The Bounded Shroud's gaze settled on Ishmael, who was still checking on the other prisoners. Some of them were in the middle of panic attacks, while others were simply overwhelmed by exhaustion.
Without a word, the towering undead began walking toward him. His steps were slow and deliberate, his skeletal eyes completely cold and devoid of light.
He stopped just a few paces away from Ishy. Then, in his usual grim and emotionless voice, he addressed the entire group—both the Hunters and the prisoners:
"Prythee, speak: doth any among thy number spill blood for the Chalice Ritual, that the Fog Gate may be flung wide?"
The question made Vale hesitate. His expression stiffened as he realised he could no longer remember exactly whose blood they had used to open the Fog Gate into this realm.
None of them could speak. The overwhelming fear the Bounded Shroud radiated had frozen everyone in place. The silence stretched on until it finally stirred his impatience, twisting into cold anger.
Without warning, he slammed his fist into the cave wall beside him. The entire cave trembled as if struck by a small earthquake. Dust and small stones rained down from the ceiling.
His voice came again, colder and sharper than before:
"I asketh thee again… doth any among thy number spill blood for the Chalice Ritual, that the Fog Gate may be flung wide?!"
His hollow eyes swept across the group with such intensity that it felt as though his gaze alone could kill them.
After a tense moment, Silas finally spoke up. His tone was casual, almost too casual for the situation.
"The blood we used was Ishmael's. His blood was the one most suitable for the offering."
The answer shocked everyone except the Bounded Shroud. Ishy's head snapped toward Silas, his eyes wide with disbelief and growing anger. He stared at the Hunter, completely dumbfounded by what he had just heard.
Soon, Ishy began to speak. His voice trembled—not from fear, but from deep disappointment and rising anger.
"What…?" Only a single word escaped his lips. He was still trying to process what he had just heard.
"What did you say?!" he demanded again, his frustration erupting as he stared at Silas.
Silas let out a soft sigh and shook his head. He began to explain carefully.
"Well… the caster tried using the blood of every other Infected we brought… but—"
He paused, searching for the right words.
While waiting, Ishy's thoughts spun violently in his mind.
'Dammit… No wonder that bastard started acting nice to me. I was their sacrificial lamb the entire time?!'
Finally, Silas continued.
"Because you're the only one strong enough to fight back against the Fallen Dream without succumbing to it… without turning into a mindless, living corpse."
After hearing Silas's answer, Ishy let out a scoff. He found the explanation almost too ridiculous to believe.
"Heh… is that your answer?" he asked coldly.
His voice rose as the anger finally broke through.
"Don't make me laugh!" he snapped.
"You thought I would believe your damn answer?!" His fists clenched tightly at his sides.
The sudden outburst nearly shattered Silas's composure. He looked ready to lash out, but before he could, the Bounded Shroud slammed his fist into the cave wall beside them. The impact echoed through the cave, immediately drawing everyone's attention.
The towering undead turned his cold, terrifying eyes on the two of them. The prisoners behind them trembled under that empty gaze.
"Enough!!" His voice cut through the air like a blade, his patience clearly worn thin.
"I have had enough of thy banter over this matter."
He paused briefly, then continued in the same cold tone.
"Therefore, thou must escape this realm and complete thy trial. However, thou must first find the path that leads to the end of thy fallen dream."
The entire group stared at him in disbelief. How did this undead know about the Fallen Dream they had been trapped in for days? Some peeked at him from behind their hands; others simply stared with wide, fearful eyes. No one dared to ask.
Ishy let out a soft, tired sigh, a quiet mix of regret and resignation. He turned to face the other prisoners.
"Well… that was unexpected," he muttered, trying to mask the fear and regret still lingering inside him.
His eyes scanned the cave for a moment before he continued.
"Aight… forget about it. We need to move before the trial ends, or we'll be stuck in this realm forever."
He took a step forward and looked up at the Bounded Shroud. Another soft sigh escaped him as he forced the words out.
"Hey. I don't know who you are… but I need your help with this trial. How do we escape this place? How do we finish this damn trial?"
The Bounded Shroud looked down at Ishy's much shorter frame. His eyes remained completely cold, utterly devoid of warmth.
"The Catalyst Anchor hath already given thee the instructions to finish the trial," he replied in the same void tone. "Therefore, thou must use it as thy guidance to leave this realm."
Ishy opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His lips pressed into a thin line.
'The Catalyst Anchor?'
'Damnit… This bastard wants me to use it as my guideline? How quaint that he suggested it…'
After a moment of silence, Ishy decided to follow the undead's advice. He turned back to the prisoners who still looked to him for leadership.
He opened his mouth again, but hesitation stopped him. For the first time, the weight of guiding them out of this nightmare pressed heavily on his shoulders. His lips closed once more as he looked away from their expectant faces.
Then the system menu appeared before his eyes. A new notification waited in his inbox.
Henceforth, Ishy opened the notification. He whispered under his breath.
"Open…"
The system menu blinked open, unboxing the message. It was from the Catalyst Anchor. The notification stated that their next destination was the Snow Mountain. At the same time, a translucent compass appeared in his vision, spinning left and right before settling and pointing toward a distant location.
Ishy let out a soft sigh and gave a brief nod. He finally understood the first step he needed to take. Turning back to face the group, his eyes carried a quiet but firm determination. He looked at the trembling prisoners who still clung to the faint hope of escaping.
He cleared his throat to draw their attention.
"Listen up! We have no time to waste. We have to move. Now."
His voice was sharp and urgent, leaving no room for hesitation.
Lina spoke up, her voice stuttering as fear still lingered in her tone.
"But… how are you so sure that you know where we should go…?"
She looked at Ishy with a mixture of hope and lingering fear of whatever might come next.
Ishy looked at Lina, searching for the right words to make them believe in him — that he would get them out safely, no matter how dangerous the situation was.
When he finally spoke, his voice was sharp and stern.
"I know where to go. But I need you and the others to believe in me… that I'll get us out of here safely." His eyes hardened with sheer determination.
After a brief pause, he continued, "We'd better get going. We have no time left."
He moved toward the prisoners, who had now become survivors. Behind them, the Hunters were left with little more than their melee weapons, suddenly looking more like prey than predators.
Ishy helped the survivors to their feet and guided them out of the cave. At the exit, he stopped them for a moment and stepped forward alone, scanning the outside carefully. The translucent compass in his vision still pointed steadily toward the mountain of the undead.
Once he was certain the path was clear, he turned back to face the group.
"All clear. Let's move out."
The other survivors had no choice but to follow him. No questions were asked. They knew Ishmael was trying to help them — not leave them behind with the Hunters. They also understood that those Hunters no longer had the power to help or even hunt them. Exhaustion and fear still clung to their faces, but a fragile trust in Ishy kept them moving.
Ishy stepped aside at the exit and let the others move out of the cave first. His determination was so strong that he no longer felt the pain from the heavy chain or the lingering curse of the Whistle of Death. The cold night air hit his face as he stood guard near the entrance.
"Let's move!" he said sternly, looking at each of them one by one. Then his gaze lifted to the Bounded Shroud's towering frame. He gave a small, respectful nod — a quiet sign of gratitude for allowing them to stay in the cave, even if only for a short while.
The Bounded Shroud nodded back slowly. He understood well that Ishy would make it out alive without needing further assistance. It wasn't about pride. It was about debt — a feeling far heavier than most others, and one the undead clearly recognised.
The sight of Ishmael leading the former prisoners — now survivors — out of the cave left the three Hunters frozen for a moment. Dust still hung in the air from the earlier fight, and the distant cawing of scavenger crows echoed faintly outside. Vale was the first to move. He gave Silas a firm swat on the shoulder to signal that they were leaving as well, then turned to Scarlett and carefully pulled her to her feet.
"Hey, Silas. Scarlett. We have to go… We have a new task…"
His voice was filled with grim coldness, and his sharp gaze locked onto Ishmael—the one now leading the way toward the exit, already stepping into the dangerous night of the Undead Wasteland.
Meanwhile, Ishy and the remaining eight survivors moved forward under his guidance, heading toward the Mountain of the Undead. A translucent compass floated in his vision, steadily pointing the way. Despite its guidance, the temperature of the Undead Wasteland was extreme — so bitterly cold that every step made them wince in pain. The freezing air was far harsher than anything found in the Waking World.
After walking for some time, Ishy turned around to check on the survivors following behind him. Their faces were pale and exhausted. As he looked at them, heavy doubts and hesitation began to weigh on his mind.
Questions started reeling inside his head.
'Why am I helping them leave this realm?'
'Why am I wasting my time and energy guiding them?'
Those questions etched themselves deeper into his thoughts, creating a cold illusion that nothing would change if he simply left them behind — that there was no real benefit in helping them at all.
While Ishy still stood frozen under the weight of his doubts, his eyes caught a figure standing behind the survivors.
It was the silhouette of a man wearing a torn, ragged cloak that fluttered like a torn flag in the freezing wind. The figure's face was hidden in the deep shadow of the hood, completely obscured from the pale moonlight.
The figure spoke to Ishy in a dark, cold, and eerie voice, white mist curling from its mouth with every word.
"You shouldn't do something beyond your capability… Those prisoners were never your responsibility to help."
The figure chuckled darkly, the sound low and mocking. Ishy opened his mouth, ready to reply with renewed determination, but the figure cut him off before he could speak.
"Don't lie to yourself, Ishmael! You know damn well that you don't want to do this at all!"
Ishy was taken aback. His eyes darted left and right, searching for the other survivors — but to his shock, none of them were there. It was as if they had suddenly vanished from his sight.
The figure spoke again, its voice just as cold and dark as before.
"What are you looking for? Still trying to convince yourself that you can bring them out alive… when all you're really doing is leading them to their own graves?"
Ishy didn't say a word. The figure's accusations were the same thoughts that had been reeling inside his mind all along. But they were only thoughts — they couldn't fully control his body or silence him forever. They were just whispers.
He clenched his fists tightly, his teeth grinding hard behind his thin lips as he struggled to form the words to counter the figure's mocking.
The figure began to laugh, amused by how helplessly Ishy was taking time to argue against every sentence thrown at him.
Then the voice spoke again, cold and final.
"Remember this… don't ever try to be a hero. This world is almost at the end of its time."
A grin stretched across the shadowed face beneath the hood. After a brief pause, the figure continued.
"Whatever you do… doing good things has never been rewarded as much as doing bad ones."
With another dark, chaotic laugh, the figure vanished into the night.
Suddenly, the area around Ishy began to warp. Voices of the survivors called out his name, desperate and urgent, as if trying to wake him from a nightmare.
"Hey!"
"Wake up!"
"Ishmael! Wake up!"
The world before him darkened, sinking into complete pitch black.
Soon, Ishmael's eyes snapped open. He jolted awake from what felt like a deep, unnatural sleep — or perhaps a state of unconsciousness.
His heart pounded furiously in his chest, racing so hard it felt as though he was on the verge of a heart attack.
After a few tense seconds, Ishmael realized he was lying on the freezing ground. His eyes darted from side to side, taking in the starless sky above him.
Slowly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position.
The survivors were gathered around him, their faces filled with sheer fear and panic.
They stared at him as if something terrible had just happened — something he still couldn't fully process after his confrontation with the mysterious figure.
Ishmael let out a wet, harsh cough, his throat feeling as dry as if it had been through a long drought. He tried to speak, but the dryness made it difficult.
After several painful attempts, he managed to force the words out between coughs.
"What… is... just… happened?"
The survivors slowly began to calm down from their panic as they realized he was conscious again