The border between the Eastern and Southern Sectors was separated by a central region of no man's land. There, fanatics roamed freely. Some worshipped the Mistress of Heads, while others bowed to gods unknown to the rest of the mist's residents.
It was uncommon for people to migrate from one region to another, for there was always the risk of encountering the bell monster. Some claimed it rang a dreadful bell, one that could enslave any who heard its toll.
It was said to resemble a tall figure cloaked in robes, its face nothing but shadow, a dreadful smile hidden beneath. In its arm rested a staff crowned with a bell that tolled whenever it drew near.
There were numerous stories surrounding it. Rosacer had only learned of the creature from one of the men at the pub. His original intent had been to find a companion who would be traveling toward the Southern Sector, but it seemed there were none willing.
He had nothing to offer the man who warned him of the danger and spoke at length about the creature's nature. So, Rosacer chose to leave quietly, without notifying him.
As he exited the bar, he muttered, "A bell monster, huh? I should have asked Elizabeth about it."
Lost in thought, he strolled along the street.
Though the monster sounded strange and dangerous, it was not something that could truly threaten him. He had ways to escape. Ananta and the Nightmare Realm were both at his disposal. Even so, he would not use Ananta unless there was absolutely no other option. The Nightmare Realm, however, was a lifesaver if he found himself trapped.
"My immortality would not do much against this monster," he added, reflecting soberly on his defenses.
He counted his possible routes of escape and considered how to deal with the fanatics.
However, the most problematic obstacle was something else entirely. It was the river. A vast river divided the Southern Sector in two, and to reach the side where people still lived, he had to cross it. The bridge leading across was shrouded in some kind of mystical force.
He remembered his arrival in the Southern Sector. If he had been transported to the other side back then, he might have been trapped there for the rest of his life.
From the information he had gathered at the bar, almost no one truly traveled to the Southern Sector. There were a few recorded cases, but no one who entered had ever returned.
Only mages capable of spatial magic, or users of relics that manipulated space, were said to have reached the Southern Sector and survived.
According to rumors, a magical ferry existed that could cross the river, but it remained a myth. No one had ever verified its existence.
"It is not that big of a deal to cross a river," Rosacer muttered, confused as to why a ferry was necessary. No one had even tried to build a boat or swim across. There were strong and powerful knights in the Mist City. It should not have been a problem for them.
"I wonder how Elizabeth crossed the river," he added quietly.
For now, he accepted that the river was unswimmable and began thinking of another way to cross it.
As he planned, he also started retrieving the traps he had set earlier. They were hidden near the alley outside the pub.
Fortunately, he managed to catch a few.
Quickly, he fed some of them to the seal and shoved the knife back into his inventory.
It felt strange killing his own kind. He made a brief, uneasy expression as he did so.
For now, he decided to figure it out once he reached the Southern Sector.
He quickly shoved the remaining rat into his inventory. For a brief moment, he thought the inventory would reject it, since it was still alive. To his surprise, it accepted the creature and treated it like any other item.
Now, with everything ready, he stepped into the central region.
The mist grew heavier, curling thickly around him, and dreadful hymns echoed through every second of his movement. He ventured deeper and deeper.
His heightened senses strained to detect danger before it could notice him.
He succeeded. The fanatics were busy mutilating one another, wearing burning skins that made them resemble a flock of black sheep. They never turned their heads. He was swift and cautious, concealing not only his body but even his scent. He followed routes where the wind would better mask him, using it to carry his presence away.
He encountered a group that worshipped a god of disease.
Their bodies were laced with narrow cuts, into which filth and waste had been forcibly shoved. They were deliberately infecting themselves, coating their flesh with toxins in a grotesque attempt to invite sickness.
Rosacer almost vomited at the sight. "Psychopaths."
Their hymns pressed in on his ears as he crouched low, waiting for the right opportunity to slip past them. They were positioned within an alleyway whose sides had collapsed into rubble, leaving it as the only viable path forward.
"Forsaken land, we need your help, God of Disease and Paradox. Come and grace us with your presence," the cult leader begged, sobbing as he knelt. He cut himself further, forcing waste into his wounds. Pus leaked from earlier, filth-filled gashes. His hands were grotesquely enlarged, mutated far beyond a human shape.
The group was small, only five in total, all surrounding the one performing the ritual.
The remaining four screamed in unison. "Born inside his flesh, oh God. We, your children, beg you. Descend into the flesh of your beloved one."
All of them were naked.
Suddenly, a bell chimed from a distant corner.
In the very next moment, the group scattered. They fled in panic, abandoning the ritual without hesitation.
Rosacer stiffened. He moved carefully, unable to see who had rung the bell. He did not wait to find out. He retreated at once, slipping into a nearby building and hiding within.
He chose not to look back toward the alleyway.
His intuition screamed at him not to.