This forest was a shard of nightmare abandoned by the Creator.

  On both sides, cliffs jutted upward like the torn ribs of a corpse, ripped wide by some colossal claw.

  From the fissures dangled phosphorescent ghoul-vines, their leaves ringed with suction-cups like infant mouths—opening and closing in the dusk, whispering lullabies meant to snare the soul.

  The valley floor drowned eternally in gray-blue miasma.

  And at night, shadows drifted through the haze—

  not faces, not flesh, only ghost-flames flickering deep in hollow chests.

  Blue embers.

  Hearts that would never stop beating—prisoners sealed in the moment of death.

  Once it had been Greenleaf Valley.

  That was before the spirit realm fell.

  Now, among hunters, it bore another name:

  —The Valley of Death.

  ?

  Eighteen hunters disembarked along a jagged mountain path.

  Beneath their boots, gravel and moss tangled across wet stone.

  The convoy could go no farther. From here—they would walk.

  “From this point on,” ChengYu murmured, “we’re in the spirit-demons’ world.”

  YiChen did not answer.

  He studied the chart in his hand, fingertip tracing the spiral sink of ridges.

  His gaze fixed on the fog-choked maw ahead.

  This terrain is vicious. I must keep Xiao Yu safe.

  Since the spirit realm’s descent, the Church had sealed the valley, declaring it hunting ground for exorcists alone.

  Its fog never lifted. Its energies twisted.

  The land clawed inward like warped talons, dragging hunters from rim to heart.

  Most maps marked only the ridges, the beasts at the edge.

  Beyond that, the same word repeated:

  —Unknown.

  ?

  Craen unfolded his chart. His voice was blunt, grave.

  “We’re at the southeast rim—the sunward slope.

  According to plan, we reach the mid-upper hills and set the first warding seal before nightfall.”

  He checked his watch.

  “Twelve thirty-five. From ten to three, yang energy is strongest. We cross the outer forest in that window. If we haven’t reached the zone by then—we camp. No one pushes deeper.”

  Gerold added, “The deeper in, the heavier the yin. After three, terrain can flip its aura without warning. Plenty of hunters have died that way.”

  YiChen gave a sharp nod.

  Shadowfang pulsed faintly at his wrist, sending waves of perception.

  ChengYu gripped Abyssbane, Silverwing’s energy coiling along the frame. An arrow shimmered half-formed in the air.

  He muttered, “Figures… the name Valley of Death wasn’t for show.”

  Then he lifted his eyes to his brother’s back.

  A shadow crossed his gaze.

  If I die… let me die with him. Don’t part us, heaven.

  Craen reorganized the formation with swift precision.

  Every hunter bit down on a piece of Soul-Repose Herb.

  Then—the squad advanced.

  All of Greenleaf Valley loomed like the ribcage of some ancient beast left to rot for a thousand years.

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  Cliffs gnashed overhead, strangled in vines.

  Eighteen hunters moved through its jaws, formation sharp, step in silence—

  their advance as soundless as shadow.

  ?

  YiChen held fifth in line, near the center.

  His gaze swept the formation ahead.

  At the vanguard strode Herlan Bruce, ice-adept.

  Frostlight shimmered off his silver-bladed armor, the Frost Owl perched on his shoulder—black feathers rimmed with snow, each breath freezing mist to crystal shards.

  Behind him moved Rako Vonn, the slashing fighter—

  lean, restless, every stride cracked sparks from the stone.

  Lightning curled along his boots, storm-echo of his Thunderhoof Beast.

  Third marched their old neighbor, Gerold—“Ruda.”

  His battle-axe hung steady, a wall of weight.

  At his feet pressed the Earthbound Beast, squat, immovable—the squad’s anchor.

  YiChen and ChengYu advanced shoulder to shoulder.

  No words passed, yet their breaths kept rhythm.

  Shadowfang and Silverwing did not show, but their spirit-waves braided together, scanning fog in tandem.

  Ahead, fire and wind surged—

  the Brighton brothers, Noah and Ian;

  their beasts, Moonflare and Red Demon Star, wove a lattice of flame and gale, an elemental crossfire moving with them.

  At the center stood Commander Craen.

  Golden threads wound his wrist, the nearly invisible Gossamer Cicada vibrating faintly—sensing the subtlest ripple in spirit-flow.

  The squad’s living alarm.

  Behind him walked the healers.

  Hidaea and Aeloryn bore scrolls, eyes steady, steps unshaken.

  Between them strode Elena Lin, the Lyriquill Heron circling above. From its wings drifted a rose-gold veil, burning venom and haze into mist.

  Further back, David Nann, lenses glinting, quiver bristling.

  The flame-crow Crimson Talon perched on his shoulder. His explosive arrows cleared fields like firestorms.

  Beside him paced Reinhardt Wenlan, silent as dusk.

  His phantom bow, once drawn, left nothing standing within a hundred meters.

  The Phantom Fox at his side shimmered dreamlike—quiet death stalking the fog.

  Aiden Logh walked next, green tattoos spiraling his arm.

  Vine-serpents coiled from his skin, stretching spirit-chains across the gaps—subtle nets for prey.

  At the rear, Mikel Lorne ghosted between shadows, his shadow-ferret vanishing into night itself.

  In battle, he was absence—silence that killed.

  Last came the shock units:

  Kai Senna, lightning lancer, sparks racing with each stride of his Thunderhoof;

  and Varuk Haar, juggernaut, his Flamefang lumbering beside him, warhammer gripped loose, heavy as an executioner’s blade.

  ?

  Together they moved—

  not eighteen hunters,

  but one machine of war.

  A living engine.

  Precise. Silent. Relentless.

  Through the Valley of Death they advanced,

  like leopards pressed low before the strike.

  For now, the sun still burned overhead.

  The demonic aura lay crushed beneath its weight.

  Only lesser fiends and swarms of venom-flies haunted the path—

  each cut down swiftly, spirit-fire and steel flaring in silence.

  At 2:40, Craen’s voice carried through the line, low, measured:

  “Five more minutes. Prepare to set the ward.”

  Then—Herlan Bruce froze.

  He stood rigid before a jagged fissure, spine locked, frost blooming across his brow.

  The stench hit a heartbeat later—

  not rot, not blood,

  but the reek of abyssal spirit, laced with the scorched tang of collapsing time.

  A hundred paces ahead, hunched within the cleft,

  curled a twisted gray shadow.

  —The Owl King.

  It should have loomed elephantine.

  Now it withered, shrunken to the height of a man.

  Star-marked scales sloughed away, cords of silver nerves writhing like worms beneath the skin.

  Worst of all—its forelimb.

  No flesh. No bone.

  But fog.

  Billowing, keening fog, shrieking like a storm of teeth.

  The abyss roared within it,

  as though something unseen devoured its body from the inside out.

  Herlan’s chest locked.

  His palm closed on a spirit-lock bead.

  His lips shaped soundless words:

  Fall back. Slow retreat.

  Memory struck like a brand.

  That night—when Locke’s blade pierced just three inches into the Owl King’s tailfeathers—

  the battlefield split.

  Time itself fractured.

  When its left wing swept across, the world juddered like torn film.

  Frame rate stuttered. Reality lagged.

  Locke’s right side charged forward—

  but his left aged seventy years in a breath.

  Skin cracked. Eyes jaundiced.

  Voice rasped like a centenarian’s final gasp.

  Half his soul ripped from the present, dragged into some other decade.

  The Owl King should have drowned in the time-vortex at the valley’s core.

  And yet—here it stood.

  Wounded. Driven out.

  Herlan’s eyes sharpened with glacial dread.

  Something at the heart of the valley… had frightened even this.