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he did not stop.
Until—
A thunderous roar erupted from the heart of the fog—
"WHO DARES—DEVOUR MY HATRED?!"