The quarter of servants in the city of the Dark Star was a sprawling labyrinth of shadowed alleys, each cobblestone path slick with the morning dew under a pervasive predawn mist. The air, cool and damp, carried the fresh scent of wet grass and cold stone, a refreshing chill that seeped into Song's bones but also offered a soothing balm to his aching ribs, still tender from the tournament's brutal ordeal.
Song's Current Status: Health: Recovering (his cracked bones were mending slowly, a gradual process bolstered significantly by the enhanced tattoo of the ruler, now subtly etched with a faint second stripe, granting him improved self-healing capabilities). Spiritual Energy: Low (flickered weakly, barely enough for even basic perception, yet the tantalizing promise of the Forbidden Garden's untold rewards drove him forward with unwavering determination).
Song's plain gray gatherer's tunic clung to his lean frame, damp with the morning mist. The unassuming square emblem of his status, a stark reminder of his lowly first-stage ruler rank, was tucked securely into his belt. Unlike the brightly lit, bustling districts of the great clans, the servant's quarter was cloaked in a perpetual dimness, unlit by the grand spiritual lanterns. However, the familiar worn stone road beneath his feet unerringly guided him through the murky labyrinth towards the formidable, mist-shrouded gates of the Forbidden Garden. A quiet wave of gratitude for Rill's aid warmed his heart, her unexpected kindness a profound debt he silently vowed to repay.
At the towering, wrought-iron gates, a lone guard stood, his posture bored and his gaze fixed idly on the mist-shrouded horizon, lost in his own thoughts. Song approached with a respectful, deliberate pace, extending his gatherer's emblem.
"Greetings, noble guard," Song began, his voice calm and clear in the stillness of the dawn. "I, junior gatherer Song, plan to enter the Forbidden Garden at the break of dawn."
The guard, rousing himself from his reverie, took the emblem. He inspected it with a cursory glance, his eyes quickly scanning its details, before nodding coldly, almost imperceptibly, and returning his detached vigil to the shifting mist. Song stepped aside, his eyes scanning the nebulous forms for any sign of Vind, but the dense fog obscured everything beyond vague, shifting silhouettes.
Song's Perception Check: Perception: Moderate (strained by his lingering injuries, could only pick up the faint, distant rustle of leaves beyond the massive wall, nothing more concrete).
He leaned against the cold, damp gate, waiting patiently, as the first sun, Akeu, began to paint the eastern sky with a faint, ethereal glow, its twin, Oso, due to rise in approximately forty minutes.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the swirling mist, striding with a brisk, purposeful gait. It was Vind, clad in his own practical gray gatherer's uniform, a wide grin spreading across his face as he spotted Song.
"You came," Vind said, his voice a low, satisfied murmur. "Good. Let's hurry—the night gatherers will be exiting soon, and I'd rather avoid them if we can."
"Why?" Song asked, recalling the unsettling, almost predatory presence of Hell during their recent hunt for the Soul of the Forest. The memory sent a shiver down his spine.
"They're all unhinged," Vind grumbled, a hint of genuine annoyance in his tone. He flashed his emblem to the guard, who gave another curt nod. "Arrogant, picking fights with anyone they encounter in the Garden. Gods know why the Magistrate allows it. The barracks they share are a nightmare, and the Magistrate does absolutely nothing to control them."
The guard, now fully alert, nodded in silent agreement, and Vind pushed open a small, creaking door set into the massive gate. Song followed, expecting to find himself immediately amidst lush greenery and vibrant spiritual flora. Instead, he stepped into a barren, scorched field, its grasses charred to a crisp, and tumbleweeds of debris rolling mournfully in a faint, chilly breeze.
Song's Observation: Spiritual Energy: Stable (despite the desolation, his core energy remained steady, but the sight of the barren land unnerved him, a feeling of unease settling deep within).
Vind, noticing Song's confusion, offered a brief explanation. "They burn the land before the great wall to spot any beast attacks early, gives us a clear line of sight."
Song nodded, trailing silently behind Vind as they traversed the desolate field towards a distant tree line, a dark, ominous silhouette against the brightening sky. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the rhythmic crunch of their footsteps on the ash-covered ground. Vind's sudden question caught him off guard, startling him from his contemplative state.
"How'd you get so close to sister Rill?" Vind asked, his tone laced with a peculiar mix of curiosity and protectiveness. "What's your deal with her?"
"Is Miss Rill your sister?" Song asked, seeking clarification, a faint flicker of surprise in his eyes.
Vind stopped abruptly, turning to face Song, his expression incredulous. "What? No, it's an expression! She's like a sister to me, okay? We grew up together, practically family. And she's my fiancée, by the way, so don't get any ideas, Song."
Song nearly tripped over his own feet, genuinely surprised by the casual claim of betrothal. Vind's defensive tone, his sudden vehemence, strongly suggested an exaggeration, perhaps a ploy to ward off potential rivals. Song chose not to press the issue, simply nodding, silently noting Vind's fierce protectiveness over Rill. "Miss Rill is a seventh-stage ruler, isn't she?"
"Of course she is," Vind said, resuming his brisk pace, a touch of pride in his voice. "She's a prodigy among servants, truly exceptional. If the Pavilion exams weren't held only annually, she'd be scouted and accepted into a top clan by now, no doubt. You think clans really scout talent just by the number of tattoo stripes? Talent doesn't always equal skill, Song. Plenty of high-born with seven or eight stripes just coast through life, too lazy to even bother forming a proper pattern."
Vind's rant grew increasingly heated, his voice rising with unbridled frustration at the great clans' perceived indolence and arrogance. Song listened, understanding the deep-seated resentment of a low-born gatherer, the bitterness of those who toiled tirelessly for meager recognition. Vind caught himself, taking a deep breath and visibly calming his agitated state. "Enough talk. We're almost there."
The scorched field abruptly gave way to a towering coniferous forest, its massive, ancient pines casting long, deep shadows that stretched across the ground like skeletal fingers.
Song's Perception Update: Perception: Moderate (detected faint, subtle spiritual signatures in the underbrush, a sure sign that the Garden's vitality was truly stirring, even at its edges).
Vind explained, his voice hushed by the solemnity of the ancient trees, "This is just the start, Song. The real Forbidden Garden is much deeper, within the deciduous woods. You've only gathered basic herbs before, right? I'll teach you how to truly find what we're looking for."
As the towering pines gradually transitioned into broad-leafed giants, the forest grew denser, its canopy thicker, alive with the rustling of leaves underfoot and the faint, almost imperceptible distant tracks of unseen beasts. Vind's voice dropped to a low, serious tone. "To find spiritual herbs here, you need to use your perception, not just your eyes. The stronger your sense of spiritual energy, the better your chances. If you feel anything, anything at all, tell me immediately."
Song nodded, closing his eyes to focus, pushing the limits of his senses.
Song's Focused Spiritual Energy: Spiritual Energy: Low (but his perception, despite the limited reserves, stretched outwards, brushing against the forest's subtle, life-giving pulse, its inherent laws elusive yet strangely familiar, much like his own nascent fire concept).
A faint, almost imperceptible presence tugged at him, approximately two hundred meters due north. It was distinctly non-animal, a unique spiritual signature. "I sense something that way," he pointed, his eyes still closed. "About two hundred meters, I think."
Vind scoffed, a dismissive sound. "Two hundred? Song, even pattern-stage warriors, with their much stronger senses, can't pinpoint spiritual herbs that far out. You're joking, right?"
Despite his open skepticism and disbelief, Vind surprisingly veered north, muttering under his breath about overconfident first-stage rulers. Song followed, his certainty unshaken, the faint spiritual presence growing clearer, more distinct with every step they took. After approximately two hundred meters, Vind suddenly froze, holding up a hand to gesture for silence. His eyes, wide with astonishment, scanned the dense undergrowth. "No way," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "You actually felt that? Here?"