The air was damp with morning mist, curling around the jagged trunks and ancient roots of the Verdant Fang Woods like ghostly tendrils. Birds chirped warily in the distance, and the scent of moss and dew hung thick in the air. Derick led his group of twelve through the underbrush, their movements honed by weeks of practice and silent cooperation.
They weren't soldiers, not yet. Just survivors molded by necessity. Each carried crude weapons—spears sharpened with beast fangs, rusted blades salvaged from old ruins, bows strung with tendon—but their eyes held a shared determination. They were scouts, hunters, guardians of a fragile spark hidden in the shadow of a monstrous world.
Unbeknownst to them, they were not alone in the woods.
The Watcher
Above, perched like a phantom on a tree branch twenty meters high, a man sat cross-legged in the arms of a weathered oak. His robe was simple but clean, light grey with a jade sash, and his face bore no expression beyond silent observation. His black hair, streaked with silver, flowed like still water, and his hands rested upon his knees in perfect stillness.
Master Cael Dren—a cultivator at the Spirit Pulse Realm, middle level.
Though once a free wanderer, he had long been claimed by the Skysunder Clan, a powerful faction that controlled swathes of territory across several mortal towns. Unlike many demons and beasts who dominated the cultivation world with cruelty and oppression, the Skysunder Clan maintained a complex hierarchy, allowing humans of sufficient strength to rise in rank—tools to be used, not cattle to be discarded.
Cael's pale eyes remained locked on Derick, watching the young man issue commands, shift formation, and guide his team through uneven terrain with a confidence far beyond his years.
Most of the group moved with hesitation—untrained, occasionally unbalanced—but not him. Derick's steps were measured, his gaze sharp, his presence calm yet alert. Every instinct in Cael's body whispered the same truth.
This one is different.
The cultivator narrowed his eyes, reaching into his robe. A folded piece of parchment, sealed with the silver sigil of the Skysunder Clan, appeared in his hand.
A Sudden Appearance
The leaves rustled—too soft for most to notice, but Derick stiffened. His hand dropped to his blade.
"Above us," he whispered.
Too late.
A gust of wind, unnatural and sharp, split through the clearing as Cael descended in a single, silent motion, landing between the startled group without a sound. The sheer pressure from his presence—like a tide of water pressing on their bones—froze them in place. Most had never seen a true cultivator beyond the Body Forging Realm.
Cael's voice was neither friendly nor hostile. It was calm, detached, and cold like the edge of a sword.
"You are the leader of this group," he said, looking directly at Derick.
Derick instinctively stepped forward. "Who are you?"
"I am Cael Dren. Spirit Pulse Realm. Representative of the Skysunder Clan. You don't need to know more."
He held out the sealed parchment.
"You. Only you. When you reach the next town—Grelmire—show this to the demon guards at the northern gate. You will not be taken as a slave. You will be escorted to me."
Gasps rippled through the group. Lina stepped protectively toward Derick, suspicion flashing in her eyes.
"Why him?" she demanded. "Why only him?"
Cael turned to her, impassive. "Because strength recognizes strength. I do not waste effort on the ordinary."
He returned his gaze to Derick. "You are not like the others. I felt it the moment I saw you. You carry a will that cuts deeper than any blade. If you have the courage, bring this letter. If not, burn it and forget this moment."
Derick stared at the invitation, heart pounding.
"What do you want from me?" he asked quietly.
"I want nothing," Cael replied. "But the world will. Very soon. And if you intend to climb, to grasp power and change the fate of your kind… you'll need more than iron in your fists."
With that, the cultivator vanished. Not into the forest, not into smoke—but simply gone. One blink, and he was no longer there.
Aftermath
The group remained in stunned silence.
Derick stared at the letter in his hand, its seal glowing faintly with ethereal light. It was real. A summons. An invitation from someone so powerful, Derick couldn't even sense the full depth of his aura.
"He didn't even look at the rest of us," murmured one of the younger boys.
"He didn't have to," Master Shen said from behind them. The old man had arrived just minutes after the departure, breath ragged from running. "Spirit Pulse Realm cultivators operate on instinct and perception. That one… he's someone important. And his eyes were on you, Derick."
Lina scowled, half from frustration, half from fear.
"It could be a trap."
"Everything could be," Shen replied. "But some humans are given positions within the demon clans. If strong enough, some even live with respect. They're rare... but they exist."
"But at what cost?" another muttered.
Shen didn't answer.
The Town of Grelmire
The mention of Grelmire struck a chord in Derick's memory. It was one of the major towns under partial human administration. While still ruled by demons, it was one of the few places where humans could walk freely—if registered under a clan.
Many believed it to be a cursed place. Others called it the last hope.
Derick felt the pull of destiny once more—mysterious, uncertain, but unmistakable.
He tucked the letter inside his tunic.
"I'll think about it," he finally said.
Lina didn't look happy, but she nodded.
"We'll go with you."
Derick smiled faintly. "You always do."