The damp fog lingers year-round, tightly entwining itself between the dark green mountain ridges and the deep valleys. Even at noon, the light appears dim and oppressive.
The paths grow increasingly narrow and rugged, flanked by towering ancient trees that block out the sky, their gnarly branches stretching like ghostly claws through the fog, casting eerie shadows.
The air is thick with the musty scent of decaying vegetation and the damp smell emerging from deep within the soil, occasionally mixed with a faint, elusive burnt smell wafting from the distant village.
A group of people trudged along the muddy mountain path.
Sha Lifei wiped the mist from his face, muttering under his breath, "Cursed ghostly place, not even a single bird call, utterly lifeless."
Saying that, he instinctively reached for the flintlock gun slung across his shoulder.
