The Sylvan Forest slept under its eternal green crown, untouched by the civilization beyond its borders. Only the wind whispered through the canopy and the distant birds cried their ancient songs. And somewhere deep inside that wilderness… a wounded boy lay on blood damp soil.

Ghost.

Barely a teenager.

Barely breathing.

His back throbbed with every heartbeat, warm red pooling beneath him, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the moss and dirt. His fingers twitched weakly as he tried to lift himself, but the world spun in circles and the towering trees above him blurred into streaks of green and brown.

He could not hear his team anymore.

No footsteps of Graveyard trainees.

No commanding voice calling for strategy or retreat.

Only silence.

Then faintly… two silhouettes appeared between the trees.

Men.

Strangers.

Clothed in garments Ghost had never seen , white and brown fabric woven in patterns that looked older than any culture he knew. Their bows were drawn, arrows glinting under small beams of sunlight. They stepped closer, tense and wary.

Ghost tried to reach for his knife. His fingers grazed the empty sheath.

His vision faded.

And his mind fell straight into a nightmare he had known since childhood.

A woman’s blurry silhouette.

Her arms reaching out.

Her voice shaking with agony.

“Do not take him from me…”

Her screams echoed through his skull until suddenly his eyes snapped open and he jolted upright, hands raised defensively in the air.

But this wasn’t the forest floor.

This was… a hut.

He blinked rapidly. The smell of herbs and crushed flowers filled the warm air. His wounds were cleaned and wrapped with soft handwoven fabric. A faint numbness hummed beneath his skin , the effect of an herbal sedative. The walls were made of wood, bound with vines, and decorated with feathers, beads, and painted symbols.

He took a sharp breath.

His weapons…

Gone.

His boots…

Gone.

His Graveyard uniform…

Replaced with linen trousers.

Was this captivity? Rescue? Or something worse?

The curtain at the entrance shifted, and a girl around his age stepped inside. Her dress was a flowing white woven cloth embroidered with silver thread. Her hair was braided neatly, eyes bright with surprise when she saw him awake.

Without a word she hurried out.

Ghost stiffened.

His senses sharpened.

He listened.

Footsteps.

Multiple.

Approaching.

And a voice , clear, sharp , calling in perfect English,

“He is awake.”

Ghost’s confusion deepened.

How could people from the deepest forbidden forest speak a language from the cities outside? No maps marked any settlements here. No explorer or soldier had ever returned claiming to meet such people.

Did they know what Graveyard was?

Did they know he wasn’t just some lost child?

Two men stepped inside. The same archers he saw in the forest. Behind them came a woman.

And this woman was different.

Her presence filled the room long before she spoke. Her hair was silver braided with leaves, her robes dark green with golden thread. Bracelets of carved bone circled her wrists and neck. Her eyes were deep and knowing, like she had lived long enough to remember ages Ghost could not even imagine.

The two men lowered their heads.

“Chief,” one of them announced softly. “He is awake.”

The woman stepped toward Ghost with measured, reverent steps. She looked at him as if she were looking at a forgotten prophecy resurrected in flesh.

Ghost straightened instinctively despite the pain stabbing his back. His eyes locked with hers, searching for threat, deception, or even a hint of kindness.

But what he saw in her gaze…

Was something he never expected.

Recognition.

Certain, absolute recognition.

Her breath trembled as though she were witnessing a miracle.

“It is you…” she whispered. “The eyes. The hair. The face carved by destiny. You look like just as described”

Ghost frowned. “Who are you?”

The men behind her immediately bowed.

The girl reappeared at the curtain and dropped to her knees as well.

The woman knelt slowly before him, her eyes warm yet carrying a weight older than the forest surrounding them.

“Greeting Prince,” she said with a voice that seemed to hold centuries.

“You are our prince.”

Ghost froze.

Prince?

Her followers bowed deeper.

“Welcome, Prince.”

His mind spun.

The forbidden forest.

The unknown tribe.

Their strange clothes.

Their fluent English.

Their reverence.

And their claim that he…

He was one of them?

His throat tightened, words caught.

The Chief looked up at him with unwavering certainty.

“You carry the blood of the ones who once ruled these lands. You carry the legacy of the forgotten kingdom. You are the heir of what was lost.”

Ghost could only stare, breath shallow, heart rattling inside his chest.

“Prince,” she whispered again softly, almost like a prayer.

“We have found you at last.”

Present- London, Elias Flinch’s Place

The long marble table glowed under the chandeliers, its polished surface reflecting anxious faces and half drained glasses of wine. One by one, the treasure hunters settled into their chairs again, pulled by a mixture of greed and dread. The atmosphere felt heavier than the London night outside, like a storm waiting to split the room open.

Whispers crawled across the table like restless snakes.

“I heard it is about the Sterling boy.”

“No, no… I heard it is about Mendoza being captured.”

“Captured by the President’s men, yes? Fool walked right into the secret service.”

“No, you idiot, this is good. One less person to divide the treasure with.”

“Perhaps Elias wants to discuss succession.”

The murmurs were broken only when Elias Flinch lifted a hand.

His expression was unreadable.

“Not quite the case,” he said calmly.

The room quieted.

Basil leaned forward. “What is it about?”

The Sheikh from Dubai crossed his arms. “Yes, Elias, you called us urgently. Why?”

Elias exhaled once, slowly. “We all know Mendoza was captured. They say it was the secret service but…”

His lips curved slightly.

“It was actually Miles Sterling.”

A round of laughter erupted from the German woman at the table. “Come on, Elias. Are we now afraid of a child?”

Elias did not laugh with them.

“Well,” he said softly, “that is exactly the case now.”

A sudden stillness fell.

Even Basil’s fingers froze around his glass.

“Speak clearly,” Basil urged.

Elias’s tone sharpened. “We have confirmation.”

Silence.

“Miles Sterling has the key.”

The entire table erupted into whispers at once , sharp, frantic, greedy. The German woman gasped, the Sheikh muttered a curse under his breath, the old Russian rubbed his hands together as though preparing to seize riches right now. Only Basil sat motionless, eyes narrowing, confusion swirling under the surface.

The man from Africa leaned forward. “Did Mendoza say this? Did he break?”

Elias shook his head.

“No. Miles Sterling himself said it.”

That sentence struck the room like lightning.

The whispers died instantly.

“What?”

“He said it himself?”

“What does that suppose to mean”

Elias tapped the tablet before him. “Let me show you the message we received. Apparently our dear Mendoza opened his mouth and Miles… sent us an invitation.”

Everyone leaned in as the lights dimmed slightly.

The screen flickered once.

Then the video began to play.

Miles appeared on screen, standing in a dimly lit room.

No expression of fear.

No tension.

Just a calm smirk that instantly irritated half the table.

He stood beside a wooden table. His posture was relaxed but the confidence he radiated was unnerving.

“Hello, treasure hunters,” Miles said, voice low and smooth. “I know this is unexpected. But you know… anything can happen in love and war.”

Some hunters scoffed.

Others leaned closer.

Miles tilted his head slightly. “I am not much of a war person. So let me get straight to the heart of the matter.”

He paused.

A thin smirk appeared.

“I have something you have been waiting your entire lives to see.”

The room in London shifted in tension.

Every eye glued to the screen.

Miles remained silent for a few seconds, letting the anticipation stew until even the most arrogant hunter felt their pulse rise.

Then he tapped the table lightly.

“Wait. If you waited this long to see it… then it deserves a grand entry. Bring it.”

From behind the camera, a masked man entered , black clothing, gloved hands , carrying a tray draped with a velvet red cloth.

The hunters leaned forward in unison.

The cloth caught the dim light like blood.

Miles placed a hand on it.

“Time for the reveal,” he said lightly. “Drumroll.”

He pulled the cloth off with a smooth flourish.

On the tray lay a small ancient box, carved from weathered stone. Symbols etched into its surface glowed faintly under the overhead light. The moment Miles opened it , a faint metallic hum resonated.

Inside it…

A key.

Not a modern key.

Not even a medieval one.

Its body was polished obsidian black, dense and impossibly smooth. Thin channels of shimmering silver spiraled from the base to the tip, forming intricate runic lines. The teeth of the key were unlike anything earthly, curved, braided patterns forming a shape almost serpentine. And the center of the key held a faint crystalline core pulsing softly with an inner blue light, alive like a heartbeat.

One part of the key , the deepest segment of its pattern , was wrapped with a strip of dark tape, hiding the final design.

The treasure hunters stared, breath stolen.

Greed flickered in every pair of eyes.

Hunger.

Obsession.

Dreams of empires and wealth beyond imagination.

Except Basil.

He watched with dread.

Miles let the silence stretch, letting their desire inflate until it nearly suffocated them.

“I know,” Miles said slowly, “that your heart rates are rising. You are wondering why I am showing this to you.”

He tapped the key once.

“Even though this belongs to my ancestry… I cannot simply walk into that forest and attempt to claim the treasure. It is an unexplored region. Dangerous creatures. Unknown threats. And the ruins… you know what lies there.”

Some nods.

Some tight jaws.

“I cannot take my people on a death trip,” Miles said softly.

Then the smirk returned , sharper this time.

“So here’s my deal.”

He leaned toward the camera.

“Mendoza is out. I take his place. We find the treasure together. And we divide it as originally intended.”

Outrage exploded.

“Is he insane?”

“He thinks he can take Mendoza’s place?”

“Killing him would be easier!”

Elias raised a hand for silence.

“Watch.”

On screen, Miles lifted a glass tube filled with a clear liquid.

“This,” he said, “is acid.”

Then he picked up a thinner tube, placed the key inside it, and sealed it with a flame torch. The hunters stared, horrified, as he placed the sealed key inside the acid filled tube.

Miles held the tube up to the camera like it was a live bomb.

“The book is in my hand,” he said. “If we are on the same page, I will cut this open safely. And we all reach the treasure.”

His voice dropped.

“But if any one of you turns the page… I will drop this.”

He tapped the acid tube gently.

“Either we get the treasure together…” he said, tone rising…

“Or no one gets it.”

The room in London erupted again.

“This boy is insane!”

“He is threatening us?”

“He dares, “

Miles’s final words cut them off:

“You decide. If you agree, we meet at the Sylvan River Dam. Or we never meet.”

The video went black.

Silence.

Just the heavy breathing of greedy criminals who had suddenly found themselves trapped between desire and danger.

And Basil…

He stared at the blank screen with a tightening chest.

Because he understood something the others did not.

Miles was not just threatening them.

He was orchestrating something.

Something far more dangerous.

Far more calculated.

And infinitely more personal.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep