Lan Wuxin spat out the snow foam in his mouth with a 'ptoo ptoo', filled with regret.
If he had known, he wouldn't have been tempted by that small reward. He was well aware that the winter Tibial Creek was several times more dangerous than usual. In the snowy night, with piercing cold, the snow seemed to absorb footsteps, and the only sound in the Forest was the wind howling through, unsettling his heart.
He raised the resin torch in his hand, the flame flickering like a tattered cloth in the wind and snow, casting shadows of rows of intertwined fir trees. A line of pale gray dead faces gathered together, swaying as they approached.
Locals called these things 'Revenants', the undead spirits of those drowned in the Tibial Creek. Although Lan Wuxin knew this was just a legend, looking at those stiff faces, he couldn't help but feel his hair stand on end.
