The Forbidden Garden's forest swallowed Song, its towering trees a cathedral of shadow and silence, their gnarled branches blotting out Dark Star's dim sky. The air was thick with damp earth and the faint pulse of spiritual energy, each breath tingling with the forest's latent power. No birds sang, no insects buzzed—only the crunch of Song's boots on worn paths broke the stillness, a stark contrast to the city's noisy parks. Cultivator-trodden trails snaked through the undergrowth, guiding him deeper, his Spiritual Perception a faint beacon in the gloom. This place is alive, Song thought, heart pounding, his herb sack a comforting weight. The forest promised riches, but its quiet was a predator's hush, and he was a First Lord—prey in a realm of beasts and ambition.
A voice jolted him. "Another one!"
Song froze, hand on his sack, as a blond cultivator emerged, grinning.
"Hey, I'm Wind, gatherer from the twelfth barrack. You?"
"Song, sixth barrack," he replied, wary.
"Great!" Wind slapped his back, shouting into the trees. "Master Hell! Got another gatherer!"
A lean man in a sleeveless tunic stepped from the shadows, his arm marked with tattooed bands—rank markings, though the dim light hid their number. Hell's gaze raked Song, cold and calculating.
"Weak, but he'll do for numbers," Hell said, nodding to Wind. "You found him, you pair with him."
He shouted to the forest. "Ten minutes, then we move! Latecomers are on their own!"
"Congrats, Song," Wind said, grinning. "We're gonna haul some top-tier spiritual herbs today!"
"Sounds good," Song said, masking his ignorance. Play along, don't blow this.
They reached a clearing, dozens of gatherers milling about—some chatting, others wary, eyes darting. Wind buzzed with excitement, scanning the crowd. Song's interface updated:
Profession: Gatherer
Rank: First Lord
Spiritual Perception: Active (undeveloped)
Team: Wind (Gatherer, Rank Unknown)
Objective: Collect spiritual herbs
Hell rallied the group, his voice cutting through the murmurs.
"Listen up! This morning, my team found a Forest Soul in the Forbidden Garden!"
The crowd erupted in gasps, cultivators exchanging shocked glances. Song blinked, clueless, until Wind elbowed him, whispering.
"You joined blind? Forest Soul's a high-rank spiritual plant, super rare. Where it grows, tons of lower-rank herbs sprout around it."
"Why so many of us, then?" Song asked. "Can't they grab it themselves?"
"You really new?" Wind chuckled. "Ever gathered herbs?"
"Quiet back there!" a lanky cultivator—Fog—snapped, glaring.
"Fog, enough," Hell said. "Everyone's giving eighty percent of their haul. Disagree? Leave now. No takers? Good. Let's move."
The group formed a line, following Hell deeper. Wind leaned in, voice low.
"Forest Soul sucks up spiritual energy and spills it into the soil, spawning other herbs. Hell's crew will try to take everything we find, so hide your best stuff if you're slick enough."
"Got it," Song said, mind racing. Hide my haul? Risky, but worth a shot.
An hour's trek brought them to a fifty-meter-wide field, the forest's edge a wall of leaves. Hell addressed the group, pointing west.
"We're here. The Forest Soul's that way. You can't catch it alone, so don't spook it if you spot it. Report to Fog—he'll stay here. We'll trap it together. Clear? Go!"
Gatherers split into pairs and trios, fanning out. Song followed Wind, the forest's silence heavier now, his Spiritual Perception tingling.
"Monstrous beasts here?" Song asked.
"Sure," Wind smirked. "Hell says he cleared the big ones, though."
A chill hit Song, his Perception flaring—a presence, cold and predatory, watching.
"Damn, we jinxed it," Wind hissed. "Song, go right, slow. I'll go left. It's a strong beast—splitting up might confuse it. Find a strong gatherer, fast!"
"Got it," Song said, heart hammering.
"Three… two… one!"
Wind veered left, Song right, his steps measured, ears straining. Twenty steps. Fifty. A hundred. Nothing. It didn't follow, he thought, exhaling. He relaxed, scanning the trees, and froze. A clearing glowed ahead, carpeted with hundreds of low-rank spiritual herbs—Starwort, Moonpetal, Duskvine—double his month's haul at the city walls. They ignored this? he realized, most gatherers chasing rarer prizes.
Song dove in, plucking herbs with practiced speed, stuffing his sack. He paused to listen for danger, his Perception sharp. A distant boom shook the air, wind ripping leaves, as Hell and his elites sprinted past, chasing something.
Finish fast and get out, Song muttered, tripling his pace. Herbs came easily, the soil loose, until one stalk resisted, its roots unyielding. He grabbed his borrowed trowel, digging carefully, sweat beading. Twenty minutes later, he unearthed a strange plant—a tuber with a blue-green sprout, pulsing faintly.
No way, Song thought, checking his herbal scroll:
Item: Forest Soul
Rank: High (young sprout)
Effect: Cannot defend itself
Harvestable by: Low-rank cultivators
Value: Unknown
Legend: Grants lifelong luck
His hands shook. The Forest Soul, a treasure beyond his dreams, lay in his palm. Luck? I'll take it. He buried it deep in his sack, piling low-rank herbs atop to mask its energy, his heart racing with the gamble.
Half an hour later, he reached the rally point, where Fog and a few gatherers waited. Fog pounced, snatching Song's sack.
"Show me your haul! Eighty percent, like Hell said. What's this? Trash?"
Fog yanked out a handful of low-rank herbs, shaking them in Song's face, then rummaged deeper, finding nothing else.
"Collecting weeds? You're mad. Take your junk and go!" Fog tossed the sack back, storming off.
Song caught it, ignoring mocking glances, his calm a mask. Fog's just Hell's lackey, he thought, unfazed.
Hours later, the others returned, exhausted and furious. The Forest Soul had eluded them, sparking arguments. Hell stayed composed, crushing dissent with his rank's aura. Wind approached, grinning.
"Find anything good?"
Song opened his sack, showing the low-rank herbs.
"Not much," Wind said, nodding. "It happens."
The trek back to Dark Star was silent, the group's mood sour. Wind chattered, but Song nodded absently, lost in thought. The Forest Soul was his ticket out of obscurity, but selling it meant navigating clans, alchemists, or worse—Hell's crew. What now? he wondered, the city's gates looming, a choice that could make or break him.
To be continued…