"What? A cave?"
Terry Al swiftly opened his summoning portal. With a single, resonant cry from Yingzi, the flying ghouls promptly retreated into the summoning gate. Meanwhile, Gao Shun gathered the bandits, hustling them back into the summoning space as well.
As the portal closed, Yingzi carried Terry Al straight toward the mountain cave. Below them, a figure sped through the forest, his steps faltering yet determined. His every stride seemed fueled by desperation. He was so close now, just steps away from the Phantom Forest—his gateway to ambition and salvation.
Yingzi flew low, hugging the ground, before abruptly diving downward. The sudden shift nearly threw Terry Al off her back.
"Yingzi! Can you at least warn me before making turns like that next time?"
Turning her head, Yingzi offered an apologetic look.
"Sorry, Master! I'll be more careful next time, okay?"
But Terry Al barely had time to react before the cave entrance loomed ahead. Yingzi, judging her trajectory, squeezed through with ease. Unfortunately, Terry Al wasn't so lucky. He collided with the narrow opening, the force propelling him backward, his face smacking against the rocky edge.
As the recoil threw him into the cave, he tumbled headfirst. Thankfully, Yingzi anticipated his plight, swooping in to catch him before he hit the ground.
"Master, are you alright?" Yingzi asked, her voice tinged with concern.
Terry Al groaned, rubbing his bruised face and aching back. "Yingzi… Next time, *no sharp turns.* Got it?"
Gao Shun emerged from the summoning space moments later, only to freeze at the sight of Terry Al's swollen face. A glance at the cave's narrow entrance quickly explained the situation. Suppressing a laugh, he saluted his master with a mock-serious expression.
Terry Al, clearly unimpressed, waved a hand. "Enough. Gao Shun, scout the area and report back."
"Understood, my lord," Gao Shun replied, though amusement lingered in his tone.
Before he could proceed, Yingzi interjected.
"There's nothing to scout. This place only holds a single corpse—and on that corpse, a ring identical to the one our master wears."
"A spatial ring?" Gao Shun's interest was piqued instantly. While the ring's contents were irrelevant to him, obtaining another spatial artifact was a prize in itself.
"Where is it?" he asked eagerly, addressing Yingzi with newfound enthusiasm.
Yingzi hesitated before pointing to a shadowy corner of the cave. Resentment flickered in her gaze, knowing the ring could never be hers. Spatial rings required blood to activate—a necessity Yingzi would never possess.
Gao Shun wasted no time. He darted to the indicated spot, soon finding a skeleton nestled in the shadows. Without ceremony, he grabbed the skeleton, snapping off the hand that bore the ring. Tossing the brittle remains aside, he meticulously wiped the dust from the ancient artifact, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.
As Gao Shun marveled at his find, Terry Al's gaze lingered on the dismembered bones. A long-forgotten tale stirred in his memory—the tragic legend of the Phantom Forest.
The Phantom Forest had existed for over ten millennia, though its beginnings were humble. It was once a simple woodland, home to a few strikingly beautiful flowers. These blossoms, vibrant and enchanting, flourished in the forest's depths. Over centuries, their numbers grew, painting the forest floor in mesmerizing hues.
But beauty often hides peril. People who inhaled the flowers' fragrance began to perish mysteriously. Fear and superstition took root, branding the flowers as omens of death. Abandoned and unchecked, the blossoms multiplied unchecked, spreading like wildfire through the forest.
In desperation, the king of that era sent soldiers to eradicate the cursed blooms. None returned. Enraged, he dispatched a contingent of third-tier swordmasters. Yet their fate mirrored that of the first.
Finally, a squad of fifth-tier grand swordsmen was sent. Their formidable sword energy destroyed large swaths of the flowers near the forest's edge. Yet, as they ventured deeper, the forest's venomous aura claimed them as well. The once-innocuous woodland earned a new name: the Death Forest. For centuries, none dared enter its lethal embrace.
Then, two hundred years ago, a prodigy rose to prominence—Ares, the Sword Deity. By the age of thirty, he had reached the seventh tier, standing on the brink of ascension. His unparalleled strength and unyielding spirit made him a legend. Yet, beneath the glory, Ares was burdened by a silent sorrow.
Soon, Ares would ascend to the Sanctum, leaving the mortal plane behind forever. But with his departure loomed an agonizing fear—what would become of his beloved wife? Would she remain safe, or would others covet her in his absence?
Consumed by jealousy and despair, Ares devised a grim solution. He took his wife to the Death Forest, now called the Phantom Forest. To Ares, it was a paradise of unrivaled beauty—a fitting stage for their final days together.
Unfazed by the forest's poison, Ares immersed himself in its splendor, cherishing every fleeting moment with his wife. Yet, in his blissful delusion, he failed to notice her lifeless form. She had succumbed to the poison on their second day.
Ares himself had been fatally poisoned upon entering the forest. But his immense power allowed him to survive, clinging to life for five years. Those years, though, were nothing but illusions spun by the forest's sinister magic. When death finally claimed him, Ares remained oblivious, believing he had lived a lifetime of happiness with his love.
When the truth of Ares' fate spread, the Phantom Forest became a place of legend—a graveyard of heroes. Among its many secrets was Ares' fabled weapon: the Thunderbolt Spear, a magnificent lance imbued with an ethereal blue glow.