I woke to darkness and the sound of weeping.
Not human weeping—something older, deeper, the cry of ancient things in endless pain. The corruption pressed against me from all sides, a living weight trying to find cracks in my defenses. My Sylvan Circuit pulsed weakly, holding it back, but for how long?
I was alone.
The roots that had separated us had done their work well. No sign of Vance, Dorn, Elara, or Mira. Just me, the darkness, and the whispers.
*"Help... us..." *
The voice from before. Fainter now, but still there. Still desperate.
"Where are you?" I whispered.
*"Heart... the heart of the Grove... the old tree..." *
The white tree. The one with the blossom. Something was trapped there—something the corruption couldn't touch, couldn't corrupt, but couldn't free either.
I pushed myself up, my body aching, my core screaming. The roots around me were thick, but not impenetrable. I reached out with my deeper sense, not to command, but to ask.
*"Please. Let me pass. I need to help." *
The roots trembled. For a moment, nothing. Then, slowly, they began to part—reluctant, suspicious, but responding to something in my voice.
I crawled through the opening into a tunnel of twisted wood, following the faint pull of the ancient voice.
---
Malachar's voice echoed through the Grove as I moved.
"Roy White. I know you can hear me." His words slithered through the corruption, finding me no matter where I hid. "Your friends are... comfortable. For now. But comfort is temporary. My master is patient, but even patience has limits."
I kept moving, ignoring him.
"You know things you shouldn't. The Five. The timeline. The Necromancer's plans." A pause. "My master finds this... intriguing. He wants to meet you. To understand you. To offer you a place at his side."
I stumbled over a root, caught myself, kept going.
"Think about it, Roy. In his service, you would never fear corruption again. You would have power beyond your C-rank dreams. You would never be weak, never be helpless, never be the trashy side character again."
I stopped.
For a heartbeat—just one—I let myself imagine it. No more fear. No more pain. No more scraping and struggling for every scrap of power.
Then I thought of Vance's laugh. Dorn's shield. Elara's growing courage. Mira's silent trust.
I kept moving.
---
The tunnel opened into a cavern—vast, ancient, lit by the faint glow of the white tree at its center. Its roots spread across the floor like rivers of light, and at its base, a figure waited.
Not Malachar.
A woman. Old beyond measure, her skin the color of bark, her hair a cascade of silver leaves. She sat with her back against the tree, her eyes closed, her breathing slow.
"You came," she whispered. "I felt you. The gardener. The one who speaks."
I approached slowly. "Who are you?"
"The last." She opened her eyes, and they were the color of new leaves in spring. "The last Greenwarden. Trapped here when the Academy built this place, used as the anchor for their simulation." A sad smile. "They didn't know I was still alive. They thought the blight had taken me. But the tree... the tree protected me."
"The white tree."
"The Heartwood. The last of its kind. A tree that grew from a seed planted by the first Greenwarden, before the Dark Forest existed." She reached out a trembling hand. "It's dying. The corruption is finally reaching it. When it dies, I die. And the last of our order will be gone."
I knelt beside her. "How can I help?"
She studied me with those ancient eyes. "You already carry the mark of our order. Kaelan's journal. The Greenwarden's text. You walk the Sylvan path." She nodded slowly. "You are the heir we never thought would come."
"I'm just trying to survive."
"Survival is the first lesson. The second is growth. The third is sacrifice." She gripped my hand, her touch cold but fierce. "The tree is dying because the corruption is being fed. The acolyte—Malachar—he's using it to fuel his master's ritual. If you stop him, the tree will recover. I will recover. And I will give you what you need to fight the darkness."
"What do I need?"
"The truth about the Necromancer. His origin. His weakness. And the location of the one thing that can truly harm him." Her eyes burned. "But to get that, you must free me. And to free me, you must face him."
Malachar. Alone.
"I have friends—"
"They're being held by the corruption. I can feel them. If you face him, they'll be released. If you fail..." She closed her eyes. "Then we all fall together."
I stood, my heart pounding.
The gardener had grown. Now the garden needed defending.
"I'll do it."
---
The clearing with the white tree was just as I'd left it—Malachar standing before the trunk, the Sealed Blossom glowing above him. He turned as I approached, surprise flickering across his features.
"Alone? Brave. Or stupid."
"Both, probably."
He laughed, a cold sound. "I admire your commitment. But it won't save you." He raised a hand, and the corruption surged—roots, vines, shadows, all reaching for me.
I didn't fight them. I listened.
The corruption was made of trapped things—spirits, like the Greenwarden, bound and twisted into weapons. They didn't want to attack. They wanted to be free.
*"I hear you," * I sent to them. *"I see you. I'll help you—but not like this. Fight him. Fight his control. I'll break the chains." *
The roots hesitated. The shadows flickered. Malachar's eyes widened.
"What—what are you doing?"
"Talking."
The corruption screamed—not in pain, but in rebellion. The roots turned from me, reaching for him instead. The shadows coalesced into forms that clawed at his robes. The Grove itself rose against its master.
Malachar stumbled back, his concentration broken. "This is impossible—you can't—"
"I can." I walked toward him, the corruption parting before me. "And I will."
He fled.
The roots released their hold on the clearing. The shadows retreated. And from the tunnel behind me, my party emerged—Vance, Dorn, Elara, Mira, battered but alive.
"Roy!" Vance ran to me. "How—what—"
"I'll explain later." I looked at the white tree. Its glow was stronger now, the corruption receding from its roots. The Greenwarden's voice echoed in my mind, faint but warm.
*"Thank you, little gardener. The Heartwood lives. And so do I." *
A seed—small, glowing, impossibly ancient—fell from the tree's highest branch into my palm.
*"Plant this where the darkness is strongest. It will grow into what you need." *
I closed my hand around it, feeling its warmth, its promise.
The trial was over.
But the real war had just begun.
---