The sea stretched endlessly, dark and silent—an ocean without horizon, a sheet of lifeless ink under a sky the color of tarnished silver. It was not night, not day; the heavens above looked like a vast, smudged canvas where the stars had been erased and the moon forgotten.
The old wooden ship creaked as it drifted forward, carried by a current too subtle to be called waves. Each groan of the timbers sounded like a plea, as though the vessel itself resented being forced across these haunted waters.
Arkan stood at the railing, his fingers pressed against damp wood slick with salt. His eyes searched the golden mist that curled over the water's surface. At first, he thought it was nothing more than refracted light. But the longer he stared, the more he realized shapes were forming within it. Faces.
A boy smiling faintly. A soldier weeping silently. A woman screaming, her eyes wide with despair.
Arkan's chest tightened. His breath caught, as though the cold mist seeped into his lungs. Fear twisted with something else—pity, perhaps—and the mix made his skin crawl. He swallowed hard before whispering, almost afraid the sound of his own voice might summon them closer.
"…These aren't illusions. This fog… it's filled with the souls of the dead, isn't it?"
Elara stood several paces away, her silver cloak fluttering in the sea breeze. Her hand drifted through the air as though feeling for something invisible, her expression calm but severe. At last, she glanced toward him, her eyes sharp.
"You're perceptive. Yes. This fog isn't natural. Every challenger who failed in trials like this left fragments of their spirit behind."
Arkan's brows furrowed. His mind raced back to the faces—their laughter, their grief, their silence. "So those people I saw… they're all the ones who died here?"
Elara exhaled softly. Her tone was even, yet an undercurrent of sorrow lingered. "Dead… or erased. Some spirits truly break apart. Others lose their identity, reduced to nothing more than echoes. Shadows without names."
A chill seeped into Arkan's spine. The fog seemed heavier now, almost tugging at him, as if unseen hands were inviting him forward. He felt his thoughts drifting, his awareness loosening.
A sudden weight pressed against his shoulder. Elara's hand—firm, grounding. "Don't stare too long. The fog binds consciousness. Lose focus for a moment, and you'll vanish before ever setting foot on the island."
He gasped, stumbling back a step, drawing in sharp breaths. His fingers trembled as if frost had bitten into his bones. "Hhh… damn. Okay. Okay…"
They moved toward the bow. There, an old lantern swayed with the ship's motion, its flame a pale, spectral blue. The light pulsed steadily, soft yet unyielding, like the heartbeat of the vessel itself.
Arkan pointed at it warily. "What's that?"
Elara's gaze lingered on the lantern. "The Guiding Soul. Without its light, the ship would never leave this fog. It would drift here forever."
Her words tightened the knot in Arkan's chest. The more he learned, the heavier this place became.
Then—
"Why are you here…?"
A whisper brushed directly against his ear. Too intimate. Too close. It carried the warmth of a friend but the strangeness of a stranger.
"You don't belong in this dimension… go back… leave the ship…"
Arkan jolted, his hand flying to the hilt at his waist. "Did you hear that?!" His voice cracked with alarm.
Elara shook her head faintly. "Only faint murmurs. But if the fog speaks directly to you… then you've been chosen."
Arkan's throat went dry. "Chosen? Chosen for what?"
Her stare bore into him, piercing, unreadable. When she finally spoke, her words offered no comfort. "That… we'll discover on the island."
Silence pressed in again. The salt-heavy wind carried the sting of rust, the taste of metal. Arkan's grip on the railing tightened until his knuckles whitened.
Hours passed. The sea remained unchanged, the horizon unyielding. No stars. No progress. Only fog. Unease gnawed at him until he began pacing across the deck, muttering, "We're not moving… it feels like we're just circling in place."
Elara cast him a sidelong glance, her voice steady as stone. "That's the point. The ship is testing your patience."
He stopped mid-step, bewildered. "Testing… me?"
Her eyes sharpened. "If you panic, if you leap overboard, if you try to steer the ship off course—you'll be erased. This vessel only carries those who endure quietly, until the time comes."
The chill in his blood deepened. Even the journey itself was a trial.
Then—
CRAAACK!
The lantern rattled violently. The blue flame inside flared and faltered, nearly snuffed out. The mist surged, twisting into a storm of gold and shadow. From the chaos, a massive black hand clawed into existence, its fingers long and skeletal, nails sharp as daggers. It clamped against the side of the ship, wood splintering beneath its grip.
Arkan's instincts screamed. His blade hissed free as he slashed at the monstrous hand. But the steel carved nothing—his strike passed straight through as though the hand were made of smoke. Cold seeped into his bones where the mist brushed his skin.
"Don't be a fool!" Elara's voice snapped like thunder. "It isn't flesh—it's the fog itself!"
More hands burst from the mist. Dozens. From the sides, from above, writhing and grasping. Arkan swung again and again, his breaths ragged, but each cut met only empty air.
Elara slammed her palm against the deck. A glowing circle erupted beneath her, violet runes spinning with power. Bolts of lightning surged outward, lashing the reaching hands. The fog shrieked—a chorus of agonized wails—as the black limbs melted, collapsing back into golden haze.
The lantern steadied, its flame regaining its steady rhythm.
Arkan dropped to his knees, his face pale, chest heaving. "…I was this close to being pulled under." His voice shook.
Elara's gaze lingered on him, cold but not unkind. "That was your first warning. Remember—this place isn't a game. The slightest mistake, and you're gone."
Arkan lowered his head, clutching his sword with trembling fingers. For the first time, he felt the reality of it: death here wasn't just possible. It was inevitable for anyone careless enough to falter.
Time passed again. The ship creaked onward. But now, at last, the fog began to thin.
A faint glow appeared on the horizon. Slowly, a silhouette emerged—an island. Jagged trees clawed at the sky like black spears. The shoreline shimmered as though dusted with golden sand. Strange birdcalls echoed from the canopy, sharp and alien.
Treasure Island. Their destination.
Arkan rose shakily to his feet. His legs trembled, but his eyes locked on the approaching land. Fear and determination churned inside him, colliding like storm and fire. "Whatever waits there… I have to survive."
Elara stood beside him, her expression composed but taut with vigilance. "Remember this: the island will test your soul. Don't trust what you see. Don't trust what you hear. Trust only yourself."
Arkan nodded, gripping his sword tighter, the weight grounding him.
The waves carried the ship forward, closer, closer—until the land loomed before them.
A familiar chime rang out. A glowing panel unfolded before Arkan's eyes, letters etched in luminous blue.
[Limited-Time Event — Treasure Island]
Welcome to the hidden isle, sealed for a thousand years. You are the first visitor in an age.