The first day in the Inner Herbal Forest passed like a slow, dangerous dream.

When dawn rose again, the once chaotic forest had already grown quieter. The scents of crushed herbs and faint blood mingled in the air. The first wave of eager disciples — hundreds who had charged through the glowing gates with blazing confidence — had now dwindled to half that number.

Some had returned triumphantly to the outer edges, clutching satchels full of rare herbs and beast cores. Others were carried out on stretchers of spirit wood, pale and broken, their vitality drained by venom or claws. And a few… never came out at all.

It was a reminder that this was not a trial of luck, but of endurance — of how long one could keep walking through the ancient heart of the forest without being swallowed by it.

Far from the bustle of those outer clearings, Mo Han moved alone, deeper and deeper into the forest's interior.

He had slept for barely an hour in the last twenty-four. His body ached from the constant movement, yet his spirit remained alert. His mind focused on a single goal — the Spirit Well, the legendary lake of condensed essence said to strengthen the cultivator's body and soul beyond mortal limits.

The herbs that the other disciples scrambled for, glittering like jewels among the moss, did not tempt him. He knew their worth. He also knew that worth could be replaced by aura stones — something he could always earn again.

But the Spirit Well was different. That opportunity came once in a lifetime.

He crossed shallow streams where spiritual fish shimmered beneath the surface like liquid glass. He stepped over roots so old they pulsed faintly with their own consciousness. He felt the presence of distant beasts, their breathing blending into the heartbeat of the forest itself — yet strangely, none had attacked him.

Whether it was his calm aura or the faint echo of the Golden Boar Spirit guarding his essence, the lesser creatures seemed to sense his strength and avoided him.

By the time the sun sank toward evening again, Mo Han had traveled for miles without pause. His robe was dusted with pollen, his boots streaked with mud, but his eyes were sharp as ever.

Two days. Only two days left.

He was passing through a stretch of forest unlike any he had seen before — where the trees grew impossibly tall and straight, their bark dark and smooth as glass. The air here was cooler, fragrant, and unnaturally silent. Even the insects' hum was absent.

Then — he heard it.

A sound so faint, so otherworldly, that he almost mistook it for an illusion.

A soft melody.

It was like the sigh of wind through crystal — sorrowful, trembling, beautiful. Notes rose and fell in perfect rhythm, echoing through the leaves as though the forest itself were singing.

Mo Han froze instantly. His instincts screamed caution, but curiosity rooted his feet in place. Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound.

It was coming from the east — faint, irregular, but… unmistakably musical.

He moved silently, controlling his breathing, suppressing his aura until even the beasts wouldn't sense him. Each step was light, calculated — the technique of a hunter in foreign terrain.

As he drew closer, the melody changed — softer, more broken, almost like… crying.

He frowned slightly. Crying?

He followed the sound around a great tree — one so large its trunk alone could shelter a small house. At its base, hidden beneath thick moss, was a hollow opening about the size of a small doorway.

The musical sobs echoed from within.

Mo Han crouched low, his eyes narrowing. A faint green glow pulsed inside, lighting the hollow like candlelight. The scent of wet earth mixed with something… sweet, like fresh leaves after rain.

He hesitated — just a moment — then stepped closer.

Inside, curled up among a nest of roots and flowers, was a small figure.

At first glance, it looked like a child — small, no more than four feet tall, with slender limbs and soft features. But its skin was a luminous shade of green, its hair long and silver-white, flowing down its back like moonlight. Its ears were elongated and leaf-shaped, twitching faintly with each sob.

Its tears shimmered like dew, glowing softly as they fell.

What… in the heavens? Mo Han thought, eyes narrowing. A beast? No... the aura is too pure. It's not demonic, not hostile. Could it be… a forest spirit?

The being's cries weren't like human ones — each sound it made resonated musically, rippling through the air in harmonic waves that made even the flowers tremble.

Mo Han stayed very still, observing quietly. But as the creature's sobs grew louder, the sound began to pierce his temples — too sharp, too powerful for mortal ears.

He clenched his jaw, focusing his aura into a defensive layer around his mind. The pain dulled, but the melody continued, sad and wild.

Then the small spirit suddenly froze. Its ears twitched.

It had sensed him.

Its head turned sharply — golden eyes met his, wide with fear.

For a heartbeat, neither moved.

Then, with a shrill gasp, the creature darted to its feet and spun toward the narrow opening of the hollow, trying to escape into the forest.

But Mo Han was faster.

He moved in a blur, his hand flashing out to block its path. The small being let out a startled cry, stumbling backward. Its aura flared instinctively — the sweet musical sound transforming into a sharp, violent shriek.

The air itself shuddered.

A wave of sound energy exploded outward. The trees bent, leaves scattered like knives, and Mo Han staggered back a step, gripping his head as pain seared through his skull. The melody wasn't just sound — it was vibration, pressure, and power all at once.

He could feel the edges of his consciousness tremble. His vision blurred for a moment, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

The spirit glared at him with pure terror, preparing to release another screech.

But Mo Han raised a hand, forcing his voice through the pain. "Stop!"

The command was clear, steady — infused with spiritual energy.

The sound halted. The creature froze mid-motion, trembling. Its golden eyes darted to him again — cautious, uncertain.

Mo Han steadied his breath, keeping his voice soft this time. "I won't hurt you."

The spirit flinched, staring suspiciously.

"I'm not your enemy," Mo Han continued slowly, lowering his sword. "I only followed your voice. I was curious — not hostile."

The small creature hesitated, its fingers tightening against the bark. Its breathing was quick, shallow.

"I promise," Mo Han said again, his tone calm, resolute. "I won't do anything to you."

The creature's golden eyes widened slightly. It tilted its head, clearly surprised. Its gaze flickered across his face — studying him.

And then, with visible confusion, it stepped closer.

"You… heard my cry," it said — the words faint, melodic, as though sung rather than spoken.

Mo Han nodded, though his head still throbbed. "I did."

The spirit blinked slowly, disbelief flickering in its eyes. "No human survives my voice."

He gave a faint smile despite the lingering pain. "Then perhaps I'm not ordinary."

The small being stared for a long moment, as though trying to make sense of him. Its fear slowly ebbed, replaced by curiosity.

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