TGCF - MISSION

The cobblestones beneath their boots were slick with a cold, silvery dew that smelled faintly of old iron and withered lotus. As the four of them passed under the decaying timber archway of the town entrance, the fog closed in behind them like a heavy velvet curtain, entirely cutting off the mountain pass.

Here, the silence was absolute. Not even the wind dared to whistle through the abandoned alleyways.

"Be careful," Xie Lian murmured softly, his eyes scanning the shuttered windows of the houses lining the street. Every single doorway was sealed with thick, blackened layers of dust, yet the eerie green lanterns hanging from the eaves swayed gently, as if a bustling crowd had just dispersed seconds before their arrival. "There's no sign of a struggle, but the spiritual pressure here is dense enough to choke a lesser cultivator."

"It's not a natural barrier," Mu Qing observed, his sharp eyes narrowing as he crouched beside a stone horse trough filled with stagnant, black water. He extended two fingers, skimming the surface without actually touching it. "Look at the residue on the rim. Itâ€TMs spirit-binding ash, mixed with human grief. Someone set up a containment array across the entire perimeter of the valley."

Feng Xin let out a harsh, skeptical breath, his hand resting firmly on the hilt of his sword. "A containment array? For a quiet little trading post that's been abandoned for decades? If this were just ordinary bandits or wandering low-level ghosts, they wouldn't bother locking people in so quietly. The villagers vanished without a single scream reaching the outside world."

"That's because they didn't realize they were already gone," a lazy, melodic voice cut through the tense air.

Hua Cheng stood a few paces ahead, leaning casually against a weathered stone pillar as if he were admiring the wretched architecture rather than standing in the epicenter of a supernatural mystery. With a flick of his wrist, a delicate silver butterfly fluttered into the air, its crimson wings casting a sharp, guiding light deeper into the dark courtyard ahead.

"San Lang found something?" Xie Lian asked, stepping lightly over a patch of frost-bitten moss to join him.

"Right this way, gege," Hua Cheng replied, his single dark eye softening into an expression reserved entirely for the crown prince.

They rounded the corner into the town's central square, and the source of the anomaly revealed itself.

dominating the plaza stood a colossal, ancient banyan tree, its gnarled roots clawing deep into the cobblestones. But it wasn't leaves that hung from its sprawling branches—it was hundreds of glowing, pale-green paper lanterns. And suspended inside the translucent paper core of every single lantern was a tiny, human-shaped shadow, drifting soundlessly in a suspended, eternal slumber.

Xie Lian drew in a sharp breath. "The missing villagers... their souls have been harvested."

"Not just harvested," Mu Qing said, stepping up behind them, his face pale under the eerie green glow. He pointed toward the trunk of the tree, where grotesque, fibrous vines had burrowed deep into the wood, pulsing with a faint, greedy heartbeat. "Look at the roots. This isn't a ghost trap. It's a parasitic spirit-tree—a remnant of a banished demonic beast feeding on mortal memory and vitality. It lures travelers in with the illusion of warmth and safety, then slowly digests their spiritual core over days until nothing is left of their physical bodies but dust."

"And the lanterns act as a buffer," Feng Xin added grimly, drawing his bow as a low, mournful sigh rippled through the branches above them, as if the hundreds of trapped souls were weeping in unison. "If anyone tries to cut them down without breaking the core curse, the feedback will shatter every soul trapped inside."

Before Feng Xin could loose a warning arrow, the branches above hissed violently, the green light flaring into a blinding, sickly hue as the banyan tree began to uncoil its massive, vine-wrapped roots from the earth.

*Hua Cheng didn't even blink. With a careless flick of his sleeve, a storm of razor-sharp silver butterflies erupted into the canopy, bathing the square in a brilliant, lethal crimson fire.*