I was a mineral prospector in Chengdu, who transmigrated into the body of a mortal sword immortal.

Li Bai rested for half the night in a mountain dweller's rock shelter, and set off before dawn. Following directions, he headed north along the ridgeline, finding the eagle-beak rock in the darkest hour before sunrise. The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten, and morning mist flowed through the forests, but the milky-white fog shrouding the valley to the north stood out even more vividly in the gradually brightening light, like a pot of boiling milk, constantly churning and surging. A tapping sound came from the mist, echoing through the valley, becoming muffled and hollow. Li Bai stood beneath the eagle-beak rock, took out some invigorating herbs, crushed them, and stuffed them into his nostrils. A cool, pungent aroma rushed to his head, instantly invigorating him. He checked his baggage and wound bandages, gripped his short sword tightly, and then strode eastward, entering the narrow, steep path almost entirely covered by vines. The figure quickly disappeared behind the dense vegetation, leaving only the continuous knocking sound, like a lighthouse or bait, guiding the way to the unknown abyss in the increasingly bright morning light.

The path was more difficult to walk than I had imagined.

It was less a path and more a natural crack in the mountainside, flanked by slippery rock walls covered in dark green moss and vines. Underfoot lay a thick layer of humus, soft and spongy with each step, sinking halfway into the ground. The air was thick with the earthy smell of decaying plants, mingled with the pungent aroma of aphrodisiacs, creating a bizarre olfactory experience. Li Bai had to use his hands to push aside the hanging vines and branches to barely move forward. The wound on his left arm was pulled, causing sharp pains beneath the gauze, but he gritted his teeth and persevered.

After walking for about half an hour, the path began to descend, the slope becoming increasingly steep. The knocking sounds became clearer, each one like a direct blow to the chest, making the heart pound. Li Bai could feel the wooden plaque in his arms burning hot; the heat seeped through his clothes to his skin, like a warm branding iron.

Finally, he squeezed through the narrow gap.

Suddenly, everything opened up before me—or rather, it was a kind of "closed-off" situation in another sense.

He stood on the edge of a relatively flat valley, less than ten feet ahead of him lay the legendary thick fog. It was already broad daylight, sunlight streaming through the mountains and forests, but the fog above Misty Valley showed no signs of dissipating; instead, it took on an eerie quality under the light. It wasn't ordinary mountain fog, not the light, ethereal kind that drifts with the wind. This fog was milky white, thick like an unyielding paste, with distinct boundaries, like a massive, soft wall, completely isolating the entire valley. The surface of the fog slowly churned and surged, as if it were breathing. Sunlight shone on the fog's surface, completely reflected back, forming a blinding white light, making it impossible to see any detail directly in the fog.

The strangest thing was the sound.

The tapping sound—that rhythmic "thump, thump, thump"—sounded from behind the wall of fog, no more than a few dozen steps away. As the sound traveled through the thick fog, it became distorted, dull, heavy, and carried a strange echo, as if it didn't originate from a single point, but rather the entire fog resonated within it. Apart from the tapping, there was utter silence. No birdsong, no insect chirps, not even the wind. The air seemed to have solidified, save for the continuous tapping, like the ceaseless pulse of some ancient machine.

Li Bai stood at the edge of the wall of mist and took a deep breath.

The smell in the air was complex. First, there was dampness, an oppressive humidity so thick it was almost dripping wet, carrying the chilling scent of earth and rocks long soaked in moisture. Second, there was decay—not the stench of rotting corpses, but the musty smell of plants and wood slowly decomposing in the extreme dampness, mixed with a faint, sulfurous odor. And then there was another… indescribable smell, somewhat metallic, yet also like some ancient spice, faint and elusive.

He pulled out the packet of stimulating herbs from his pocket, took out a small pinch, and stuffed it into his nostrils. The cool, pungent aroma stimulated his nasal cavity and brain again, keeping him alert. Then he tore off a strip of cloth from the hem of his shirt, soaked it in the water from the water hyacinth, covered his mouth and nose, and tied it in a knot behind his head. Although it couldn't completely block out the smell, it could at least filter out some of it.

Next came the scouting tools. He broke off a relatively straight branch nearby, about five feet long and as thick as a wrist, removed the leaves and twigs, and sharpened one end with a short sword. This branch could be used as a walking stick or to probe the ground ahead.

Everything is ready.

Li Bai checked his baggage one last time—dry rations, water, ointment, tinderbox, and rope were all there. His short sword was tucked into the most convenient spot at his waist. The wooden plaque felt warm against his chest, like a beating heart.

He gripped the branch tightly and took his first step.

The moment I stepped into the wall of fog, the world changed.

Sight was instantly stripped away. Visibility dropped to less than three feet; even a hand outstretched could only be seen as a blurry outline. The fog wasn't still; it flowed, swirled, like countless tiny, icy tentacles, wrapping around the skin, seeping into collars and cuffs. The damp chill wasn't ordinary cold; it was a penetrating, bone-chilling cold. The cloth covering my mouth and nose was quickly soaked with the fog, making breathing difficult. Each inhale carried a strange stench of musty, earthy, and metallic smells, nauseating even with the purifying herbs filtering it.

The voice has changed too.

The knocking sound continued, but his sense of direction was completely distorted. It seemed to be coming from the front, then from the left, then from the right, even from above. The sound refracted and echoed in the thick fog, creating a three-dimensional, enveloping auditory trap. Li Bai stopped, closed his eyes, and tried to determine direction by hearing, but failed. The sound seemed to have countless sources, knocking simultaneously in the fog.

He opened his eyes and forced himself to remain calm.

The geologist's instincts were activated at that moment. He crouched down, using a twig to brush away the dead leaves and humus on the ground, revealing the soil beneath. The soil was dark brown, with an extremely high moisture content; pressing it with his finger would squeeze out muddy water. He carefully observed the texture and color changes of the soil, then looked up at the direction of the mist's movement—although extremely slow, he could vaguely sense the mist drifting slowly in a certain direction.

"Follow the stream," he recalled the old mountain folk's words.

But where is the stream?

He listened intently, and besides the tapping, there seemed to be a very faint sound of water, like a trickle flowing between the rocks. But the sound was so faint that it was completely drowned out by the tapping. He stood up, used a branch to probe the ground ahead, and moved forward step by step.

After walking about ten steps, my legs suddenly gave way.

Where the branch had struck, a small section of the ground caved in, revealing a bowl-sized, dark, and bottomless pit. Li Bai quickly withdrew the branch, his heart pounding. He avoided the pit and cautiously probed his way forward.

The fog is getting thicker.

Visibility dropped from three feet to two feet, then to one foot. He was walking almost entirely by feel, branches sweeping across his path like a blind man's cane. The ground beneath his feet was sometimes soft, sometimes hard, sometimes solid rock, sometimes loose mud. Once, his left foot stepped into what appeared to be a flat layer of fallen leaves, and sank in completely, up to his calf. He quickly used branches to brace himself and struggled to pull his foot out; his boot was now filled with icy mud.

My sense of time has also begun to blur.

In the thick fog, there were no landmarks, no changes in light and shadow, and even his own body could only be seen as a blurry outline. Li Bai didn't know how long he had been walking; perhaps an incense stick's time, perhaps an hour. The knocking continued, but the distance didn't seem to be decreasing; instead, it seemed to be playing tricks on him, sometimes near, sometimes far.

Then he heard other sounds.

At first, it was extremely faint, like the rustling of leaves in the wind, or the soft rustling of small animals moving through the grass. Li Bai stopped, held his breath, and listened intently. The sound disappeared. He continued forward, and after a few steps, the sound reappeared—this time clearer, like something being dragged, slow and heavy, not far to his left.

He gripped the short sword tightly.

He tentatively extended the branch and touched something hard. He crouched down and looked closer, discovering it was a stone half-buried in the soil, its surface covered in moss. But the stone's shape was strange; it wasn't naturally formed, but rather had distinct edges and flat surfaces, as if it had been carved by hand. He scraped away the moss with the branch and vaguely saw some engravings, but they were blurred by time.

Just then, the dragging sound started again, and it was even closer.

Li Bai suddenly stood up, his short sword drawn, its blade gleaming faintly in the thick fog. He stared intently in the direction the sound came from, but the fog was too thick; he could see nothing but a white expanse.

"Who?" he whispered, his voice muffled and weak in the fog.

no respond.

Only the dragging sound, slow and continuous, moved from the left front to the front, and then gradually faded away, disappearing into the fog.

Li Bai stood rooted to the spot, every muscle in his body tense. He could feel cold sweat trickling down his back, soaking his tattered clothes. It wasn't a wild beast—wild beasts wouldn't move so slowly and rhythmically. Nor was it a human—humans wouldn't walk like this in this place.

What is that?

He dared not think too much and forced himself to keep going. But the sound followed him relentlessly. Sometimes it was on the left, sometimes on the right, sometimes behind him. It never came within sight, but always maintained a elusive presence, like a ghost in the fog, silently watching the intruder.

Worse still, sobbing sounds began to appear.

At first, it was just a very faint, intermittent sob, like the groan of a wounded animal. But gradually, the sound became clearer; it was a woman's weeping, mournful and poignant, drifting through the thick fog, sometimes near, sometimes far. Li Bai's heart clenched—that voice, surprisingly, sounded somewhat like Yang Xiaohuan, like the suppressed, desperate sobs she uttered when she looked at him for the last time.

"Xiao Huan?" he called out instinctively.

The crying stopped abruptly.

But a few seconds later, it rang out again, this time from another direction, mixed with a muffled call: "Li Bai... Li Bai..."

The sound distorted and warped in the fog, as if coming from underwater, or as if muffled by thick walls. Li Bai knew this couldn't be real; Yang Xiaohuan was in the modern world, Yang Yuhuan was in Chengdu—neither could be here. It was the fog's trick, some kind of hallucinogenic effect, or perhaps the valley itself was manipulating the intruder's mind.

He gritted his teeth, plucked the stale residue of the stimulant herb from his nostrils, and stuffed in a new one. The cool, pungent smell rushed to his head again, clearing his somewhat drowsy mind. The crying subsided, but didn't disappear completely, turning into a faint sob in the background.

He continued forward, his steps becoming increasingly difficult.

His body had reached its limit. The wound on his left arm had become inflamed in the cold, damp environment, and a burning pain shot through the skin beneath the gauze. The ulcers on the soles of his feet were soaked in his wet boots, and every step felt like walking on shards of glass. Hunger and thirst struck again; his stomach cramped, and his throat was parched and painful. But he dared not stop drinking—the water in his water hyacinth was running low, and he had to use it sparingly.

Time ticked by, perhaps past noon, perhaps already afternoon. There was no change of light or shadow in the fog, only an unchanging white expanse. The knocking continued, but Li Bai could no longer tell whether he was approaching or moving away from it. He might be going in circles, he might have strayed off course, or he might be sinking deeper and deeper into the misty valley.

Despair began to fester.

If what the old mountain man said is true—that few who enter Misty Valley ever come out—then he might really die here. Die in this vast, white fog, devoid of direction and time, filled only with eerie sounds and hallucinations. His body rots, becoming part of the valley, unknown to anyone.

No.

He cannot die.

Yang Xiaohuan is still waiting for him. Yang Yuhuan's fate has not changed. Their unwavering devotion across three lifetimes cannot end in the mist.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. The geologist's mind started working again—how to determine direction in extreme conditions? There was no compass, no starry sky, no landmarks. But… perhaps there was another way.

He crouched down and touched the ground with his hand. The moisture, temperature, and texture of the soil, the types and growth directions of the plants, the texture and weathering of the rocks... all these could provide clues. He carefully observed his surroundings; although visibility was extremely low, he could still make out things nearby.

The soil beneath his feet was changing in moisture. Some places were wet, while others were relatively dry. He walked in the direction of higher humidity—water flows downhill, and areas with higher humidity were likely near water sources, and streams were probably the veins that ran through the valley.

Sure enough, after walking a few dozen steps, he heard a clearer sound of water. It wasn't the faint trickle he'd heard before, but a real rushing sound, loud but undeniably present. His spirits lifted, and he quickened his pace towards the sound.

The sound of water became clearer and clearer.

Then he saw the stream—or rather, not quite "saw," because the fog was so thick he could only make out a blurry, three-foot-wide black ribbon winding its way through the white mist. The water was black, not dirty, but it looked like ink because of its depth or the light. The current was gentle but steady, making a continuous gurgling sound.

Li Bai squatted by the stream and scooped up a handful of water. The water was very cold, bone-chillingly cold, but it looked clear. He hesitated for a moment, then took a small sip—it tasted normal, without any strange smell. He filled his water gourd, then washed his face. The icy stream water stimulated his skin, clearing his drowsy mind considerably.

Walk along the stream.

This was the last and clearest instruction given by the old mountain dweller.

Li Bai stood up and walked along the left bank of the stream (he judged it to be the left bank because the water flowed from the depths of the valley outwards). The stream became the only landmark, guiding his way in the thick fog. The tapping sound was still there, but now it seemed to be in the same direction as the stream.

After walking for about fifteen minutes, the situation began to change.

The fog...is getting thinner?

No, it's not thinning, but rather the concentration is changing. In some places, it's still so thick it's impossible to see through, while in others it suddenly thins out, allowing you to see objects five or six feet away. But this change is completely irregular, sometimes clear, sometimes blurry, like the fog breathing, inhaling and exhaling.

Then, he saw the first clearly "unnatural" object.

It was a stone pillar, about the height of a person, half-buried in the mud by the stream. The pillar was grayish-white, its surface covered with signs of weathering, but the carved patterns were still faintly discernible—not the common patterns of the Tang Dynasty, nor the style of the Qin and Han Dynasties, but a more ancient and abstract design, like a twisted snake, or some kind of mysterious symbol. The top of the pillar was broken off, the cross-section jagged.

Li Bai approached the stone pillar and touched the carvings. The stone was hard and cold, and the carvings were deep, still clearly discernible despite countless years of wind and rain erosion. He leaned closer to examine them and suddenly noticed that the "symbols" seemed to be moving—no, not really moving, but a visual illusion created by the flow of mist on the surface of the pillar. But the feeling was extremely eerie, as if the pillar itself were alive, breathing in the mist.

He withdrew his hand and continued forward.

The stream began to turn, making a sharp left bend. Li Bai followed the turn, and then he saw a second stone pillar, a third, a fourth… They were distributed along both banks of the stream, irregularly spaced, some intact, some broken, and some fallen to the ground. These stone pillars formed a faint “passage,” guiding the way.

The knocking sound was getting closer.

Now it sounded like being at the end of a passage, perhaps just a few dozen steps away from the source. Li Bai's breathing quickened, his heart pounded. He quickened his pace, almost jogging forward.

But just then, the dragging sound appeared again.

And this time, it was right behind them, extremely close.

Li Bai whirled around, his short sword held horizontally across his chest. The mist swirled, obscuring everything. But the sound was undeniably approaching—a slow, heavy dragging sound, mixed with a harsh, metallic scraping noise. He could feel the ground tremble slightly, as if something enormous was drawing near.

"Who?" he shouted sharply, his voice echoing between the stone pillars.

no respond.

Only the sound of dragging grew closer and closer.

Li Bai took a step back, his back slamming into a stone pillar. He dodged to the side and continued backing away, his eyes fixed on the direction from which the sound came. In the mist, a vague outline appeared—a huge, blurry, slowly moving outline. He couldn't make out what it was, only that it was very tall and wide, like a moving wall.

Fear gripped him.

This is not an illusion. It is something real, right there in the fog, approaching him.

He turned and ran, sprinting along the stream towards the sound of the banging. The wound on his left arm throbbed with excruciating pain, and the gash in his feet felt like he was stepping on a red-hot iron plate, but he couldn't care less. The dragging sound behind him quickened, and the ground shook more violently, as if the thing itself was accelerating.

Run! Run fast!

He charged past pillar after pillar, the mist whistling past his ears. The hammering was right ahead, deafening, like the pounding of war drums. He could see a deeper shadow in the mist ahead, the outline of a building, perhaps the source of the hammering—

Suddenly, the ground beneath my feet gave way to emptiness.

The loose soil collapsed without warning. Li Bai didn't even have time to cry out before he plummeted downwards. Instinctively, he reached out to grab something, his fingers scraping against the slippery rock face, but he grasped nothing. His body tumbled through the air, slamming into something hard, a sharp pain shooting through him, before he continued his fall.

dark.

Icy.

The fall felt like it lasted a long time, yet it also felt like it only lasted a moment.

Finally, with a muffled thud, he crashed heavily onto something. Not rock, not soil, but... a soft, thick layer, like years of fallen leaves, or a cushion made of some kind of fungus. The impact was mostly cushioned, but it still shook his internal organs out of place, made him see stars, and a mouthful of blood welled up in his throat, which he forcibly swallowed back down.

He lay there, unable to move, only able to gasp for breath.

It took quite a while for my vision to gradually return.

It's not completely dark here.

A faint, bluish light emanated from the rock wall, like fireflies, or perhaps some kind of luminescent moss or mineral. The light was dim, but enough for him to see his surroundings—it was a cave, not large, about two zhang square, with the opening at the top from which he had fallen, about three zhang above the ground. At this moment, he could only see a small patch of grayish-white sky, shrouded in thick fog. Loose soil and gravel were still falling around the cave entrance.

He struggled to sit up and checked his body.

The wound on my left arm had completely reopened, and blood soaked through the gauze, flowing down my forearm. I had multiple abrasions and bruises on my right arm and back, but the bones seemed fine. The most serious injury was to my right ankle—it was sprained, swollen like a bun, and excruciatingly painful with any movement.

He smiled bitterly.

It's really a leak in the house that happened to rain in the night.

But at least he was safe for now. The thing in the fog didn't chase after him—or rather, it couldn't. The entrance to the cave wasn't small, but it was probably still too narrow for a monster of that size.

He leaned against the rock wall, panting, and pulled a water gourd from his bag, taking a small sip. The cool water slid down his parched throat, bringing a touch of comfort. Then he took out some ointment and, enduring the pain, re-bandaged the wound on his left arm. There wasn't much ointment left; he could only apply a thin layer.

Only after doing all that did he begin to carefully observe the cave.

The cave was naturally formed, but showed signs of human intervention. The rock walls bore carvings, rough but clearly intentionally smoothed. The ground was covered with a thick layer of unknown fungi, soft and yielding underfoot, emitting a faint glow and a mushroom-like fragrance. It was this layer of fungi that saved his life; otherwise, falling from a height of three zhang (approximately 10 meters) would have left him severely injured, if not dead.

On one side of the cave, there was a passage leading deeper underground. The passage was narrow, only wide enough for one person to pass through, and it was pitch black inside with no end in sight. But the air blowing out of the passage carried a fresh, dry scent, completely different from the damp, musty smell at the cave entrance.

The knocking sound... disappeared.

No, it didn't disappear, but became extremely faint, almost inaudible. But the wooden plaque in his arms was still hot, and even hotter than before, like a red-hot charcoal.

Li Bai stared at the passage.

Could the "Immortal Gate" that the old mountain folk talk about be located right below here?

He struggled to his feet, a sharp pain shooting through his right ankle nearly causing him to fall again. He hopped a few steps on one foot, gripping the rock face for support, to adjust to the pain. Then he took out a tinderbox from his baggage—it was damp, but perhaps still usable.

He blew hard.

Sparks flew, and then a tiny flame appeared.

Although the light was faint, it shone like the sun in the absolute darkness. Li Bai, holding a tinderbox, limped towards the passage.

At the entrance to the passage, some symbols are carved on the rock wall.

Similar to the symbols on the stone pillars outside, but clearer and more complete. Li Bai leaned closer to examine them closely, the firelight illuminating the ancient inscriptions. The symbols were not writing, at least not any writing he recognized. They were more like pictures, like some kind of primitive record—there was a sun, a moon, stars, mountains, rivers, and… human figures. But those human figures were strange; some had large heads, some had protruding eyes, and some wore bizarre clothing.

One of the pictures caught his attention.

It was an image of an altar, with a sword stuck in its center. Many people knelt around the altar, their postures devout and fanatical. Above the altar, a crack appeared in the sky, and light poured down from the crack, enveloping the altar and the sword.

Li Bai's heart began to pound.

He stared at the picture, stared at the sword.

Then, he looked up and gazed into the depths of the passage.

The light from the tinderbox could only illuminate a few steps ahead; beyond that lay endless darkness. But the air blew in from deep within, fresh and dry, carrying a certain... summoning aura.

The wooden plaque in his arms was so hot it felt like it was burning his clothes.

Li Bai took a deep breath, gripped his short sword, held up the fire tinder, and stepped into the passage.

Darkness engulfed him.