When Qinghui looked back, he spotted a young child—no older than nine, standing just beyond the tangled roots. The boy's clothes were torn and stained, and his small hands trembled as they gripped the hem of Qinghui's robe. Under the soft gleam of moonlight, the blood on his lips stood out like ink on paper.
Something about the sight tugged at Qinghui's chest. He crouched down and gently placed a hand on the boy's head.
"What's wrong? Why are you here?" Qinghui asked, his voice calm and kind. With his sleeve, he dabbed away the dried blood at the boy's mouth.
"I..." The boy faltered, his voice small. "I was looking for my Pa. I followed him here, but when I stepped inside... the roots... they started moving. I couldn't find him after that."
Qinghui's eyes narrowed slightly. The Sinful Forest was known for its hostility—no living soul could enter without being tested. And yet... here this child stood, scraped and shaken, but still whole.
"If your father came in here, then it's possible that he might have..." Qinghui trailed off, swallowing the final word. It felt wrong to say it aloud—to this child.
The boy's eyes filled with tears. He clutched at Qinghui's hand tightly. "No! He's not! He's still alive!"
Then, with a sudden strength that surprised him, the child tugged at Qinghui's arm, pointing toward the thick mist deeper ahead.
"Help me... Gege, please! Please help me find my Pa! He's waiting—I know it!"
Before Qinghui could reply or pull away, the boy had already started walking, hand still latched onto his. Qinghui sighed and allowed himself to be pulled along, letting the mist swallow their figures.
As they moved forward, Qinghui couldn't help but notice the child's grip—it was too firm, too unyielding, as though he'd never let go. And even with wounds on his body, the boy barely slowed his pace. The forest floor was uneven, tangled with vines and stones, yet he moved across it effortlessly... too effortlessly.
Qinghui glanced down again, unease curling slowly in his chest—but he said nothing.
The forest had turned feral.
Twisting branches cracked through the air like whips, barbed vines slithered underfoot, and thorny roots burst from the soil, hungry for flesh.
For nearly twenty minutes, Qinghui had been dragged by the child through the madness—leaping over roots, ducking low-hanging branches, and swatting away snapping tendrils that clawed at them with ill intent. He had barely noticed the long cuts slashing open across his legs, his robes now tattered and streaked with blood. Some of the roots moved as if they recognized him, deliberately aiming to crimp and twist around his ankles, trying to crush or maim.
But even amidst the frenzy, his instincts screamed something else was off—something beyond the trees.
Finally, Qinghui stopped. He yanked the child toward him, gripping his small wrist tightly. The kid whimpered but didn't dare pull away.
"...What's wrong, Gege?" the child asked, voice trembling, tears beginning to pool in his eyes though he forced a nervous smile.
Qinghui's eyes were sharp and frigid, fixed on the boy like a blade unsheathed. "Where do you really intend to take me?"
The child blinked rapidly, fear surfacing in his features. "T-To where my Pa is..."
"So you knew where your father was," Qinghui replied coldly.
Panic overtook the child. "No! I mean yes! But—But the roots attacked me! I lost him while following!" he cried out quickly. "I was only trying to lead you where I last saw him!"
Qinghui glanced up at the jagged canopy. Moonlight flickered like a dying flame behind the trees, casting the forest in shades of malice. The air stank of rot and something bitter—hate, maybe. He sighed but remained still, watching the child.
"You saw it too, didn't you, Gege?" the child pleaded. "The trees—attacking us! I barely escaped before! I'm not lying!" His voice cracked as tears ran down his dirt-smeared cheeks. "Please... believe this little one..."
Qinghui's grip finally loosened. The child felt the tension ease and let out a small, shaky breath of relief.
Qinghui narrowed his eyes in thought. Something didn't fit—but before the unease could blossom into action—
CRACK!
A branch erupted from the shadows and stabbed through the child's back, the tip bursting out through his stomach with a sickening squelch.
"Ahh—!" the boy screamed, blood spurting from his lips.
"Sh—!" Qinghui's body tensed, reaching for him—but the tree root pulled the child back violently.
"Gege!!" the child cried out, arms reaching toward him as the twisted branch dragged him deeper into the dark woods, blood trailing in the air.
Qinghui darted after him, ignoring the searing pain in his legs. Despite deep gashes that pulsed with every step, he leapt into the air, bounding from tree to tree with desperate speed.
He wasn't going to let it take the boy—not when he was so close.
But just as his hand was about to reach for the child—
BAM!
Something struck him from the side mid-air. Hard.
His body twisted violently and the world turned upside down before they both slammed into a thick tree trunk—CRACK—the entire tree toppled from the impact, crashing to the ground as leaves and bark exploded in all directions.
Dust rose.
Qinghui coughed harshly, dazed, pain stabbing through his side as he tried to move.
As Qinghui staggered to his feet, pain throbbed through his legs—his robes soaked with blood and torn from the earlier fall. But what made his breath catch wasn't the pain. It was the sight in front of him.
Lying motionless on the forest floor was a disciple of the White Sun Sect—or what was left of one.
The man's head had twisted into a warped branch, his skin discolored and rippling with vines beneath the surface like veins overtaken by something foreign. Stems pulsed faintly across his body, blooming from under the flesh like parasitic roots.
Qinghui's eyes narrowed. He crouched beside the body, pressing two fingers to the wrist—no pulse.
A strange silence lingered.
Turned into a tree... while still wearing his sect robes.
He swallowed. His mind wandered to Lan Zeyan. This disciple could've been part of Zeyan's team. And if this was his fate—
Qinghui didn't finish the thought.
Even through his pain, he grit his teeth and forced himself upright. His limbs trembled, bruises and open wounds screaming with each movement. But he didn't stop. He had to find the boy. That child... there was something about him. Something wrong. But even so—he promised to help.
Before leaving, he slipped off his outer robe and draped it gently over the body of the fallen disciple. A small act of respect for the dead—if he was still dead and not something else entirely.
Without another word, Qinghui launched himself upward, catching a branch, leaping through the canopy once again. This time, he let a trickle of black Qi slip from his palm. The forest responded. Something pulled at him. Not a direction—but a drain.
My Qi is being absorbed...
That child's touch earlier. That unnatural grip—too firm, too cold for a boy who bled and trembled. He should've collapsed, and yet he ran.
The wind grew harsher. The scent in the air shifted—less earthy, more bitter. Like rotting bark and dried tears. Regret. Hatred. They clung to the mist like a presence watching him pass.
Still, Qinghui pressed forward.
He landed before a familiar place.
It was near the Cave.
The very cave he had awakened from, days or maybe lifetimes ago.
And he wasn't alone.
Outside, clashing against another tree-like disciple, was Lan Zeyan—his blade glowing faintly with spiritual energy, his robes already torn from battle.
"Lan Zeyan!" Qinghui called out.
Zeyan turned briefly, startled—but there was no time for words. The roots surged forward from the ground.