The day passed uneventfully. By evening, as they set up camp, Axel had bonded with the soldiers. Noticing their thin clothes, the kindhearted Lady Yan sent each of them a garment and permitted them to rest by the campfire before the tents.

  Night fell early in the mountains, and after a tiring day, the four drifted off by the fire. In the early hours, a chilling scream jolted Xia Feng from a drowsy slumber. Ji Xuanxuan, sleeping beside him fully clothed, thrashed—face flushed, eyes shut, cwing at the air as if trapped in a nightmare.

  Axel and Yaoji stirred too. When she wouldn’t wake, Axel gave her a light sp, finally rousing her with a gasp as she bolted upright.

  “What? Guilty conscience—ghosts knocking in your dreams?” Xia Feng teased gleefully.

  But Ji Xuanxuan ignored him, eyes wide with terror, arms clutching her chest, muttering to the void, “Not a dream—definitely not. Too real, like I saw it myself.”

  Axel frowned. “Saw what?”

  “Blood! So much blood!” Her voice quivered with fear. “People pushed off a tall, square, pointed tower—bck, yellow, white—all gutted, their blood staining every step. It seeped through the cracks into the tower. I heard a sound inside, ‘sp, sp,’ like something licking it up.”

  “Sleep. We’ve got a trek tomorrow,” Xia Feng yawned, flopping back down, bored by her nightmare. But she rambled on, “I clearly remember that tall, square tower—I dreamed of it as a kid too.”

  “What’d it look like?” Axel asked casually. She thought, then sketched it with a dry twig on the ground. Axel scratched his head, puzzled. “Kinda resembles the Great Westerners’ rumored sacrificial tower—but I’ve never seen it, so I’m not sure. If it is, that’s odd. You’ve never been to the Great Western Empire—how’d you dream it?”

  Their talk irked Xia Feng. “If you want dream analysis, find Duke Zhou—quit guessing! We’ve got a march tomorrow!” He sat up, aiming to erase the sketch with his foot, but froze mid-step, eyes bulging in disbelief. After a long stutter, he stammered, “T-this… this is an ancient Egyptian pyramid!”

  Meanwhile, far off in Poseidon, the Great Western Empire’s capital, the live sacrifice ritual atop the towering sacrificial tower continued. An executioner’s axe fshed, gutting a sve on the ptform before kicking the body off. It rolled to the base in a bloody tumble. He killed and kicked in rhythm—finishing one batch, another was dragged up. Blood flowed down the stone steps, seeping through cracks into the tower, where a deep “sp, sp” echoed from below, loud and terrifying despite the thick stone walls.

  After countless sves, the licking stopped. A muffled roar shook the tower’s depths, something smming its inner walls. The chanting priests felt the ground quake as dust rained from the massive stones.

  The duty diviner approached a white-haired, gaunt old man, bowing reverently. “Grand Mage Stanma, the divine beast guarding the Heavenly Pace has consumed its offerings. The sacred gate is open—the god heeds your plea!”

  The pale, skeletal elder, leaning on a gleaming silver staff, ascended the tower slowly. Thousands around it knelt in silence.

  Atop the tower, Grand Mage Stanma knelt eastward, raising his staff high, crying to the void, “God! Tell your people—what camities will the four stars of Disaster, Chaos, Sughter, and Death bring upon Atntis? How can your children avert them?”

  As he prayed, strange, glowing symbols shimmered in the air. Stanma stared, breath quickening, trembling uncontrolbly until they faded. With a wail, he colpsed, shrieking, “No! You can’t! You can’t abandon your people!”

  The void offered no reply, reverting to cold, empty silence. The aged Stanma, now a broken shell, was helped down by the diviner, looking a decade older. A Senate elder approached, whispering, “What did the oracle say?”

  Stanma’s vacant gaze drifted. “The god has forsaken Atntis. Our beautiful, bountiful nd will sink into the sea!”

  “Sleep! We’ve got a trek tomorrow!” Though Ji Xuanxuan’s pyramid sketch stunned Xia Feng, he brushed it off as coincidence. Real-world stuff popping up here isn’t weird—lots of this game’s ideas come from reality.

  Axel sighed, tossing twigs into the fire, gesturing to the girls. “Don’t overthink it—just a nightmare. Rest more; dawn’s far off.”

  Ji Xuanxuan shivered, pulling her clothes tight, muttering fearfully, “I’m not sleeping again. Another dream of that killing cone tower’ll scare me to death.”

  The four settled back. Soon, Xia Feng’s soft snores rose, Axel dozed hazily, and Yaoji curled by the fire, drifting off. Only Ji Xuanxuan stared sleeplessly at the fmes.

  Then, a faint jingle wafted from afar. She froze, peering toward it—camel bells in these mountains?

  At the second chime, Xia Feng and Axel bolted upright, sleep gone, staring toward the sound in shock—Axel with dread, Xia Feng with curiosity.

  The bells neared, shadowy figures emerging under the moon, paired with odd, halting steps—like wounded giants trudging the trail.

  Xia Feng stood, squinting. In the dim light, a gaunt old man in a teal robe led, leaning on a staff, ringing a small bell every few steps. Its haunting peal pierced the ears. Behind him trailed strange men—pale, stiff, sluggish, eyes vacant, moving only to the bell’s command.

  “Who’s there? What’s this nonsense? Halt!” The sentries grabbed knives, stomping forward. Suddenly, the old man shook the bell sharply. Its tone tightened, and his rigid followers sprang to life, darting forward like lightning. Before the sentries could react, they were torn apart like phantoms, blood soaking the grass in a savage blur.

  Xia Feng flinched. The girls screamed. Axel trembled, his seasoned warrior’s poise shattered. Noting his excessive fear, Xia Feng asked, “You know them?”

  Axel’s lips quaked, his hoarse, shaking voice spitting out, “N-necro… mancer!”