It was the first ray of sunlight in centuries that pierced the darkness of the cursed cave, daring to touch what no one else would. Deep within the forgotten Sinful Forest, in a cavern long sealed by fear and time, a young man stirred.
A hoarse, rough groan escaped his cracked lips, startling in the long stillness. He was buried beneath a thick tangle of blackened roots, their surfaces dry and pulsing faintly with a sinister hue. Preserving him, perhaps, or imprisoning him.
His eyelids fluttered open against the golden glare, eyes adjusting slowly to the foreign brightness. His body lay heavy on a bed of cold stone, every muscle unresponsive, limbs stiff as if carved from the same rock.
"...Ugh..." His voice cracked from disuse, barely more than a whisper. His fingers twitched and curled into a trembling fist.
As if provoked, the roots constricting his torso tightened, coiling like snakes disturbed from slumber.
He tried to shift but failed, his bones ached, his muscles refused, and the very air in his lungs felt stale, as if it had never belonged to him.
"What... in the world...?" he muttered, lips peeling back in a grimace. His voice was low and rough, laced with annoyance. "Let go...!"
But the roots were old, ancient beyond reckoning. They neither feared nor obeyed.
He wasn't a mere mortal, he could feel that. Somewhere, deep in his core, power once flowed like rivers. Now, it was distant.
With a flash of frustration, he did what any desperate beast would do, he bit down. His teeth sank into the smaller tendrils, gnashing until the bitter things snapped with a sickening crack.
The taste was vile and ashen. He spat it out immediately.
"P'tui! What kind of cursed breakfast is this...? It's so bitter." He half-sobbed as he struggled against the roots binding his wrists and body.
His dignity already in shreds, he gnawed and twisted until his arms were free enough to push himself upright. The movement made his head spin. He sat there for a moment, panting, head bowed, breath thin as spider silk. His stomach gave a low growl, and when he shifted, he almost toppled on the uneven cave floor.
Eventually, with trembling legs, he forced himself to stand. He staggered forward, grabbing onto a jagged stone rack near the entrance for balance. A cold breeze brushed against his face outside.
But just as he took a step, something caught his eye. A child stood a short distance from the entrance.
His stomach growled again, maybe from whatever that root had been, or maybe just from sheer hunger.
The boy stared at him without emotion, eyes dark and depthless. His clothes were strange, foreign in style, more like the robes of western nobles than local cultivators. His hair was tied in an odd fashion, too, but the young man couldn't dwell on the detail.
The boy's gaze softened slightly as his mouth parted, whispering into the air, "Remain asleep."
Before he could move or call out, something yanked him from behind.
A root.
Then another.
Then more.
"What the...?" he managed, barely turning before he saw them, dozens of dark tendrils slithering from the floor like awakened predators.
They surged toward him, latching onto his legs, arms, back pulling him with unnatural force.
"No—NO—! Ahh!" he shouted, but it was already too late.
The roots had come alive.
Like leeches, they clung to his body, not for blood, but for the essence that stirred faintly in his core. His Qi.
"These filthy parasites!" he snarled, clawing at them. His nails raked across his own skin as he tried to pull them out, but they pierced deep, flesh and soul alike.
Pain exploded in his chest. Black blood welled up from his throat, dribbling down his chin as his knees gave out.
Still, the roots did not let go.
They wound tighter, lifting him from the ground like some grotesque marionette. His back arched. His vision blurred.
And then he screamed.
"STOP IT! It hurts...it HURTS!"
But the cave only swallowed his voice.
It was as if the forest itself had decided: you will not leave.
Just as darkness began to claim him again, the silence shattered.
Footsteps echoed from the mouth of the cave. Sharp, fast, deliberate.
"We found it! The Roots of Sentiment is here!"
Three cultivators stepped into the cavern, white robes trailing behind them like snow upon wind. Their blades were unsheathed, and the golden crane insignia stitched across their chests glimmered faintly.
White Sun Sect disciples.
Their presence felt like a sudden gust of winter, cool, sharp, orderly.
The one at the front, carrying both sword and bow on his back, had narrow eyes and a calm yet commanding air. He surveyed the coiled mass in the center.
"The spiritual reading is high... but there's someone inside. Be careful!"
The second, smaller and clearly unsure, squinted at the silhouette entangled in vines. "Could that mortal be a victim? The Root of Sentiment lures those with emotional wounds. It's possible the mortal was trapped here... maybe for a long time."
The third, snorting in disbelief, spun his sword with a flick of his wrist. "Victim? Hardly. If the mortal's still breathing after all this time, I'd wager the mortal's already half demon."
Unaware or uncaring, the mortal inside could hear every word.
His brow twitched.
Someone's there...? Could they be rescuers?
But his body was too drained to voice it.
The senior disciple raised his blade.
"Form a triangle array. Prepare to subdue it!"
The three spread out, swords held high. With practiced steps, they etched glowing sigils into the stone beneath their feet, an exorcist formation.
"White Sun Art: Moonlight Purge Slash!"
The senior disciple's blade burst into silver flames. He slashed downward with precise fury, severing several vines in one clean stroke.
The Root didn't scream aloud, but a powerful wave of pressure rolled through the cavern, shaking dust from the walls.
The second disciple shouted, "There! Aim for the black core near the base!"
The third conjured glowing threads from his fingers, binding the vines and anchoring them to the earth.
"White Sun Art: Heaven's Binding Threads!"
The roots writhed. Fought. But they couldn't break free.
Another arc of fire swept across them. This time, the vines hissed, burning with a holy light. The dark Qi they had consumed evaporated into sparks, sizzling in the air like dying embers.
The grip weakened.
And finally, it broke.
The young man dropped like a stone, coughing black blood, gasping as the air returned to his lungs. He lay there unmoving, his chest rising and falling like a dying ember clinging to wind.
One of the disciples stepped closer, cautious.
"He's still breathing..."
The boy with the bow arched his brow when he saw the man's face clearly. Somehow, he clenched his fist and turned away.
The two other disciples exchanged puzzled looks. They wanted to ask if something was wrong or if he knew the young man, but they held back. A moment of silence passed before one of them finally spoke.
"...Should we bring him back to the sect?"
But the senior disciple with the bow couldn't imagine bringing the young man there. It was as if he could see the black Qi seeping out of him, though the other two disciples seemed unaware.
"This senior doesn't think that's a good idea. That mortal belongs in the Mortal Realm. Have you two forgotten the sect law? Mortals are not permitted to set foot on Mt. Yaojing unless chosen to be disciples," the senior disciple said as he glanced outside the cave, then side-eyed the other two.
However, one of them disagreed. "Shixiong, are you saying we should just leave the outsider here? This sinful forest isn't safe for anyone. Despite being from the Mortal Realm, our sect should consider that he may be a victim, and he could be an eyewitness to the Root of Sentiment."
The other gave it some thought. "I think Meng Yao is right. Perhaps the sect leader could be considerate enough to let the man stay. We don't yet know the full circumstances. The fact that he's still breathing after all this time means he could explain how and why. Don't you agree as well, Shixiong?"
The senior disciples sighed and glanced back at the stranger. He was still hesitant, but in the end, he agreed, setting aside the sect law to aid the man first. In the end, they brought him to Mt. Yaojing because all three agreed it should be done.