Chapter 406: The World Tree (4)
[System notice: Trial of the Chosen initiated.]
[Warning: Abandonment will result in permanent core destabilization.]
Ashwing hissed. ’Figures. It won’t let you walk away, will it?’
Lindarion exhaled slowly. "No."
His gaze hardened, silver-and-gold eyes reflecting the faint glow of the roots. "And I wouldn’t if I could."
He placed his hand against the script again. The chamber shuddered. The wall of roots at the far end twisted open, revealing another passage.
Ashwing groaned. ’I knew it. Stupid trials. Stupid ancient voices. Stupid glowing eyes.’
Lindarion allowed the faintest curl of a smile to touch his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Stay close. You’ll complain less if you’re alive."
Ashwing puffed his cheeks, sulking. ’That’s not funny.’
But he held tighter to Lindarion’s shoulder as they stepped into the next descent, the motes leading them deeper into the Tree’s secrets.
The glow behind them faded, sealing the chamber.
There was no going back.
The tunnel narrowed, roots pressed close, rough bark snagging at Lindarion’s sleeves. The golden motes fluttered ahead, dimmer now, almost hesitant, as though they knew what waited.
Ashwing shifted again, claws pricking his shoulder. ’I don’t like this. Smells wrong. Like... old fire, but no ash.’
Lindarion slowed, silver-gold eyes narrowing. His instincts prickled. The air here wasn’t just thick with mana, it was set. A weave, old and precise, strung tight through the roots like threads of invisible wire.
[System notice: Foreign construct detected. Warning—Draconic warding array active.]
His jaw tightened.
The first trap triggered when his boot touched the center of a root crossing the path. The entire wall convulsed.
Spikes of hardened bark shot out, twisting like spears.
Lindarion’s sword blurred from its sheath, a single slash severing the barrage mid-flight. Fragments scattered, smoking where they hit the ground.
Ashwing squeaked, tail lashing. ’Spikes?! Really? Who makes spiky trees?!’
More shifted in the walls, roots grinding, preparing another strike.
Lindarion thrust his palm forward. Mana surged, Ice. Frost lanced across the corridor, sheathing the roots in white before they could fully emerge. The wood cracked, groaning under the sudden freeze.
He advanced without hesitation, steps deliberate, eyes sharp.
The motes danced nervously, weaving through the frozen barrier.
Another warning blinked.
[System notice: Trap sequence escalation—heat surge incoming.]
The roots above split open like vents. A roar of compressed flame blasted down the passage, white-hot.
Ashwing yelped. ’That’s cheating!’
But Lindarion was already moving. His other hand rose, lightning sparking between his fingers. He slammed it against the ceiling, Thunderclap Surge. The raw force disrupted the flame’s path, splitting the torrent into harmless embers that cascaded past him.
Smoke hissed in the air.
His pulse stayed steady. His mana shifted smoothly, flowing like water through each affinity he touched. Fire wanted to answer fire, but he forced it back, choosing balance over recklessness.
Ashwing clung tighter, muttering in his mind. ’You’re insane. You’re completely insane.’
Lindarion’s lips twitched faintly. "You’ve known that for four years."
The corridor shuddered again. Roots writhed, twisting to form new shapes, not spikes this time, but figures.
Humanoid. Broad-shouldered. Their bark-like skin cracked open to reveal glowing amber veins. Guardians left behind, bound to the Tree.
Their eyes opened, burning like embers.
Ashwing groaned. ’Oh, perfect. Wooden zombies. Just what I wanted today.’
Lindarion raised his blade. Shadows licked its edge, mixing with frost and sparks. His voice was low, controlled, carrying only for Ashwing to hear.
"We cut through. Fast."
The first guardian lunged, heavy steps shaking the tunnel floor.
Lindarion met it head-on. His sword sang, shadow and lightning bursting together, cleaving the construct in two. Splinters exploded, glowing sap hissing as it spilled like molten resin.
The others didn’t falter. They surged as one, silent but relentless.
Ashwing darted to Lindarion’s other shoulder, tiny wings twitching uselessly. ’Left! Another’s swinging left!’
The blade flicked sideways, intercepting a wooden arm that split open into jagged claws. He severed it cleanly, pivoting to drive his boot into the guardian’s chest. It staggered back, roots cracking.
He pressed forward. Ice flowed up his free hand, stabbing into the air as spears that shattered through three at once. Blood wasn’t in them, but mana still hummed inside their cores.
[System notice: Analyzing... Weak point located. Chest core—fracture point.]
Lindarion’s eyes narrowed. He moved faster. Each strike now angled precise, slipping through bark and sap to shatter the glowing nodes in their chests.
One by one, they fell, light extinguished, crumbling back into lifeless roots.
When silence returned, the motes hovered close again, as though afraid to drift further ahead.
Ashwing let out a long groan. ’Tell me that was the last of them. Please. Just once, let me be right.’
Lindarion didn’t answer. His hand brushed one of the fallen guardians, eyes narrowing at the faint runes carved into its bark. They were the same Draconic Prime script he had seen earlier.
Not guardians. Not monsters. Servants. Bound to a duty they could never abandon.
His throat tightened. ’If these were the protectors, what waits at the heart of this place?’
The system whispered again.
[Trial continues. Strength recognized. Resolve measured.]
He exhaled slowly, sword still in hand, every nerve alert.
"Come," he said quietly.
Ashwing made a soft noise of protest but didn’t argue, curling his tail tighter around Lindarion’s neck.
The motes drifted on, guiding them deeper, and the tunnel behind sealed shut, roots knitting together like a wound.
There was no choice.
Only forward.
—
The tunnel leveled, widening into a chamber veined with amber light. The motes fanned out, swirling in strange patterns as if weaving a curtain. When Lindarion stepped forward, the air rippled.
Not traps this time. Something heavier.
[System notice: Trial phase shift—Memory Projection initializing.]
Ashwing shifted uneasily on his shoulder. ’What’s happening? Why’s the air... thick?’
Lindarion’s throat tightened. He already knew.
The chamber dissolved around him. Roots, bark, mana, all gone.
Instead, he stood in a dusty gymnasium. The smell of old wood and chalk stung his nose. The clang of foils echoed against walls painted with banners. A teenage boy stood at the center, lean, dark-haired, wearing a fencing jacket too big for him. His grip on the foil was clumsy, but his stance screamed defiance.
It was him. Before.
Lindarion’s hand trembled on his sword. "...No."
The boy lunged forward, sparring with a faceless opponent, every strike born from desperation. Not elegance, not mastery. Just the raw hunger of someone who wanted to be seen, to win.
Ashwing’s voice quivered. ’Who... who is that?’