The light flashed and then died like a last breath of space as Flauros stepped through the gate leading to the southern part of the Heavenly Continent.
There was no thunder, no war horns. Just a brief, cold streak of light like the scar of a world forced open, then closed behind him forever.
The gate was closed.
The ozone remained behind.
In front of Flauros, the soft light like morning dew gradually spread, no longer as harsh as the lightning behind the closed gate.
It was dim but warm, like the gaze of Mother Nature.
The sounds of small creatures calling out all around him, the sound of flapping wings, the sound of tiny feet running through the grass, sometimes the hesitant chirping of a bird that had never been recorded in books.
Before his eyes, the green forest spread out like a living carpet.
The foliage thinned, revealing a clear lake at the foot of a small waterfall that trickled like silver threads.
The place was so quiet that one could hear one's breath dissolving into the air.
Flauros stood there, the bearer of the remnants of destruction, now appearing in a scene that seemed as if war had never been seen.
The Southern Continent, the land that ancient sages called "The Cradle of the World."
This place was not just a land but a living memory of birth. From this fertile soil, the first life ever sprang, not from magic, not from the stars, but from the very breath of earth, water, leaves, and light.
This world may have built empires, built walls, and shed blood. But the South has never forgotten who it is.
The wild peace here is not the peace of the weak, but the serenity of those who have seen too much and no longer need to win.
The great forest rises like a natural canopy, protecting the entire land.
All forces, all tribes live together under the canopy of the great forest like children who love each other under the blessing of Mother Nature.
It had been a long time since Flauros had returned to the great forest.
No one knew, not even those who had shed blood for him, that the first place Flauros had set foot after crossing over was not the capital, not the outpost or the border, but this place, the place called the living heart of the South.
The great forest had not changed. Every path, every turn where the foliage intersected, every giant tree leaning into the ground like a sleeping man, Flauros knew it well.
He did not need a map.
Just looking at the shape of the tree roots, the direction of the water, and the way the night light reflected on the leaves was enough to determine where he was.
This was the main branch of the great forest in the core of the blood vessels, a place that a poetic name had always called:
The Golden Forest.
Why was it called that? Because at night, the ancient trees here emit a golden light, gentle like candles, shimmering like falling stars.
They do not use light to hunt, not to call each other, but as if whispering ancient memories, making the forest shine like a golden dream that has not yet awakened.
Flauros walked slowly, his hand lightly touching the rough bark of a tree that had once sheltered him when he was still a person who knew nothing about this world.
That familiar feeling made the dry illusions in his heart pause, just for a moment.
Although the scene before his eyes was like an endless poem woven with light and memories, Flauros did not allow himself to get lost in that peace for too long.
Because he knew better than anyone that the most beautiful place in the great forest was also the most dangerous when night fell.
The Golden Forest glowed, but not to guide the way.
It glowed to signal.
A sign that the ancient creatures are awakening.
This place is deep in the heart of the forest, far from the main roads.
During the day, it is paradise. But when darkness falls, there are no rules, only survival instincts among creatures that the outside world has forgotten.
They are called the Chaos Beasts, creatures that do not belong to any natural system, cannot be classified by biology or magic.
They appear every night like a twist of reality, as if the great forest is pouring out repressed memories, forming into claws, fangs, glowing eyes, and shapeless breathing.
Flauros raised his head to look up at the foliage that was beginning to turn a distinct golden color. It was not beauty, but a warning.
He quietly withdrew his hand from the bark, lowered himself, and glided across the edge of the lake like a shadow, beginning to find his way out of the forest before the darkness broke like a pack of hungry animals.
"If we don't leave in an hour…"
"We might end up being eaten by the animals…"
Flauros knew that even the banishment spell wouldn't help. Not because he was weak, but because they couldn't be killed at night.
Flauros followed the small path between the tree trunks and entwined roots, each step touching the dry leaves as if awakening forgotten memories of this original land.
The sky was turning to late afternoon, a brief moment when light and darkness played with each other like old lovers. From afar, the dark red sun began to sink into the forest border.
The last rays of sunlight fell obliquely through the dense foliage, creating diagonal streaks of golden light, mixed in with the dark green of the forest trees like sacred paintbrush strokes.
Each step Flauros took was like an opening picture frame.
In some places, thin flower petals like dragonfly wings fluttered in the gentle wind, falling like light dust. In some places, patches of green moss emitted a soft light, and it was unclear whether it was from parasitic creatures or the moss itself had absorbed the sunset light.
The lake appeared beside the path, its surface as calm as a mirror, reflecting the sky glowing in amber and purple.
Next to the lake, swarms of tiny fireflies began to fly up, glowing in yellow and blue dots like stars falling from the ground to the sky.
They flew in flocks, winding around the glowing tree trunks, making the whole forest seem to be lit up with breathable light.
The wind blew across, carrying the pungent scent of dry leaves mixed with the sweet scent of wild flowers.
In the distance, the sound of a small stream pouring down mixed with the calls of insects, creating a gentle and wild harmony, making people feel like they were walking in the world's unbroken dream.
The light shone obliquely over Flauros's shoulder, highlighting the frayed hem of his shirt after many battles, making him look like a silhouette in the forest, both lost and belonging.
In a world about to be swallowed by darkness, beauty had never been more evident than at this moment.
On the other side of the forest, where the fireflies had not yet died down, a tree house appeared among the leaves as if it had grown with the forest, not by human hands.
The house was small, with wooden floors connected by vines, a roof covered with moss and wild flowers, and a slender wooden balcony that stretched out to catch the sunlight. The setting sun slanted through the window, casting shadows on simple objects: a bow, a quiver of arrows, a set of dried leather clothes, and a few small hanging pots of plants.
On that balcony, a young man with moss-green hair was leisurely squatting next to a pot of soup hanging over a small fire.
His hair was disheveled, reflecting the sunset, making it look like leaves being tossed about by the wind. His golden eyes sparkled as if reflecting some special light.
He whistled a strange tune, a short melody, clear and steady like the sound of wind blowing through a bamboo tube. Every time he stirred the pot of soup, the sweet aroma of tree roots, dried meat, wild mushrooms, and a bit of local spices spread out, mixed with the smell of damp leaves after the sun, creating a scent that seemed to hold the traveler's footsteps.
The house did not look defensive, but it was the home of an archer. Along the wall were neatly hung bows, some made of red wood, some carved with ancient tribal patterns, and even one made from bones and bent bark fibers.
Next to the entrance, a bunch of feathers was carefully hung, symbolizing an official hunter recognized by the forest.
The young man had just put down the pot of soup, still whistling softly, when his gaze suddenly stopped at the wooden binoculars hanging from the balcony door frame.
He picked it up with a very familiar hand, looking around like a habit of survival in the great forest. The gentle wind blew his mossy green hair, and the hem of his cloak gently pushed against the railing.
He panned the lens along the trail leading out of the Golden Forest and then stopped.
A tall, thin figure was walking slowly along the shore of the lake, reflecting the dark purple sky. He didn't look like someone lost, but like he had belonged here, reminiscing, not in a hurry to leave.
But what made the forest boy stop?
It was something that flashed in the afternoon light, a pair of cat ears, slightly perked up through the dark cloak.
They weren't prominent, only slightly exposed when the person tilted his head towards a glowing branch. It was just a moment, but it was enough to make his heart clench.
The Miao tribe.
The name was like an ancient wind blowing through the heart of someone who had read old books.
A race that once had warriors who could hear the sounds of the spirits of plants and trees.
A race that once lived in harmony with all species, but because of war and persecution, they were almost extinct.
Now, there are only a few individuals left, scattered and anonymous. Some people never see any of them in their entire lives.
The boy lowered his binoculars and stood still. The fire in the house was still burning, the pot of soup still gave off a fragrant aroma, but his eyes were no longer there. He looked towards the stranger who was leisurely walking, his hand still hidden in his cloak, a lonely but uninviting figure.
The boy in the forest lowered his binoculars, not in a hurry.
He leaned against the railing, his hand wrapped around a vine that had dried in the sun, his eyes still following the figure leisurely walking through the streaks of sunset.
His mouth still whistling the same tune, he tilted his head as if he were watching a strange bird that had just wandered into the forest without caution or hostility.
"So chill..."
He chuckled lightly, his voice mumbling into the wind.
"Walking like that, it's obvious that he's a native of the forest, not a stranger."
He did not fumble like a traveler who had just come to the Golden Forest for the first time. The way he walked lightly, the way he stopped in front of an old tree, gently brushing his hand across the rough bark as if greeting an old acquaintance, all said one thing:
This was not his first time here.
Perhaps... he had lived here. Or belonged here.
The forest boy took a piece of dry bread from his pocket, took a bite, and chewed leisurely. His eyes still did not leave the figure of the man with cat ears, sharp eyes, and a cloak that smelled of the wind of a foreign land.
"The Miao tribe does not live in this area... at least not ever."
"So where did he come from? Or was he just a passing wind that disappeared?"
Instead of running after him or calling him back, he sat down on the wooden steps, pulled up one leg, and let the sunset light fall over his shoulder. His golden eyes were half-closed, the wind blew his cloak, and the soup inside still boiled.