The Fog

In that fog-laden year, during an autumn when the rain seemed to blur everything ever since I awoke, every droplet and every shiver of memory washed away fragments of the past. I found myself unsure of who I truly was. Should I have been called "Veyl"? Whatever the name, my weak prayers had finally received an answer from the gods—by some miracle, I had not died from the infection of a rotting wound, nor had I become one of the walking dead. Even more astonishing was the way my injuries had healed.

And as if that weren't enough, the thick, lingering mist that had enshrouded the castle's surroundings seemed to have dispersed overnight. Although the view outside the castle walls remained hazy—only the nearest houses emerging as vague silhouettes—I no longer had to live each day in terror amid the eerie cries and ghostly howls of monsters.

Yet, one inexplicable detail still gnawed at me: Why did the top of my castle now bear a few weathered words?"Sanctuary…" they read.

I wasn't hallucinating—what I saw was real, and it wasn't just a trick of my eyes. Even if the text was partial, these broken, scattered words suggested something more. How could a half-collapsed, crumbling earthen fortress be considered a proper sanctuary? And who was it sheltering? My people had long since either perished or fled, and even my father was nowhere to be seen. So, what kind of protection did this so-called refuge offer? In the end, it seemed I was utterly alone.

This damn, miserable world… Yet I had no choice but to keep on living—I did not want to die, at least not to starvation.

The last piece of moldy black bread had been devoured long ago, and I knew I had to leave this dilapidated castle in search of food. My hunger was so acute that I could barely lift the spiked hammer in my grasp, and I fervently hoped that I wouldn't run into those damned zombies or vicious wolves along the way. I silently prayed: may the gods see fit that today's journal is not my final testament…

I—Veyl—set my pen aside, raking my greasy, filthy hair with my rough hand as I gazed out through the shattered wall of my bedroom. Outside, the rain was falling harder, each drop merging into the darkness of the stormy night. My eyes gradually narrowed with determination. Though the heavy downpour was abysmal, it at least masked some of the sounds and smells. I dared to hope that the wolves wouldn't be prowling in such dreadful weather. At least, I wished it so.

Turning my gaze downward, I looked at the weapon lying at my feet. It was a tool I recognized all too well; I must have wielded it only a few days ago. The weapon still bore the grim marks of past violence—congealed blood and streaks of pale, coagulated brain matter that sent shivers down my spine. Yet now, as I inspected it again, I noticed an additional line scribbled on its surface: "A rusted spiked hammer." These inexplicable annotations, though bizarre, had become all too familiar since I awoke in this forsaken body. It appeared that along with my physical form, I had also inherited scattered, fragmented memories—though most of my old self had faded away. I only remembered one thing clearly: I should have been a Chinese man. As for calling myself "Veyl," that was solely because the name fit the local grammar. An old saying from home went, "When in Rome, do as the Romans do." I had no energy for further musings; at that moment, my sole concern was to fill the gnawing void in my stomach.

Shaking off my thoughts, I downed the last of the sour grape wine from the table, then donned my leather gloves, grasped my spiked hammer and sacred tome, and stepped out of the room. The castle was in ruins—everywhere, parts had collapsed. Stone staircases dangled in midair as if defying gravity. What calamity had befallen this once-proud fortress to leave it in such a sorry state? Each time I passed a broken section, I could read, scrawled in hurried, gray letters on the walls, the words "Repairable." But lacking the materials and manpower to mend it, those words remained as a bleak reminder of the fortress's fate. With the wind and rain pelting in through the gaps, I withdrew my gaze from the inscription, wiped the water from my face, and slowly descended the dilapidated stone steps.

As I made my way down the long corridor, I noticed that the once-grand family portraits had been completely ruined by the soaking rain, and the walls were marred by countless red and black handprints and claw marks. What unutterable horrors had these people suffered? The water on the floor had nearly reached my shins, and the worn, tattered carpet clung to my ankles like soggy, moldy crumbs of stale bread. "If it weren't for the fear of plague lurking in this filthy water, I'd gladly devour these goddamn 'bread crusts' to fill my belly," I muttered bitterly, swallowing hard as my stomach growled in protest. With a staggering step, I traversed the corridor and entered the main hall of the castle.

Inside the main hall, a faint but unmistakable stench of blood and decay permeated the air, and several corpses lay scattered on the floor. Their heads had been smashed into pieces—likely by my own hand, though my memory of the deed was hazy at best. Perhaps I had once possessed a shred of strength. As I stared at these gruesome remnants, my eyes flashed with an eerie, sickly green, while the pounding in my stomach escalated like a relentless drum. If I couldn't find bread or any edible sustenance today, I feared that tonight I might have no choice but to feast on meat.

"Maybe if I boil these things, it'll kill off that damn plague," I mused darkly, a bitter laugh curling on my tongue despite the despair.

Then, amid the cacophony of the storm, a sudden crashing sound rang out as the side panel of the main hall was violently blown open by the wind. My starving eyes fixed on the open doorway, and I moved toward the adjoining parlor. At that moment, the secondary hall connected to the castle had already collapsed halfway, resembling a torn piece of cake with rubble and shattered stones scattered about. High above, a vast gap in the ceiling allowed torrents of rain to pour in, while the swirling, oppressive clouds mingled with the pervasive mist below. From this broken opening, I could see the northern plaza of the castle, where the main gate and the wall had completely crumbled into ruins—a dismal heap of debris that lay directly before the endless, ominous mist. The deluge from the castle seemed to vanish into the fog as if being swallowed by a ravenous void; perhaps anyone who dared step into it would meet the same fate as the rain.

Only the southern part of the secondary hall remained free from the mist's suffocating embrace. The parade ground and the great wall on the south side had also succumbed to ruin, as if flattened by a giant tank. My eyes then wandered past the devastation and fell upon a cluster of modest village houses that clung to the castle's southern edge. Seeing those few structures, unburdened by the mist, filled me with a tentative sense of relief. Moreover, the "subjects" who had once roamed between the shattered walls and the nearby village were now nowhere to be seen—the muddy footprints on the ground suggested that they had abandoned the sanctuary along with the enveloping fog. Although there was no mist immediately surrounding those houses, I couldn't be sure what might lie inside, but at that point, I had far too much else to worry about.

Driven by a hunger that felt almost spectral in its intensity, I pulled my hood tight against the driving rain and trudged along a path of broken stones. I crossed the remnants of the parade ground and finally reached the area beyond the ruined wall. Not far away, within my territory, a tavern emerged from the gloom. The mere thought of it stirred a flood of memories. Though recent events had blurred together, many memories from earlier years remained vividly etched in my mind. Back when I was still an apprentice priest—before leaving home for the "Saint Veyleik Cathedral" to study—I used to secretly slip away to taverns in search of "Liu Ying." For the price of a finely crafted silver coin known as "Silver Fox," one could enjoy a night of tender, if illicit, company; expensive as it was, those moments marked the most heart-racing days of my youthful awakening. Of course, there would be no enchanting Liu Ying in this tavern now, but at the very least, I hoped there would be some food.

That thought only served to intensify my hunger further. Even though there was no mist here, the torrential rain rendered distant details nearly invisible, so I could only quicken my pace, relying on my memory of where the tavern should be. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a rather shabby building came into view. Its exterior was marred by faded, ragged gray letters that read "Tavern," with patches where the rain seeped through—an apt description, indeed.

"Fitting, as hell," I muttered under my breath, scanning the surroundings to ensure no ominous figures were lurking nearby. Satisfied for the moment, I gripped my rusted spiked hammer tightly and strode into the building with resolute steps.

At first glance, the interior appeared deserted, yet the lingering, faint scent of blood and decay set my nerves on edge. As soon as I closed the door behind me, a low, indistinct noise from the inner room made my heart skip a beat. I was acutely aware that, in my current state, I could only handle one zombie at best—if I encountered a pack of wolves or some other monstrous creature, it would mean my end. The tavern creaked and groaned under the onslaught of wind and rain; every flash of lightning seemed to freeze my body in terror. I cautiously approached the door leading to the storage room, and in that fleeting moment, I caught sight of a long, stretching shadow that vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. Ignoring it, I pressed on. Hunger had nearly driven me mad, and even if it meant meeting my demise, I resolved to die full rather than starve to death.

The relentless rain, the howling wind, and the disjointed echoes of decay blended together into a grim elegy of life. And here I was—Veyl—making my way through a landscape of ruins, both famished and lost. Every step was laden with unknown dangers, yet deep inside, a stubborn will to survive burned fiercely. In this shattered land, I might be utterly alone, but as long as a single breath remained within me, I would never yield to this damned fate.

I knew that the road ahead would be long and fraught with peril, but at that moment, one thought dominated my mind: to live on. No matter what, even if it meant exchanging one life for another, I would never allow myself to die of hunger on this unforgiving, rain-soaked night.

The rain continued its relentless assault, the wind roared without mercy, and the ruined castle, the debris, and the endless mist bore silent testimony to everything that had transpired. With hesitant yet determined steps, I advanced into the storm, silently praying that the tempest would mask any lurking threats, and that the tavern ahead might provide even a glimmer of sustenance and hope—if only enough to let me temporarily forget the crushing despair of this broken world.

Perhaps, in this bleak journey, lay my only chance to reclaim a part of who I once was—a chance to start over. Even though my memories were fragmented and my identity blurred, as a man who had once taken pride in his Chinese heritage, I, Veyl, would continue forward amid this swirling mist and crumbling ruin. No matter how treacherous the path, I was determined to use my rusted spiked hammer to shatter the shackles of fate and fight for even the slightest spark of life.

Thus, as the storm raged on and the relentless drumming of rain echoed around me, I stepped deeper into the darkness, aware that danger could strike at any moment, yet resolute in my refusal to succumb to despair. Every shattered wall, every echo of violence, and every ghostly shadow served as a brutal reminder of the harsh reality of this world—a reality that I, Veyl, was determined to defy, no matter the cost.