I, the screenwriter, have experienced a resurgence of inspiration.

The meteorologist and the infiltrator wearing an elephant mask were unaware of their companion's fate.

The two followed the western mountain wall around and found a flower wall covered with roses.

The meteorologist, wearing lizard gloves, crawled ahead towards a room with a light on.

"Damn it! He beat me to it!"

The man wearing the elephant mask clicked his tongue, lowered his body, and tiptoed to a window facing the flower wall.

He tried to climb out the window, but the next second, he suddenly heard a woman crying.

"...Waaaaah..."

"Waaaaah..."

"Waaaaah..."

The voice was plaintive and mournful, like a woman grieving the death of her lover, or a desperate mother crying for the departure of her child—

Everyone who cried was heartbroken, and tears streamed down their faces involuntarily.

How tragic her life is.

She is so pitiful.

Her loved one is about to embrace death—

The next second, the man with tears streaming down his face immediately realized that he had been subjected to a mental attack. He rolled over and fired several shots at the source of the sound!

But the mournful cries did not disappear; instead, they grew louder and louder.

Suddenly, a gust of wind swept past the man. Before he could even discern where the enemy was coming from, an extremely sharp and piercing sound exploded in his mind!

"ah--!"

The scream was shrill and piercing, like countless fingernails scraping a blackboard at the same time, or like dozens of whistles exploding at the same second!

The excruciating pain felt like a dozen steel needles piercing his eardrums simultaneously. A trickle of bright red blood flowed from the corner of the man's eye and ear as he collapsed to the ground with a thud.

"!!"

The meteorologist covered his ears tightly, curled up in a ball, and buried his face in his arms. Without time to check if his companion was alive or dead, he nimbly climbed onto the ceiling and cautiously searched for the source of the sound.

He was lying on the ceiling, and everything was upside down.

A tidy kitchen, carved chairs, a long table covered with linen, neatly arranged plates, and various brightly colored fruits on the table.

What is that?!

The man's gaze suddenly stopped.

A few items were casually placed between the plates:

[Celtic Fairy Fruit: A food exclusive to elves in Celtic mythology (After consumption, it continuously restores health and grants the [Health] buff, duration: 20 minutes)]

[Greensleeves: A cloud-shaped, translucent flower, originating from the elven realm, with a soft, cotton-like texture. (After consumption, it restores 50% of your mana bar within five minutes. It can be consumed repeatedly, but has no effect beyond the mana bar's maximum capacity.)]

[Small Blue Bottle (Premium): Restores all mana within ten seconds of consumption (for levels below 20).]

[Little Red Bottle (Premium): Restores full health within ten seconds of consumption (for levels below 20).]

"???!"

Seeing these props, which are fiercely contested on the black market and even have no market value, carelessly discarded aside like ordinary kitchen waste—

The meteorologist's brain seemed to freeze.

He even suspected that he was hallucinating because his brain was lacking oxygen.

The next second, the strange wind returned, and this time the screams of his teammates who had been killed exploded in his ears!

The man coughed up a mouthful of blood, and a silver orchid brooch on his chest snapped open with a "crack".

[Silver Brooch: From the "Ghost in the Port City" dungeon. It was once a lady's favorite item. Wearing it can protect against one low-level mental attack.]

But this prop, which he had snatched from someone else, shattered completely before it could even play its proper role.

Then, the meteorologists could hear nothing at all.

He saw three women standing in front of him.

A young girl, a woman in a black veil, and an old woman with a face wrinkled like tree bark.

The three people held hands and circled around him, as if they were crying for him.

The meteorologists finally realized what they had heard before entering the villa.

—That was the wailing of the banshee.

—It foreshadowed their deaths.

The man stared wide-eyed in despair, his immense confusion preventing him from taking his last breath, and he let out a series of wheezing sounds.

Why?

Why?

Why is the banshee here?!

……

The harbinger of death landed on the eaves.

It let out another very soft whimper from its throat, then tilted its head, slowly buried its head in its wings, and began to preen its feathers.

Banshees, the harbingers of death, never attack humans unless provoked.

But today is different.

The rude person who offends his mother should be the one to sing a song welcoming death.

……

……

……

The fighters and spice makers made their way up from the north slope.

Compared to cold, hard firearms, the two trusted their profession more.

Under the mist, the lawn was wet, like a cashmere carpet soaked in water.

The spice shopkeeper followed a few steps behind the fighter on the right. She always had a faint scent of osmanthus on her, which was one of her skills.

[Body Scent (Passive): Spice Masters carry a random scented powder to conceal their presence.]

The fighters didn't really like partnering with her on missions because she always managed to make people "ignore" her presence.

"Damn it!"

The spice merchant suddenly muttered a curse, and the gladiator immediately turned around. A sliver of moonlight shone down, landing right beneath a clump of begonias.

The spice lady stood there, frantically patting her arms, her whole body covered in mud gourds.

These round, chubby creatures, with small heads and large bodies, appeared out of nowhere and were tearing at the clothes on the spice family member's body.

"Damn it, come help! These things are eating my spices!"

The spice merchant lowered his voice, his tone bordering on despair: "Shouldn't these things hate foggy weather the most? How come there are so many of them gathered here?!"

The fighter took a look and almost burst out laughing with schadenfreude.

This paranormal creature is recorded in the Special Investigation Bureau's abnormal creature files, and anyone can find it on the Lingjing APP.

This creature thrives in dirty and chaotic environments, can reproduce on its own, dislikes rain, and also dislikes foggy days.

Although there are many of these mud gourds in front of us, they don't pose much of a threat.

"There's water on the grass, just roll around on it. These things probably like your spices."

The fighter lowered his voice and took half a step forward when he suddenly felt a chill on the back of his neck.

He instinctively rolled to the ground, and a sharp, piercing pain exploded from his right arm—

The fighter looked down and saw a silver hairpin deeply embedded in his flesh, almost piercing through his entire forearm.

A silver hairpin: from the "Fox in the Orchid Garden" instance. It was once the cherished possession of the daughter of a general store owner. Later, when the girl got married, she accidentally lost it.

(This creature will actively stab its owner to warn them of imminent danger; the greater the danger, the deeper it will pierce.)

The fighter's face darkened.

This silver hairpin was one of his trump cards, and he never revealed it lightly.

In the previous instance, he was trapped in a well by a vengeful ghost, and the hairpin only managed to sever his flesh.

This time, however, the silver hairpin sank more than three inches into her arm.

Is this enemy very dangerous?

The fighter clenched his fists, noticing a faint black square outline emerging from the mist:

"come out!"

No one answered.

Without hesitation, the fighter used his sixth sense to unleash his skill towards the mist:

[The Fighter's Invitation (Active): As a fighter, you have always longed for a fair fight.]

You can issue challenge requests to enemies. Enemies of a higher level than yourself can be declined. Enemies of a lower level will be forced into melee combat. (During this state, neither side can use items.)

This is the fighter's true trump card!

No matter how high the quality of the items the opponent has, even the red item, they cannot be used under his skill!

The opponent has accepted the challenge.

The fighter smiled dismissively and lightly clashed his fists together—since the opponent had accepted the fight, it meant that the player's level was lower than his, at most equal to his.

As long as he doesn't use props, he has never lost in terms of fighting skills.

The man clenched his fist, his knuckles cracking.

Then he saw it.

A bus slowly, very slowly emerged from the thick fog.

A helpful sign floats above the bus:

[Unable to escape while in combat.]

The expression on the fighter's face could no longer be described as mere terror.