CHAPTER 71: GRIEF IN THE FOG

The group moved silently through the bone-white forest.

The fog clung to the earth like a second skin, curling around their feet, swallowing the distance between trunks. The Shadow Wolf hadn’t returned, but its presence pressed in from all sides—low growls echoed faintly from the mist, as if the forest itself breathed threats into their ears.

No one spoke.

They marched east in tense silence, weapons drawn, spells at the ready.

Gindu and Fenric were up again, both walking on their own. Gindu, scales sharpened and eyes hard, had his pride stitched back into every step. Lucy, still soulthreaded to him, felt the quiet frustration simmering inside.

He was embarrassed that he’d been the only one taken out of the fight.

’Poor fog dog. Next time it shows up, Gindu’s gonna turn it into a scarf,’ Lucy thought, smirking.

He imagined Gindu tearing it apart, blood flying, then planting a clawed foot on its corpse and declaring himself Wyrmling Boss Supreme. The image made Lucy snort softly.

And then there was Fenric.

The blood junkie was strutting like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just tried to rip Gindu open moments ago. Lucy narrowed his eyes at the back of Fenric’s head.

’Yeah, Tara and I are gonna have words. Angry, well-articulated words.’

Then, up ahead, something shifted.

Between two massive trees, the fog stirred differently, less like a breeze and more like a ripple in water. Lucy slowed. The air grew colder and heavier.

This wasn’t the wolf. It didn’t feel like it.

It felt... familiar.

The mist parted slowly, like curtains being drawn back on a stage.

And there—at the base of one of the great ivory trees, beneath leaves that shimmered like glass—lay a woman.

Lucy’s heart stopped.

His feet froze mid-step.

She was sprawled across the silver grass, arms outstretched, and black hair fanned around her head like a halo. The sun above caught her features in soft gold and purple hues. Her skin was pale, and her face was peaceful.

His mother.

For a second, the world disappeared. Time, sound, breath—gone.

Then he saw it.

The Fogged Shadow Wolf.

It’s form hunched over her body, its misty jaws dripping blood, and tearing into her torso with a grotesque wet sound. Her eyes snapped open wide in horror, locking onto his.

"W-What the hell is going on?!" Lucy shouted, stumbling backward.

Her lips trembled.

"Don’t let me die," she whispered, voice barely audible over the howl of the windless mist.

The words hit him like a knife to the ribs.

His mind fractured.

Confusion. Disbelief. Pain.

’This can’t be real.’

But it felt real.

Blood ran from her mouth. Her gaze pleaded. Then the wolf growled, sank its teeth into her leg, and dragged her into the forest.

"No—NO!" Lucy bolted forward without thinking.

"LUCY!" someone shouted behind him.

Too late.

He was already running.

How could he not? She was there. His mother—dead for years—was right there, and calling for him.

He tore through the mist, crashing through the underbrush, faster than he’d ever moved. The trees whipped past, ghostly blurs in the fog. Somewhere in the distance, the wolf’s silhouette darted ahead, dragging her limp body further out of reach.

And with every step, memories tore through his mind.

Her laughter echoing in the kitchen as they cooked together, the way she’d pretend to know basketball stats just to keep up with him, the warmth of her hugs, her humming when she thought no one was listening.

And then... the closet.

He was ten.

Hiding behind coats, barely breathing, watching through the slats in the door as the stranger stabbed her again and again. Blood splashing the floor. Her face contorted in pain.

Her eyes locking with his one final time.

"Don’t let me die."

That was the last thing she said before the light left her eyes.

"DAMN IT!" Lucy roared. He pushed harder, lungs burning, legs screaming.

But no matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t catch up. The wolf was always ahead—always out of reach.

Then, finally, after what felt like miles...

He stopped.

Breathing ragged. Chest heaving.

He wasn’t closing the gap. He never had.

The realization crashed down like cold water.

His mind cleared.

Lucy’s jaw clenched. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the fog rush around him. When he opened them again, the path ahead was still empty—still swirling with silver mist.

It’s an illusion.

’Of course it is.’

The weight in his chest didn’t disappear, but his thoughts sharpened.

’Caelgor’s smart. He wanted to break me, take me out of the fight before it started. Easy prey. But this? This was a mistake.’

He had two reasons to know it wasn’t real.

First, he’d been running at full speed. Faster than the fog beast could move. And yet, the distance never changed. It stayed ahead of him, taunting. Unreachable.

Second—the words. "Don’t let me die."

The same ones his birth mother had spoken back on Earth. How would Caelgor know that?

Unless the fog had reached inside his head and pulled the memory from his soul.

Lucy’s hands trembled, not with fear, but fury.

’You bastard. You dug into my mind. Into my past. Into her.’

His breath steadied. His body still buzzed with the phantom emotion of the illusion, but now it was fire. Focused. Controlled.

A sane person would have turned back.

After all, Lucy was dealing with Caelgorr the Hollow—a beast twisted by time and fog, teetering on the edge of mythical. But sanity wasn’t exactly something Lucy had in abundance.

Not right now.

All he wanted was to rip that fogged mutt apart—and he wanted Caelgorr to watch from his twisted little temple while he did it.

So he kept running, deeper into the fog. Playing into the illusion.

He kept his thoughts calm and scattered, just in case the bastard was snooping around in his mind—no reason to tip his hand too early.

Ahead of him, the fogged wolf kept dragging his mother through the silver grass. Her head bounced against roots and bark, her limbs limp. The image tore at something raw inside him, even if he knew it wasn’t real.

Didn’t matter. Rage didn’t need logic. And Caelgorr didn’t know it yet, but that rage would be his undoing.

Lucy weaved between bone-white trunks, ducking low-hanging branches and snapping twigs beneath his boots.

"Stop!" he yelled again. "Drop her, you damn mutt!"

And as if in answer, the beast did.

The fogged wolf released its grip and let her tumble to the ground like discarded meat. Then, silent and sudden, it vanished into the mist.

Lucy fell to her side, his sword clattering beside him.

He took her cold, lifeless hands into his own. Fingers pale and stiff. Skin like wax. A pit opened in his chest.

"I’m so sorry, Mom... I couldn’t save you..."

The words cracked in his throat, loud enough to echo through the fog. He hoped the wolf could hear it. He hoped Caelgorr did, too.

He activated Soulthread Reading.

Nothing.

No flicker of emotion. No echo of spirit. She was just... empty.

Of course she is. She was dead. He couldn’t use that to confirm the illusion now, but if he’d checked earlier, he could’ve. Good to know for next time, he noted.

Then he let loose a new cry—louder, wilder, soaked in grief and rage.

It was fake.

Every scream, every sob was deliberate. A beacon. A signal.

’Llarm should be able to track me with the wind, but with this fog... I’m not taking chances.’

He lowered his forehead to her chest.

And then he felt it.

A surge from the mist—raw, wild instinct. Not emotion. Not thought. Just kill.

His head snapped up. His hand shot to his sword.

The fog split open in front of him.

The Shadow Wolf exploded from the mist, fangs bared, fully formed. No half-phased flickering. No spectral shifting. Just solid death, lunging straight for his throat.

Time stretched.

But Lucy didn’t hesitate.

The mana flowing through him from weeks of brutal training in Seraph’s Hollow surged like wildfire, pouring into his limbs—into his blade.

He ducked under the beast’s snapping jaws.

Whssshk!

A clean slice ripped across the wolf’s chest as it sailed past. Black ichor burst like rotten oil, splattering across Lucy’s armor.

The beast snarled, pain slicing through its form. But it wasn’t dead.

Not yet.

It spun, eyes blazing with pale fire, jaws opening again to take his head—

"Four feet too low," Lucy muttered.

Shhhhckk!

With surgical precision, the wolf’s head detached from its body, thudding onto the silver grass with a wet finality. The body tumbled a few feet more before dissolving into smoke.

Silence fell.

Lucy stood over the steaming corpse, his sword still humming with mana, ichor dripping from the blade. His breath came in short, even bursts, not from exhaustion, but from focus.

He looked up at the morning sky, now tinged faintly with light.

Footsteps pounded behind him.

His team arrived—Gindu, Fenric, Llarm, Bruma. Some wore confusion. Others concern.

A single tear rolled down Lucy’s cheek.

He turned to them, voice flat but proud.

"Sorry, big wyrm. Looks like I stole your prey."