Chapter 113: The Horror Deep Within the Mist

Luo Hanya opened the door. Although dawn had fully broken, the corridor remained dim and shadowy. He cautiously paced around, discovering many details he hadn’t noticed the night before.

The corners of the corridor and the ceiling were thick with dust and cobwebs, dirty and dilapidated, as if no one had lived here for ages. It was entirely unlike an inn, but this matched Luo Hanya’s psychological expectations perfectly—a place haunted by ghosts. At the far end of the corridor, he even found a small door.

Behind the small door was a cramped storage room, crookedly piled with heaps of tin-foil and underworld silver—the offerings used for honoring the dead. These items were scattered haphazardly in every corner, as if to pay tribute to anyone who entered the room.

Steeling his nerves, Luo Hanya dared to rummage through the dark space. Amidst the piles of tin-foil and silver, he made another startling discovery—a hallway! Beyond the small room stretched a winding corridor. Only then did Luo Hanya realize how superficial his understanding of the inn was; it was far from the narrow, simple space it appeared to be. The inn’s structure was folded in on itself, concealing numerous complex corners within this small area.

With heightened alertness, Luo Hanya stepped into the labyrinthine corridor. It twisted and branched off in several directions; some paths ended in small rooms, while others abruptly terminated—empty and void. Layer upon layer, like a maze.

The corridors around him were eerily identical, resembling a revolving wheel spinning ceaselessly, making Luo Hanya dizzy and disoriented. A chilling wind swept through, causing a single overhead light to sway incessantly. Suddenly, he felt as if something was watching him from behind, sending a shiver down his spine. At that moment, he felt like a wild beast cornered at the edge of a cliff by a pack of hunters, awaiting the moment they would tear him open.

The immense pressure caused cold sweat to bead on his forehead. He froze, waiting for the shadowy presence to reveal itself first. But after a long while, there was no movement. Suddenly, Luo Hanya broke into a sprint, flung open a nearby door, and found a staircase descending downwards. Hesitating for a moment, he bit his lip and plunged down.

At the bottom of the stairs lay a strange little room. It was neat and clean, seemingly cared for regularly—a stark contrast to the corridor above. The room was simple, its style echoing the overall theme of the Mist Inn but even more austere—just a table and a bed.

Luo Hanya surveyed the room, then suddenly shuddered with excitement as he stepped forward. There, at the head of the bed, lay a notebook. No wonder he felt such a surge of emotion. Taking a deep breath, Luo Hanya picked up the notebook and flipped through several pages.

The notebook was exquisite—soft and supple, like animal hide. It was a diary chronicling someone’s experiences at the Mist Inn. Most of the entries were mundane, but on the last page, Luo Hanya found something valuable:

Day Nine.

It’s been nine days since I arrived here. The environment is quite pleasant, and it seems conducive to my recovery. Today’s weather was truly lovely; Arthur and I went swimming by the sea.

We swam with great enjoyment. Since coming here, I’ve felt much lighter, recalling many moments from my early years...

We swam for about half an hour. When I lifted my head out of the water, I noticed the sky had darkened, and a gust of wind swept across the sea. Suddenly, a strange feeling crept over me—perhaps the tide was rising?

I looked back toward the shore and was surprised to find we had swum so far out. The bay and cliffs were left behind, and in the distance, I saw a hillside dotted with graves. I could even make out the Mist Inn—my first time seeing it from the sea. It was too far to see clearly, only a faint silhouette standing solitary by the shore, always shrouded in mist. Perhaps it’s the eternal fog that gave the inn its name.

It was getting late; it was time to return. I checked the time and began swimming back toward the small bay with Arthur.

Suddenly, I heard a sound—someone seemed to be wailing.

My heart raced, and I was thrown into confusion. What chilled me even more was that the wailing seemed to come from beneath the sea...

As I swam desperately back, suddenly I felt a hand grasp my ankle!

“Arthur, save me!” I reflexively shouted. A mouthful of seawater flooded in, choking me. I gasped for air, but the pressure on my leg grew heavier, as though the hand was pulling me down.

Arthur had already swum ahead, but seeing me in danger, he turned back without hesitation.

I kicked with all my might to break free, but it was no use. My vision darkened as I was dragged into the black depths.

Then I heard Arthur calling my name. He dived down and seemed to forcibly pry the hand off.

I felt my leg release, and I thrashed my arms desperately, quickly swimming into the bay. I carefully avoided the hidden reefs and mustered my last strength to reach land.

Breathing air again.

I cannot describe my feelings then—was it sheer terror or exhilaration? At least I was still alive.

Gasping heavily, I collapsed onto the ground, no longer caring about appearances. Perhaps this was what it felt like to narrowly escape death.

After all, humans are still creatures of the land!

That’s when I realized Arthur hadn’t come back. My vision blurred, and all I could think was: Arthur, Arthur, Arthur...

I rushed to the shore to look out, but there was no sign of him. Turning sharply, I saw only an ancient graveyard stretching across the hillside.

Rain had begun to fall, drops wetting my eyes. Staring at the black sea, I trembled, unwilling to approach even an inch.

Night was falling fast, dusk cloaking the ocean, and the countless tombs on the hillside nearby. Driven by reason—or perhaps the will to survive—I forced myself to stand. I hastily wiped off the water, dressed in a rush, feeling chilled to the bone. Yet, I somehow managed to steady myself and ran desperately back toward the Mist Inn.

“Arthur, I’m sorry... You were lost because of me. I don’t ask for your forgiveness, but I promise to come here every year to honor you. If I’m still alive.”

“Arthur, please watch over me, and let me leave this place alive.”

The diary’s final lines were scrawled hastily, disjointed, as if the writer had encountered something terrifying.

(To be continued.)