The rain had slowed, but the forest remained alive with shadows that twisted unnaturally in the dim light. Mud clung to the old man's cloak as he moved carefully over the torn, lifeless bodies of the spectral wolves. The Silver Nightroot pulsed faintly in his hand, its crimson veins throbbing with a hint of demonic energy—powerful, dangerous, alive.
The infant in his arms stirred, storm-gray eyes flickering faintly. Every pulse of energy from the child seemed to resonate with the herb, subtle yet profound. So fragile… yet already extraordinary.
From deeper within the mist, figures emerged, cloaked in dark robes, moving with precision and confidence. Their faces were hidden, but the red glint in their eyes betrayed arrogance. These were rogue cultivators, experienced, cunning, and cruel.
The tallest among them stepped forward, a long-curved sword in hand. With a voice that cut through the rain like a blade, he called out:
"Old man, hand over the herb. That child… he is nothing but a burden. Do as we say, and you may leave this forest alive."
His eyes flicked to his companions, subtle hand signals passing silently between them. The bowman nocked a black-fletched arrow, while another dagger-wielder slipped through the underbrush, ready to flank. Every motion was calculated, every word a taunt meant to unnerve the old man.
The old man tightened his grip on the infant. "This child is under my protection," he said steadily, voice firm. "And the herb stays with me."
The rogue cultivator's grin widened, cruel and condescending. "Foolish man. You cannot protect him… or yourself." He gave a sharp, nearly imperceptible hand signal. The bowman fired arrows whistling through the rain like deadly missiles.
The old man rolled, narrowly avoiding the first arrow, mud spraying into the infant's blanket. He swung his dagger, deflecting a strike from the swordsman lunging forward, while the dagger-wielder slithered through the underbrush to attack from the side. The forest erupted in motion: flashes of steel, sparks of energy, and the rhythmic pulse of the child's latent power warping the battlefield.
Another arrow streaked toward them, but the infant's aura rippled instinctively, slightly distorting its path. The rogue swordsman hissed in frustration, realizing that the child's presence was more than just a liability—it was a threat.
The old man parried, pivoted, and struck. Bones snapped, bodies crumpled, and shadows twisted around the combatants. The rogue cultivators moved with confidence and precision, taunting with words while attacking with deadly skill.
"Do you feel it?" the tall swordsman sneered, blood dripping from a minor cut on his arm. "Your strength is nothing compared to what we command. Hand over the child… hand over the herb… or die trying." He circled the old man, signaling the others to advance from multiple angles simultaneously.
The old man's movements were calm, precise, calculated decades of survival honing him into a perfect predator. Each strike he delivered was lethal, each motion saving the child from harm. Yet, even with his skill, the rogue cultivators coordinated attacks, and confidence made every second a battle of wits, timing, and sheer will.
The forest floor became a chaotic tableau of blood, rain, and energy. Arrows embedded in trees, blades collided, and the child's aura pulsed faintly with every strike, subtly manipulating the battlefield.
Finally, the dagger-wielder lunged for a sneak attack, but the old man anticipated, twisting, striking, and sending him to the ground. The swordsman pressed forward aggressively, arrogance fueling his attacks, but a precise strike to his chest ended his arrogance in a heartbeat.
Breathing heavily, mud and blood streaked across his face, the old man paused. The child's aura glimmered faintly in response to the danger. Shadows seemed to retreat slightly, as if respecting the latent energy of this tiny life.
The forest, though momentarily silent, remained alive with tension—a warning that more trials were coming. The old man pressed forward, deeper into the forest, carrying both the infant and the Silver Nightroot—a fragile but powerful beacon of life and potential.
Inside a ruined shrine, he laid the infant against his chest, the herb pulsing faintly beside them. The storm outside faded, but the memory of the arrogant, skilled rogues lingered—a reminder that the world beyond the forest would not yield without conflict. Destiny, he knew, had already begun its work.