Thanks to [DATA EXPUNGED], it took me four days to fully recover the wear and tear on the Genshin. On the night of December 13, 2013, five days after my trip to the Dark Realm, I entered the dream world of the earth in the form of a spiritual entity, following the positioning of the "Phantom Realm Walking Spirit Ascension".

As my body coalesced and formed in the dreamscape, I was greeted by the ruins of an ancient village, nestled in an overgrown glade. The bright morning sunlight shines through the gaps between the branches and leaves, shining on the grass dotted with dwarf shrubs, leaving large and small spots of light.

But when I looked closely, the weeds and shrubs were mostly semi-dry, and the trees grew low and twisted, adding a strange atmosphere to what should have been a vibrant scene. It reminded me that the region I was in at the moment was a cold plain shrouded in ominous legends.

"Oh, it's you, Cloud. ”

Tuttle's familiar voice came from behind him. I turned around and saw that the other person had changed into a new outfit, and I could barely see the traces of tiredness left on his face from days ago.

"Looks like you're having a good day. ”

"The day before yesterday, I was resting in a village on the road, and I took a break from my clothes. If nothing else, tomorrow night, or the day after tomorrow, I will be able to return to the monastery. Tuttle explained, and as he packed his bags, he asked with concern, "How are you recovering? In my perception, your spirit and vitality have returned to the restrained state of the first meeting." ”

"Of course it's fully recovered. Anyway, where are we?"

"This area is often referred to as 'Ushglu'......"

Tuttle said, pulling out the map. Overall, we're roughly northeast of Inkanok, on the edge of the treacherous mountains. The monastery from which the other party came was born had to go some way further into the mountains.

The journey is very boring, with either bare stony hills or steep mountains along the way. Vegetation is extremely scarce, and the few low trees that stubbornly root between the crevices of the rocks also show an unnatural, morbid twist.

In a nutshell, for two days, Tuttle and I swept like a gale, across this desolate and eerie plateau. I'll probably never forget the barren lava abyss, the bitter cold winds that raged through the mountains, and a terrible sound echoed through the mountains as it passed through the countless black caverns and strange crevices that dotted the cliffs that were completely vertical.

I don't think even if there were no supernatural powers, the terrifying legends from the Traveler would not go away. Anyone who witnesses these scenes will be haunted by the absurd myths and nightmares that will haunt them – the plateau seems to have a magical power in itself, and humans are as small as ants in the cracks of bricks.

Although Tattle said I could wait until he arrived at the monastery and then use the charm to appear there directly, I insisted on traveling with him. In any case, even if I am now considered comrades in the same trouble, a warrior monk who practiced in the cold plains should be wary, and I don't know if that monastery is hiding a murderous motive like in some horror games.

In my dreams on December 15, I arrived at the monastery at dusk.

In the waking world, many monasteries are located in remote mountains, far away from the world, but none of them are located in a situation comparable to the one in front of them. In the gloomy sky, large dark clouds that were so thick that they almost drooped roared and rolled under the fierce impact of the highland winds, and below those dark clouds was a dilapidated stone monastery.

The red glow of the setting sun loomed among the clouds, and when I looked up, I felt upside down—the orange red that peeked through the clouds was like a fire of purgatory burning underground, and the tapering spires of the black buildings of the monastery became dark shadows looming in the wind and fire. Suffice it to say, this first impression is very bad.

The monastery was built halfway up two extremely dangerous mountains, a steep and deep valley between them. Six iron cables, rattling in the wind, form the only bridge connecting the two sides of the monastery. The stony hillside is covered with a thin layer of poor soil, on which rows of dwarf shrubs are artificially planted, which Tuttle says are a nut.

In the world I am familiar with, the Crucidian monasteries insisted that the monks should be self-reliant and rely on their own labor to survive, unlike Buddhist monasteries that had incense money and merit as an additional source of income. It seems that the Tuttle led a simpler monastic life closer to the former, which somewhat dispelled some of my worries about the horrible appearance of the monastery.

Arriving at the main entrance of the abbey, Tuttle knocked on the heavy oak door, and soon someone pulled it open from the inside. The man was covered in a black cloak, and his steps were slow and silent, but he did not deliberately hide his face.

It was a tall, thin middle-aged man, with thin yellow hair sparsely distributed on his forehead, a hooked nose dotted with his stiff, wrinkled face, and that gloomy look made me feel uncomfortable. At first he let out a soft sigh of surprise when he saw us, and then he whispered to Tuttle for a while, and then gestured for us to come in.

When I got to the interior of the monastery, I realized that there was a strange mix of different architectural styles. The not-so-tall towers are distinctly Gothic, but underneath them are – I checked the information afterwards – closer to the British architectural style.

The monastery wasn't small, but based on the number of people I saw along the way, the hermits here were a bit small compared to the space here. The hermits kept their every move as quiet as possible, rarely speaking, and when they did, they deliberately kept their voices low—by contrast, Tuttle behaved like a normal person on the outside.

Then Tuttle and I came to what resembled a meeting room. The stone tile floors are rough but not dusty, and you can see that they are often cleaned, and the wooden benches are polished. However, for some unknown reason, there was a faint musty smell in the air, and moss was growing wantonly between the cracks in the stones.

But before I could ask, the master of the monastery—or the abbot—entered the room. It was an old man who looked to be in his seventies, small in stature, but tall and lean, with bright and wise eyes under his lowered eyebrows. The dean's dress was as modest as the others, except for a few more purple-gray accents on his robes.