Chapter 47 The Fog 1 This chapter begins the return to normalcy.
The streetlights, reaching the windows, cast a warm yellow light into your apartment, waking you, the lazybones sleeping on the single bed beneath the window. You rub your eyes, lie on the thin layer of foam—far worse than the mattress you slept on during your previous dungeon runs—and stare at the ceiling, slowly calming the palpitations that come with getting up.
After that trip, you stayed home for almost five whole days.
Recurring nightmares have severely impacted your sleep quality, completely reversing your sleep schedule over the past few days. You keep thinking that people in China should go to bed early and wake up early for better health, and you keep trying to get your sleep schedule back on track. Failure.
And so you, in the damp evening breeze blowing in from the window, review the trip over and over again.
First, you have to admit that you are very lucky.
You are the central figure in this mission; if you make a single mistake, everyone will perish. This task is arduous, but having your own life in your own hands naturally gives you an advantage over the others.
Next, there are the little details of the journey.
Previously, you had never changed different "scenes" so frequently over several consecutive days, and the rules under each scene were different.
Under such intense "torture," a strange yet real thought arises: the existence of rules is both a constraint and a guide. It confines you to a predetermined path, yet at certain moments it offers the possibility of breaking through.
"It doesn't want me to die, it just wants me to struggle," you mutter to yourself, the last scene of your escape from the cruise ship flashing through your mind, the captain's meaningful expression. "What's the purpose of struggling? Is it to make me stronger, or to make me more obedient?"
The more you think about it, the more you overthink. Sometimes you can't help but try to tell yourself, "Actually, I didn't even see the captain's face clearly. Everything happened so suddenly. Am I overthinking it?"
But you can't overcome your true inner feelings.
You thought of the VIP sunroom, the place you considered a safe haven, but it ultimately became the stage for revealing the truth. Its existence shows that space is not the foundation of a cruise ship, but rather part of its rules.
“Space is not a container, but a theater.” You think of the small, theatrical scenes that begin in the Dolo Mountains, the expressions of the crew members who are both waiters and spectators at the Captain’s Dinner, and—every fold and change in the cruise ship.
This is the life habit of ouroboros, but it wouldn't be out of place to say that it's a stage set tailor-made for you.
The rules are the script that drives the plot forward.
"This is not just a distortion of space, but a comprehensive control—controlling our direction, controlling our time, and even controlling our psychology." You clutched the only shopping item in the room that was truly yours—an IKEA blanket, which was very useful in London where the temperature difference between day and night and between sunny and rainy days was huge.
You've seen this part before, but never as "thoroughly" as this trip.
After leaving the travel scene, in those midnight recollections, you gradually pick up the memories of being controlled. More terrifying than the memories are the emotions that accompany them.
Anger, hatred, killing.
You are still you. Treat these feelings like a minor emotional cold. Don't worry, you won't go crazy. This is just a little trick the game is using to assimilate you and keep you around. You've always been yourself, and you're normal. Of course you're normal.
Don't be afraid. You, don't be afraid.
Thankfully, you have such a group of friends. An unconscious smile spread across your face, and the gloomy thoughts born of the nightmare suddenly vanished.
You turned around, picked up the giant Jelly Cat brand plush bear, hugged it, and settled into a more comfortable position. This made you feel much better.
This journey is almost equivalent to a complete replica, not just a scene. You continue thinking.
“Resurrection spells, seashells, ouroboros… these things don’t exist in isolation in the scene.” You close your eyes and recall their meanings. “Even similar imagery, such as the white of the Dolo Mountains, and recurring themes of myths and legends, are consistent throughout.”
So, are these legitimate national replicas also like that?
Are the connections between dungeons as strong as those in this travel scenario? Perhaps you should also try to find some items just in case?
—What kind of prop?
The previous Li Jie, who had already completed six dungeons and should now be completely free, made no mention of any items that could be carried from one dungeon to another. Her departure was simply a matter of boarding a green bus and freely traveling across the Seagull Continent.
Props might not be a necessity, but you might think it's worth inquiring about them if possible.
Finally, there is the relationship between outsiders and the instance world.
Previously, you only strongly felt that this was a survival challenge space full of obstacles. This time, you encountered a highly subjective "boss monster," and you started to think about the structure of the dungeon.
If it's like a testing ground, the outsiders' goal is to survive and escape, not to stay, and they won't stay. They won't stay, will they?
If you think its purpose is to torture and toy with outsiders, then you really don't understand the "meaning" of the instance world.
You people have nothing here, all you have is...
You paused, realizing the blind spot. You are not without possessions; you have yourselves, your souls, your emotions, and the changes your actions bring to the instance.
As the outline of the worldview gradually becomes clear, you seem to see a colossal entity with rules as its framework, a soul as its driving force, and something yet to be known as its purpose, hidden in the abyss shimmering with starlight, grinning at you with a savage smile full of sharp teeth.
You shivered.
It's getting foggy.
This is the third time it's foggy in the four days since you returned to mainland England. London truly lives up to its name as the Fog City; the rain after sunset always manages to suddenly drop the temperature, causing fog to rise from the ground.
According to the common rules of Ying Kingdom, one must immerse oneself in the fog.
You tried opening the window, but the fog seemed to have a mind of its own, forming a smooth arc around your window and gracefully leaving you without a trace of fog.
So I had no choice but to go out.
You raise your arms and legs, tense your whole body, and then slam yourself back onto the bed. After this series of actions, your lazy body is forced to "start up."
Wearing slippers, you wander aimlessly around your 30-square-meter studio apartment, which costs a thousand pounds a week—already a bargain—before squatting down in front of the closet and starting to choose what to wear today.
"Ah, these days are just too hard," you complained.
Like any normal person, you prefer comfortable and casual clothing and don't usually care much about your appearance, as long as you're clean and tidy. Of course, on special occasions, such as a fancy dinner or a rare trip with friends, dressing up occasionally can be very pleasing to you.
In the previous dungeon or the trip that just ended, you always chose the most sporty and practical clothes from the pile of exquisite and fashionable outfits brought by the "you" in this world, and no one criticized you for not dressing properly.
But it's different here.
When the first fog rolled in, you thought you wouldn't go far, so you went downstairs to stand in the fog and observe the situation. You wore a plain cotton t-shirt and pajama bottoms (barely wearable for going out) with a cardigan over them for warmth, and only specifically chose sneakers that suited your feet best. You grabbed a mop handle that could be unscrewed, and that's how you went out. Actually, you even combed your hair!
As soon as I opened the door to the apartment building and stepped into the fog, my vision was blocked, and the visibility was at most the distance of a handshake.
You hear voices, but you can't see anyone. This makes you feel unsafe, so you half-raise the mop handle in a defensive posture.
"Giggle, giggle~" Someone was laughing, and his voice was even more unpleasant than a rooster's crow.
The moment you step outside, the mist creeps up your face like a ghost, its damp chill sending a shiver down your spine. You pull your thin nightgown tighter, only to suddenly hear a low chuckle. The laughter doesn't sound human; it seems to come from all directions, as if every drop of water in the air is mocking you.
"pajamas?"
"How dare you go out dressed like that? You have no shame."
The voices became clearer and clearer. The standard London accent caused a lot of trouble for you who had watched a lot of American dramas and were used to American pronunciation. Fortunately, they spoke slowly enough that after one person finished speaking, another person would repeat it like a broken record, and then the two of them would giggle. This allowed you to accurately grasp their expressions.
Huh? Are they really mocking and discussing your clothes? You always think these mean-spirited supporting characters are a staple of mindless novels. This isn't exactly reality, but why would anyone inexplicably pay attention to the clothes of a perfectly well-behaved stranger standing obediently at their doorstep?!
You listen intently, somewhat incredulously, while squinting your eyes, trying to pinpoint the source and the speaker.
However, more and more people are making such outrageous and impolite noises, to the point that you always feel like there are crowds of people around you, but when you look up to search, all you see is a vast expanse of fog.
You could even hear the echo of men's hard-soled leather shoes on the cobblestones, but where were the men?
The situation was too bizarre, and the mocking laughter was extremely grating, like being pricked in the ear with a needle. You defensively leaned your back against the wall, your eyes darting left and right to observe.
They just laughed, using every word they knew and didn't know to comment on your clothes. And you, damn it, you who never cared about your appearance, slowly started to feel ashamed and inferior.
As your feelings of inferiority intensify, the laughter of these people grows louder and louder.
You feel like you've shrunk, and the whole world seems huge and terrifying.
You've compromised for now.
Unsure of the rules' intention in keeping you in the fog, you dare not easily try the option of staying indoors. Rushing back to your room as fast as you can, you don't bother with careful selection, still wearing your pajamas underneath. But this time, you grab a luxury brand coat, stuff a matching beret on your head, change into a pair of easy-to-walk-in boots to match, and casually tuck in your lipstick, applying it as you rush downstairs.
When the door was opened again, the mocking laughter disappeared, and the person who had spoken was revealed before them.
In the thin mist, people swarmed about like ants, each dressed in exquisite or stylish clothing. The men all wore hair wax, and perfume was an essential part of their outfits.
So this is how thin the fog is! Now, even though you're all dressed up, you finally have a superior perspective.
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Author's Note: Good evening. The social customs depicted in this chapter are based on information I found online and after asking friends. Apparently, people in London, in particular, are very appearance-conscious; dress codes are everywhere. Although when I visited London, I didn't feel anything special about dressing like a country bumpkin... But since so many English speakers say this, I found it really funny, so I added it, hehe~
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