The first night was the easiest, as everyone still held onto hope that escape from the mist would happen the next morning.

It didn’t matter that they had spent the entire afternoon backtracking a route that had taken them barely a couple hours to traverse earlier in the day. No one mentioned it.

By the seventh day, a slow death trudging through the mist seemed inevitable.

There was no more bounce in Gu Hong’s step.

Tai Yang had long since lapsed into silence.

The ever vigilant Che Fang stared unflinchingly straight ahead, heedless of whatever might be lurking around them.

Having left hastily, none of the cultivators had prepared supplies for a lengthy trip. While Han Lee had foodstuff that they had rationed, he had been planning to resupply while on the road.

Zhao felt the healthy layer of fat on his body wasting away daily. The draw was a constant pressure in the back of his mind.

As cultivators, the body’s need for food, sleep, and other mortal necessities was reduced. But even the Core Formation Elders of their sect needed to eat, let alone lowly Qi Condensation disciples.

Each of them knew that eventually their bodies would cannibalize their respective cultivation bases to keep them alive in an agonizing process.

Thankfully there was still Qi in the mist, and the monotonous walking proved a bountiful time to cultivate and practice the various spirit arts they had obtained.

It was slow going, as the ambient Qi was sparse, but it represented the possibility of developing greater strength to facilitate an escape from the mist.

Although a horse drawn carriage was not an ideal seat for cultivation, it sufficed for their purposes.

Ending his turn at cultivating, Zhao cracked his eyes open to take in the miserable state of their party.

Unlike the others, he was certain that the godlike protection of plot armor would save Gu Hong and Che Fang. Accordingly, he resolved himself to stay alive until the powers that be solved their situation.

Even with that assurance, holding out hope was not easy, and every passing day made Zhao question whether desperation was causing him to grasp at straws.

Or perhaps the self-doubt and anguish were symptoms that Zhao was losing his mind thanks to the Myriad Voices spirit art.

He had avoided actively practicing it after his first experience with the technique at the training plateau. That hadn’t stopped the Qi from cycling itself through his brain of its own volition.

Gradually the intrusive thoughts had become more insistent. Physical symptoms had manifested; sweat on his brow, dizziness, and nausea. They intensified until he finally gave in.

A few minutes of active utilization banished the sickness and muted the foreign emotional manipulation.

Its cumulative use also led to what could be kindly called the onset of insanity.

Perched atop the carriage, Zhao’s eyes flickered madly about the mist.

To his eyes, faces regularly flashed in the mist, bearing twisted expressions of torture, grief, or wrath. Occasionally the experience was supplemented with figments of emaciated figures approaching their group only to vanish.

Since Zhao had forbidden anyone else from practicing the art after initially discovering its oddness, he was forced to cope with these haunting events alone.

Over the course of their week in the mist he had done an admirable job adapting to the unusual sights and had long stopped reacting to their appearance, much to the relief of his friends.

But today, at the beginning of their second week in the mist, the whispers had started.

Impossible to distinguish clearly, the paranormal words cut in and out as though intentionally tormenting Zhao with periods of beautiful silence.

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Yet the most disturbing aspect of the Myriad Voices was that the further along Zhao progressed, the more certain he became that there was a spiritual fragment inside of him.

That should have been impossible as, according to the scripture, the only fragments he should sense were those of nature- such as water, fire, or wind- and those of the dead.

Zhao tried not to dwell on the implication of sensing a fragment internally, as such thoughts had led to him questioning his remaining sanity.

The days passed by in an uneventful haze that went uninterrupted until finally a change occurred when the wagon the disciples escorted shuddered to a stop.

Ahead, the lone horse that had dutifully persisted hauling its burden lay dead. Its weak form had undergone a ghastly transformation over their time in the mist as it starved to death without enough feed left in the carriage.

Perhaps if they’d been willing to let it graze off the road it could have persevered, but that idea had led to the loss of the other horse.

Han Lee didn’t react, the reins still in his hands and his fish-eyed gaze unresponsive.

The cultivators traveling by foot had all turned to regard the passed creature solemnly, gaunt faces giving way to an ugly realization.

Tai Yang slowly shifted his gaze to Gu Hong. “Get the fire starter,” he said through cracked lips.

Trembling, the resolute disciple grabbed Che Fang by the shoulder and hissed, “Let’s take this cart apart for firewood.”

Atop the soon-to-be firewood in question, Zhao prepared to assist when his eyes locked onto the corpse of the horse as it flickered with a strange light.

Tilting his head, he watched as a spirit fragment emerged from the carcass, a sickly green bobbing wisp that hung limply in the air.

Though intrigued by the process, what happened next was what really caught Zhao’s attention.

The whispers that assaulted him seemed to coalesce into real words momentarily, faintly resembling a farmer calling their horse.

When Zhao scoured the mist for the source of the noise he caught a glimpse of the familiar figure of a peasant in torn up clothes lumbering away into the endless mist that surrounded them.

In response to the illusion, the newly born wisp began moving off the road to bob behind the immaterial farmer.

“Leave everything,” Zhao groaned tiredly while jumping onto the ground and plodding after the opaque image.

Offering only the barest explanation for his actions he said, “The horse’s spirit is our only chance out of here.”

“Horse spirit?” Gu Hong echoed quizzically.

Zhao didn’t falter as he replied. “I can see it. The horse spirit. It's our only chance.”

Unsurprisingly unconvinced, Che Fang dashed over and grabbed Zhao’s wrist tightly before he could stumble off the road.

Exchanging glances with Tai Yang, he offered his observation. “Zhao… you’re losing it.”

With blackened bags under his eyes, Zhao paused to stare at Che Fang. “This is our only chance,” he repeated solemnly.

Not giving a chance for further dissent, he rotated his Qi and broke free with empowered limbs, racing into the eerie forest.

For a moment it seemed that Zhao would be the only one to stray off the road in spite of the rules he had laid out upon their first day in the mist, but Gu Hong hastily ran to catch up to him after gazing back at the seemingly infinite road ahead of them.

Both cursing, Che Fang broke some planks of wood from the cart while Tai Yang mercilessly tore a leg off the horse.

The two caught up in a sprint after having just broken line of sight through the fog.

Thankfully the wisp was moving slowly, otherwise Zhao would have been lost to the miasma before they could make their decision.

Holding his grisly trophy Tai Yang raged, “I don’t understand why we’re willing to leave the road now! Might as well have done this from the start if we weren’t worried about disappearing like the first damned horse.”

Zhao ignored the man until further complaints died off, as even Tai Yang lacked the energy to muster a fight.

Thereafter, the group proceeded mutely.

No one commented on the absence of Han Lee, left behind and fate unknown.

The already abysmal mood plummeted further for hours, until suddenly Zhao lurched forward into what was revealed to be a wooden fence.

Without much strength left, the group dragged themselves under the boards through the mud, finding themselves in what appeared to be a pasture.

The horse’s wisp floated aimlessly around the paddock, no further whispers of guidance nor helpful apparitions forthcoming.

Before dejection could set in, the group scoured the perimeter of the fence.

Gu Hong called out shortly after they began. “Over here! Over here! A barn!”

Quickly rushing over confirmed the boy’s words, and the four tired youths hastily gathered inside it and shut the massive door in a futile effort to keep the mist out.

They tore through the stables and storage inside, fetching a handful of ratty blankets to help ward off the preternatural chill in the air.

Though each wanted to collapse, an agreement was wordlessly reached to cook the horse leg Tai Yang had butchered along with the few eggs they found and pilfered from the barn.

Though signs of life abounded, including feed, water, and waste, not a single animal remained. Not even a rat or insect could be found.

There weren’t any corpses of the farm animals either.

While drinking deeply from a pig trough, Zhao considered their state as the burnt odor of horse flesh spread throughout their pitiful accommodations.

“We have to search the town,” Zhao commented mindlessly. “And we must hope that this phenomenon is unnatural so that we have a chance at stopping it.”

In the midst of devouring the stringy meat, the three cultivators turned to look at their leader in unison.

“What does that mean?” Tai Yang asked slowly, parsing the words with sluggish effort.

“It means,” Zhao coughed as he recalled the grisly stories of the exploits of demonic cultivators, “we hope that there is a cultivator for us to kill.”

Though that was enough for Che Fang and Tai Yang, who both nodded grimly, Gu Hong knit his eyebrows.

“What do we do if there isn’t one?” he asked innocently.

Zhao couldn’t muster the will to look the boy in the eyes and tell him the truth as he struggled to down some of the scorched meal.

“What?” Gu Hong prompted, only for Tai Yang to place a hand on his shoulder.

“If this is natural and we cannot stop it, then we die.” he explained bleakly.

The excitable teenager was quiet for the remainder of the night.