The wooden boardwalks of Black Marsh Outpost ended where the sunken log trail vanished beneath black, bubbling water.
Ye Chen stepped off the final cedar plank, his leather boots sinking ankle-deep into the cold, viscous silt of the Great Mire Basin.
He did not hurry. He walked with slow, deliberate steps through the weeping willow grove, allowing his broad shoulders to brush against the hanging moss, leaving broken twigs and disturbed mud tracks along his path.
Behind him, fifty paces into the green sulfur fog, six distinct spiritual signatures moved through the dead cypress trees.
They kept to the high root mounds, communicating with short bird whistles that masked the metallic clinking of crossbow ratchets and iron grappling hooks.
Ye Chen reached a wide clearing of stagnant water
