In the depths of night there was a Forrest shadowy labyrinth shrouded in gloom. the sky was a tapestry of dark clouds occasionally illuminated by flashes of lightning that cast eerie shadows among the towering trees the rain fell in relentless torrents, each drop creating ripples in the puddles and adding rhythmic melody to the night. The underbrush was thick and tangled dripping with moisture, and the scent was heavy with the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. the forest felt alive as if it held secrets and unseen eyes watching quietly
Amidst the shadowed depths of the forest, an old man trudged along the rain-soaked path. His figure was cloaked in a tattered, dark hooded cloak, obscuring most of his features. The hood hung low, casting his face in a deep shadow, making it almost impossible to discern his expression. He moved with a slow, deliberate pace, his steps unhurried and almost indifferent to the storm raging around him. His presence seemed to blend seamlessly with the gloomy atmosphere, as if he were a silent wanderer who had long grown accustomed to the forest's eerie embrace. Every now and then, the flicker of lightning would momentarily reveal the lines of age on his face, but his expression remained inscrutable, as if he were a part of the forest itself.
The old man's pace quickened. His heart pounded not from the storm, but from urgency—the faint, labored cry of his ailing wife echoed in his mind. Deep in the forest, hidden among the gnarled roots and misted underbrush, grew the Silver Nightroot, a rare herb said to cure even the most fatal of curses. If he didn't find it before dawn, her life would slip through his fingers.
The rain soaked his cloak, plastering it to his thin frame, yet he did not falter. Every sense was heightened; he could smell the metallic tang of blood in the soil, hear the soft scuttle of creatures beneath the leaves, and feel the subtle hum of energy in the air.
Something wasn't right.
A low, guttural growl cut through the rain, reverberating from all directions. Lightning illuminated the shadows, revealing a pack of spectral wolves, their eyes glowing with unnatural crimson fire. They were not of this world—the forest had shifted. This was no ordinary storm; something ancient, is watching and awakening slowly
The old man's hand brushed the small crimson amulet at his chest, a token passed down through generations. Its faint warmth pulsed like a heartbeat, resonating with him. He took a steadying breath and tightened his grip on the iron-dagger, its metal shimmering faintly as though acknowledging his intent.
The first wolf leaped. Its claws cut through the rain in a silver arc. With reflexes honed over decades, he pivoted, swinging the dagger in a wide, controlled arc. The beast skidded back, yelping as spectral energy erupted from the wound where the slash met claw. The next wolf lunged, and he countered with a precise strike that shattered its ethereal form, dispersing the shadow into harmless motes of light.
Yet, even as he fought, his mind remained sharp. He was methodical, calm, unflinching—every movement calculated to conserve energy and control the battlefield. A life of hardship had honed him into a survivor; even when the odds seemed insurmountable, he adapted.
The remaining wolves froze, their howls trembling with fear and confusion. The forest fell silent, save for the rain. He could feel the faint tremor of something larger, lurking deeper in the darkness—something that did not belong to this realm, a power that could manipulate reality itself.
He swallowed hard, a flash of determination igniting in his chest. This forest, these wolves, even this looming force—none would stop him. Not when the life of someone he loved hung in the balance.
And so, as lightning forked across the sky, the old man pressed forward, stepping deeper into the shadows, unaware that this journey would awaken threads of destiny far larger than his own, pulling him toward realms he could not yet imagine—toward power, bloodlines, and battles that would shake the very foundations of existence.
After hours or roaming the forest, the old man finally found the Silver Night root
The old man's fingers reached toward the glowing plant, anticipation coursing through his veins. His heart leapt—finally, the Silver Nightroot, the cure that could save his wife.
But as he drew closer, a shiver ran down his spine. The plant was wrong. Its glow was too vibrant, too alive, pulsating with a faint crimson undertone. The veins along its stem writhed subtly, almost like tiny serpents coiling beneath the surface. This was no ordinary herb. Something about it felt… sentient.
He recoiled, uncertainty gripping him. The forest seemed to shift around the plant, shadows stretching unnaturally as if warning him to stay back.
Then he heard it.
A soft, desperate cry—tiny, fragile, yet cutting through the rain like a blade.
The old man froze, his heart skipping a beat. The sound came from just beyond a tangle of roots and vines, deeper into the mist. He strained his ears—another wail followed, weaker this time, tinged with cold and fear.
The forest fell strangely silent, the storm seeming to hush in deference to the sound. Every instinct in him screamed: someone, or something, needs you.
He looked down at the plant once more. Its glow pulsed in eerie rhythm with the crying, almost like a heartbeat—not the heartbeat of a plant, but something far more… alive.
Carefully, the old man set aside his hope for the herb. Whatever this child was, it mattered more. He stepped closer, moving with caution, pushing aside dripping vines, every muscle tensed and every sense alert.
There, half-hidden beneath a broken branch and soaked by the rain, lay a small bundle. A weak, shivering infant stared up at him with storm-gray eyes, black hair streaked faintly with crimson, and a fragile aura that pulsed faintly in the mist.
The old man's chest tightened. The cries, the forest, the strange plant—all of it pointed to a single truth: this child was no ordinary mortal. Something about him radiated latent, untamed energy, like a spark waiting to ignite.
He knelt, carefully scooping the infant into his arms, shielding him from the rain. The baby whimpered, tiny hands curling against his chest.
"Don't worry… I've got you," the old man whispered, voice steady but tinged with awe. "We'll survive this… whatever it is."
And as he held the child, the forest seemed to watch, holding its breath, waiting to see what destiny had in store for this fragile, powerful life.