The declaration of war against the Abyss Commander echoed endlessly in his mind.
Do they run… or do they fight?
Either choice promised blood.
Around the camp, most survivors slept uneasily, but not all minds found rest. Among the newly joined survivors, quiet whispers spread like rot beneath bark. Two humans, an elven archer, and a dwarf—four men bound not by loyalty, but by fear. They knew the truth of their situation: alone, escape was impossible. The forest was sealed. The abyss watched every path.
So they chose another way.
They began to gather others. Carefully. Desperately. Promising survival through flight.
Their planned route retraced a familiar path—back toward the baby dryad.Roots shifted.
The baby dryad’s shell trembled as a thin root extended from the soil. Slowly, deliberately, words formed in the dirt.
Traitors
Aethyr’s gaze followed the message. He did not look angry. Only tired.
“All living beings,” he said calmly, “when faced with death, will do whatever it takes to live another day.”
The dryad tilted slightly, processing the words.
To distract her—and perhaps himself—Aethyr knelt and pressed his palm to the soil. Roots rose as he manipulated them into crude humanoid shapes. They wobbled, unstable, collapsing moments later.
The baby dryad responded.
Her roots twisted and shaped themselves into small figures—balanced, defined, nearly perfect.
Aethyr blinked, then laughed softly. “…You’re better than me.”
He patted her shell gently. The dryad vibrated in quiet satisfaction.
Rising, Aethyr turned inward once more. His mana still felt wrong—fractured, turbulent.
“System,” he murmured. “What is an Abyss Core?”
The Nullcodex answered instantly.
“An Abyss Core is not merely condensed mana.
It is a collapsed knot of anti-order—mana that has lost alignment with the world’s natural laws.” Aethyr nodded. Understanding settled.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
He entered total concentration.
Each breath drew his awareness deeper. His mana surged, pressure mounting until it reached a breaking point—and then he forced it apart.
One core split into three.
- The first: unstable, volatile, barely contained.
- The second: refined, balanced—combat-ready.
- The third: small, tightly sealed—reserved for studying the Abyss itself.
When it was done, his vision swam. Exhaustion crashed down like a falling mountain.
Aethyr collapsed and slept.
Before dawn broke, the forest screamed.
A wave of abyss monsters surged forward at full speed. Not a scouting force—but a sub-army.
At its center moved a towering, grotesque figure. A giant corrupted tree.
Aethyr jolted awake, dread flooding his senses. Why now?
They’ve already surrounded every escape route…
The answer came swiftly—and bitterly.
The group that tried to flee had drawn the attention of multiple abyss packs. In their panic, they cleared one path—only to run straight into another ambush. Monsters flooded back toward the camp, sealing it tighter than before.
On the forest’s edge, Thorn and two others made first contact.
They were already on patrol when the ground began to shake.
“Go,” Thorn barked to one of them. “Report. Now.” The second hesitated.“MOVE!” The messenger ran.
Thorn and the remaining warrior engaged, slowing the tide—but several creatures broke through, charging straight for the camp.
“After them!” Thorn ordered.
Reluctantly, the man obeyed. Thorn stood alone.
Sword in hand, breath heavy, he muttered, “I may not be as strong as that human… but I am a beastman. His eyes lifted. The sub-army emerged. And behind them—The corrupted tree.
Its pressure crushed the air itself. Thorn’s legs trembled. Fear clawed at his chest.
Yet one thought burned brighter than terror. I will surpass Aethyr. Dead or alive.
The camp exploded into motion as the pressure hit. Aethyr felt it instantly.
Thorn.
Mana surged into his legs. He moved.
Grabbing weapons in passing—a bow, arrows, sword, daggers, a spear—he sprinted toward the battlefield.
He hurled the spear to the messenger Thorn had sent back.
Mid-run, Aethyr loosed arrows at the creatures chasing Thorn’s other companion—each shot lethal. He reclaimed the arrows without slowing.
Before even seeing the sub-army, Aethyr fired again—guided only by Nature’s Whisperer and instinct. Every arrow struck true.
Skill Acquired: Direct Shot
Able to strike a target from any position, as long as it can be seen or sensed.
But even with all his speed—He was too late.
Thorn stood impaled.
The corrupted tree’s trunk pierced his heart. Around him lay the bisected remains of abyss monsters—arms, torsos, blood-soaked earth.
Aethyr froze. Something inside him broke.
He summoned his shadow clone—pouring all his rage into it, sacrificing control for power.
Unbeknownst to him, the system chimed again.
The battlefield drowned in slaughter.
Aethyr and his clone tore through the remaining sub-army—steel, shadow, and mana reducing everything to ruin.
At last—Only the corrupted tree remained.
And Aethyr turned to face it.
Thorn’s Final Moments
The ground trembled beneath Thorn’s feet.
The abyss monsters came in waves—howling, malformed things—but he cut them down one after another. His sword was chipped. His arms burned. Blood—some his, most not—soaked the earth.
They’re slowing, he realized.
That was enough.
His chest heaved as the pressure changed.
Silence fell.
Then the forest groaned.
Thorn looked up.
The corrupted tree emerged fully from the shadows, its bark split with pulsing black veins, branches twisted like grasping claws. Faces—half-formed and screaming—were trapped within its trunk. Each step it took crushed the ground beneath it.
Thorn’s breath caught.
Fear hit him like a blade to the spine.
His instincts screamed at him to run.
He didn’t.
Instead, he dug his feet into the soil and raised his sword.
“…So this is it,” he muttered.
His hands trembled—not from weakness, but from the weight of the thing before him. The pressure alone made his vision blur.
I won’t win.
The truth was clear.
But winning had never been the point.
He remembered Aethyr—calm, relentless, always moving forward. The human who stood where Thorn wanted to stand.
A bitter laugh escaped him.
“Damn it… I really wanted to beat you.”
The tree moved.
Roots burst from the ground like spears.
Thorn leapt, slashed, severed three in a single swing. Black ichor sprayed. The tree screamed—a sound that rattled his bones.
He charged.
Sword flashing, he carved a path straight toward the trunk, ignoring the tearing pain as roots wrapped around his legs and arms. One snapped his ribs. Another pierced his shoulder.
He roared and swung anyway.
The blade bit deep.
The corrupted tree recoiled.
Thorn grinned through blood.
“See that?” he growled. “I’m still standing.”
The tree answered.
A massive branch thrust forward faster than thought.
Pain exploded through his chest.
Thorn gasped as the world slowed. His sword slipped from numb fingers. The forest tilted.
He looked down.
The branch had pierced his heart.
His legs gave out, but the tree held him aloft—impaled, suspended above the battlefield.
His vision dimmed.
Strangely, the fear was gone.
He felt light.
“…Guess… I’m not catching up,” he whispered.
But then—footsteps.
Mana surged in the distance, violent and familiar.
Thorn smiled.
You made it.
His final breath escaped in a quiet laugh.
“…Don’t stop… bastard.”
The light faded.
But Thorn’s stance—sword forward, body unbroken—remained etched into the forest, long after his heart stopped beating.