Chapter 1 Aboard the Ship

After the mist completely cut off their view of the shore, the old fisherman suddenly felt a surge of fear. He didn't know what he was about to face, but he had a peculiar feeling, as if… as if something was different.

It was as if a thread, the one connecting them to the familiar world, had been severed. All that the lake beneath them and the surrounding mist offered was unfamiliarity.

The small boat sailed across the dark, still surface of the lake, the only sound the splash of water as the oars cut through it. The mist was thick and viscous, swirling slowly across the water.

After rowing for the better part of an incense stick's burning time, the man at the oars finally couldn't hold back any longer. "What's going on? We've gone in a circle and ended up back where we started. Judging by the distance, we should be able to see the shore by now."

But as it was, they couldn't even see the shore. They were still trapped in layers upon layers of fog, with only the dark waters of the lake beneath them. The road home seemed endless.

Just then, an old man with snow-white hair stood up. His voice was hoarse as he said, "Don't panic. We're all fishermen who make a living around Spring God Lake. I'm sure you've heard many legends about this great lake. No sailing after midnight is an old taboo. Tonight… tonight, I'm afraid we've run into something."

A man as skinny as a hemp stalk swayed violently, his face deathly pale with fright. "Run into… run into what? Tell us clearly."

The old man with white hair glared at him, not bothering to pay him any attention. He addressed the others, "You've all seen it too. These soldiers wouldn't be doing this for no reason. Something's definitely not right here. If we want to survive tonight, we can only rely on ourselves. Who remembers what those soldiers said when they sent us onto the boat?"

"I… I remember," a bald man said in a muffled voice. "They told us to sail this boat onto the lake, towards the depths, as far away from the shore as possible."

"That's right, I remember it that way too! Don't you find it strange? They just forced us to head towards the depths of the lake, but they never told us our destination. And they didn't tell us when we could return. Why is that?" The old man with white hair was very clear-headed.

"Because they never intended for us to return alive," the old fisherman, who hadn't said a word until now, finally spoke. His eyebrows were furrowed together, and his words sent a chill to the bone.

The old man nodded, his voice terrifyingly low. "That's what I think too."

The skinny man's pupils constricted, and he trembled uncontrollably. His voice grew louder as he spoke, "Are you saying we… we're going to die here?"

"I can't die! I still have parents at home, and I have a child…"

The skinny man became more and more agitated until "smack!" His right cheek was struck with a heavy slap. It was the old man who had hit him, and his hand was still raised in the air, not lowered. "No one cares if you want to die, but if you want to kill us all, we'll throw you overboard first!"

The man was dumbfounded, falling onto the boat, covering his face, not daring to utter a sound.

After slapping the man, the old man immediately bent down, his eyes scanning warily around him. But aside from the pitch-black lake water, there was only the pervasive mist. The old man was worried about something deeper.

"What do we do now?" The bald man had accepted reality. Now, he only wanted to live, and following the old man was clearly more likely to help him do that.

The old man looked around, and after a long while, he withdrew his gaze, his voice very low. "Those soldiers didn't say anything to us. Let's not act rashly. Let's search the boat and see if there's anything we can use."

As he spoke, everyone's attention focused on the ship's hold. This small boat had a low hold, but none of them had been inside yet.

The old man was the first to walk over, trying to pull the door of the hold, but it wouldn't budge. As he looked at it carefully, he realized that the door was locked.

Not with a padlock, but… but with a bolt, from behind the door.

Realizing this, the old man felt a chill run down his spine. He stumbled back several steps, almost falling headfirst off the boat, but thankfully the old fisherman was quick-witted and grabbed him.

After the old man told them what he had discovered, the others on the boat panicked. The hold was sealed, but it had been bolted from the inside. What did that mean? There was… there was definitely someone inside!

But why hadn't the person inside said anything?

Also, this person… what did this person want to do by following them all this way?

Everyone had too many questions. Fear spread to every corner of the boat. The most tragic thing was that they had nowhere to escape. The boat was only so big, and if anything happened, they could only jump ship. But looking down at the dark waters under the boat, everyone immediately dismissed the idea.

Time passed, and if they kept holding on like this, they didn't know what would happen. The old fisherman hardened his heart and walked towards the hold, calling out to see if anyone was inside.

But after calling out several times, there wasn't so much as a peep, let alone a reply.

"Don't… don't shout. It's creepy…" The timid, skinny man still had a red handprint on his face, and his whole body was shaking like a leaf. "Don't… don't call anything else here."

The old fisherman cursed inwardly. This guy was opening old wounds. He had mustered up the courage to come over here, and the man's words almost made him lose it.

But strangely, he had the same thought as the skinny man. If he kept shouting, he might really summon something evil.

He was considered an old hand in the vicinity of Spring God Lake. He had once heard a saying that the souls of those who drowned in the water could not be reincarnated. The souls soaked in the water, and every night at midnight, they would repeat the drowning process, in extreme pain. The only way to free themselves was to find a substitute, or to "call the soul."

But he had heard that "calling the soul" required a lot and came at a considerable price, with extreme risks, so little by little it had declined and the tradition had been lost.

Just as everyone was thinking their own thoughts, suddenly, they heard a "creak—" as if a sharp pair of scissors had cut their hearts in two.

Everyone's eyes widened, and the more timid ones were so frightened that they forgot to breathe. The door to the hold had actually opened on its own, and only a little, revealing a gap two fingers wide.

No one dared to move rashly. Everyone was waiting, waiting for what would happen next, although no one knew what would happen. The scene was frozen in that moment.

The old fisherman was the closest. Looking through the crack, he saw that the hold was pitch black.