The forest floor trembled—a subtle shiver that rustled pine needles and sent dry twigs tumbling over tangled roots. Dust, shaken loose from curled leaves above, drifted in lazy spirals through streaks of sunlight. From somewhere high in the canopy, a sharp crack echoed, followed by the frantic flutter of red-breasted birds slicing through the green like sparks from a fire.
Jian Dao's fingers hovered near the polished hilt at his side, his sleeve barely whispering against the bark of a twisted yew tree. "We're not alone," he said, voice low, its calm edge betraying nothing of urgency, yet the way his feet subtly shifted spoke volumes.
They moved in silence, slipping beneath sagging branches beaded with dew. The leaves, broad and waxy, kissed their shoulders as they passed. A thorn snagged Mike's chain-threaded cuff, tearing a tiny gash in the leather, but he didn't flinch. They stepped over a gnarled root split open like an old scar, and came upon a stone outcrop jutting from the earth like a fractured fang—smooth and pale on one side, scorched and shattered on the other, as if lightning had bitten into it long ago.
Mike knelt at its base, brushing damp soil from a narrow crack where mushrooms clustered like a secret. He tilted his head and pointed beyond. "Master. That gap—through there."
Jian Dao's eyes followed. Just beyond, the land sank into a gentle bowl, and at its center stood figures wrapped in steam rising from sun-warmed ground. The air shimmered where it met their feet, and mist clung to the low grass like gauze. Their robes, swaying faintly, bore hidden crests stitched in silver thread—one pattern shaped like a wing, another like a coiling flame.
Weapons caught the light where it filtered through tree boughs: long spears with bronze tips that glowed dully, and swords thin as needles, their edges lined with fine script like breath on glass.
Jian Dao's voice was quiet. "Look closely. Those runes… those are sect-born warriors. Veteran hands."
Mike shifted, keeping low behind a frayed fern whose edges curled inward like withered tongues. "They're not moving to attack. Looks like… a quarrel?"
"No," Jian Dao said, his tone softening as his gaze sharpened. "Something else."
He closed his eyes.
A warm golden glow ignited on his forehead, spreading like morning light through fog. From the center, a third eye opened slowly, its pupil tight and precise—gleaming like the polished tip of an arrow.
Mike sucked in a breath. "Master… is that—?"
"Eagle Eye," Jian Dao murmured, smirking. "Gift from a demon bird who couldn't take a loss."
The smile faded as his third eye pulsed once, faint ripples of light drifting from it.
"There's a cave," he said. "Hidden by illusion—behind a boulder cloaked in star-moss. Faint pulses leaking through cracks like steam from boiling stone."
Mike's eyes sparked. "Treasure vault? Maybe soul-forged weapons or refined spirit stones!"
Jian Dao flicked a glance sideways. "And maybe poisoned fog or a slumbering beast. Don't lick the floor yet."
Still grinning, Mike brushed past the bramble, his boots sinking slightly into damp loam. Wildflowers—tiny ones, purple and pin-prick thin—bent under his steps. The trees thickened as they walked—bark turning dark and oily, branches forming tight arches overhead. From above, vines dangled like living ropes, some ending in white bulbs that twitched faintly.
The boulder appeared like a crouched beast, its mossy coat speckled with tiny yellow lights—star-moss, faintly pulsing. Behind it, a black mouth yawned open between jagged rocks, its shape unnervingly tooth-like.
Inside, the air thickened. Dampness clung to their skin instantly, and every breath tasted of copper and something older—something buried.
The walls of the cave undulated faintly with pulses of spiritual energy. Thin vines—almost hair-like—clung to the stone, glowing pale green. Water trickled somewhere, a thin stream that tapped against hollow rock. Mike pressed a hand to his chest, breath hitching.
"Master…" he rasped, sweat beading along his brow, "it's like my lungs—are folding in."
Jian Dao pulled him into a side hollow where the wall dipped into smooth stone. "Match your rhythm to the pulse. Let the cave lead. Don't resist it."
From below, voices rose—echoing strangely, caught and stretched by the cave's natural twists. Faint torchlight flickered on the wall, carving shadows into carvings etched long ago: two wolves beneath twin moons; a figure kneeling before a burning tree.
Then—footsteps.
Two silhouettes emerged from deeper within.
The first, cloaked in azure with silver trim, walked like a blade—fluid, quiet, precise. A curved dagger gleamed at his side, its hilt shaped like a swan's beak. The second wore moss-green robes reinforced with leather and iron rings along the sleeves. A hawk feather was tied into his belt.
"The beast is near," the first said—Zhou Chun, his voice clipped and precise. "We strike now. No more waiting."
The green-robed one—Wei Ping—lifted a hand, eyes narrowing. "No. I feel others. Not far. Breathing."
His head turned—slow, deliberate.
Zhou Chun's tone sharpened. "Whoever's there—show yourself. Join us or don't, but if you fight, we share the spoils."
Mike leaned toward his master, whispering with contained excitement, "That's Zhou Chun. He carries a 5-tier Breakthrough Pill in his pouch."
"And if you tried to eat it," Jian Dao said dryly, "your insides would turn into fireworks. Stay grounded."
Then the cave shook.
Dust poured from tiny cracks overhead. A few pebbles tumbled near Mike's feet. From the deep black of the tunnel's throat came a sound like breathing through hollow bone—slow, ancient, vast.
A roar—so low it vibrated their chests—rolled up through the rock.
Jian Dao's fingers curled slowly around his sword hilt.
"It's waking," he whispered.
Mike licked dry lips. The tip of his blade peeked from its sheath. His eyes, wide and full of fire, stayed fixed on the darkness.
From within, something shifted—a ripple of air, a sharp scent of sulfur, and a long hiss that made the vines on the walls shiver.
And still… the forest behind them held its breath.