Chapter 24: Fishing in Troubled Waters (Part 1)

  A large pool of blood lay ahead—splattered across the ground like someone had upended several barrels of it. In the middle were a few corpses, so mangled they were barely recognizable. Scattered among the flesh were shards of weapons and armor—these must have been the cavalrymen he had been following.

  Some of the bodies were flattened, like rats crushed under countless carriages on a busy street; others were torn and twisted into rags, as if wadded up like scrap paper. Blood had been squeezed from their contorted bodies, painting a wide swath of scarlet across the grass. Their deaths were so bizarre they defied Ethan’s experience—he could not fathom how the soldiers had been killed in such a way.

  He scanned his surroundings cautiously. There were no traces of other animals or humans—only a few dead trees stained with blood.

  Such dead trees were common in the forest: every so often, a cluster would appear. They were not as tall as the ancient trees around them—only about the height of five or six men—with no leaves, only thick vines coiled around their trunks. Their few thick, gnarled branches vaguely resembled human arms and legs.

  Upon closer inspection, Ethan realized these dead trees did look eerily human. Though their limbs varied in length, each had four main branches—like arms and legs—caked in blood, standing silently. The sight reeked of macabre cruelty. Yet they were clearly just trees; in the forest’s silence, Ethan detected no sign of living breath.

  Surely trees can’t move. Surely they can’t kill. He frowned and shook his head, then knelt down to examine the twisted corpses, hoping to find more clues.

  Without a sound, Ethan suddenly felt a faint stir of air behind him. Before he could turn around, a tight grip clamped around his ribs—he was lifted into the air. Glancing down, he saw several dead branches, as thick as a man’s wrist, coiled around his waist, still damp with fresh blood.

  The dead tree behind him was holding him with its arm-like branches. As it lifted him higher, another branch—shaped like a hand—clenched inward, as if preparing to clap.

  Ethan frantically grabbed the two branches around his waist and wrenched them apart. They snapped. He pushed off with both hands, breaking free just in time to drop to the ground. The branch’s “clap” missed, exploding with a dull thud and sending wood shavings flying. If he had been even a second slower, he would have ended up as one of those unrecognizable corpses.

  Ethan stared in terror at the monstrosity—something that defied all human logic. It was definitely a tree… yet it was moving. It was less a “human-shaped dead tree” and more a “giant covered in dead tree bark.” The mangled soldier corpses had been crushed by these massive wooden lumps, like a man crumpling paper balls. Blood caked the tree-creature’s roots too—and suddenly, Ethan understood how those intact bodies had been flattened.

  He turned to run—only to realize he was surrounded by three more of these tree-creatures. He had been so focused on the silent trees that he had wandered right into their trap.

  A deafening explosion shattered the forest’s silence. The tree-creatures froze mid-movement. Green flames flickered in the distance, amid the dark trees. It was still noon, yet the sky had dimmed unnoticed, like a rainy dusk. In the murky light, the blood-stained tree-creatures loomed—their stillness, paired with the broken silence, made the scene all the more uncanny.

  Ethan glanced up. The once-bright sun was now just a golden ring, most of its light blocked by a black shadow in the center. It was a rare annular eclipse.

  Another, even more violent explosion rang out. The tree-creatures let out a low, rumbling cry—from somewhere deep within their trunks—and strode toward the sound, paying no attention to Ethan on the ground.

  Ethan stared after them, then had a sudden thought: This could be a chance. The noise and green flames must be the robed man’s doing—he was probably fighting these monsters too. Though Ethan didn’t know the robed man’s purpose in entering the forest, it must have something to do with his own goal. Maybe he was also after the “World Tree Leaf.”

  This forest was far more than just intimidating. The hidden “World Tree Leaf” would never be as easy to take as fruit from an orchard. Instead of wandering blindly, he could follow the tree-creatures and watch. Maybe he could fish in the chaos.

  Made up his mind, Ethan chased after the tree-creatures. After a few steps, he noticed the wooden giants paid him no heed. He ventured closer—still no reaction. Though they moved slowly, their strides were enormous, making it hard to keep up. Taking a risk, Ethan grabbed one tree-creature’s leg. It didn’t react. He climbed onto its head, letting it carry him toward the commotion.

  Riding this—surely the strangest “mount” in the world—Ethan soon saw the charred remains of tree-creatures, blown to splinters, and a few zombies, crushed flat. The robed man’s handiwork, without a doubt. More tree-creatures appeared around them, all marching forward.

  The number of tree-creatures grew—so many that the forest itself seemed to be moving. Up ahead, wood shavings flew in the air with each explosion; green flames burst in the roar, like a grand fireworks display. The forest’s former silence was gone, replaced by chaos.

  After a few more of the tree-creature’s giant steps, Ethan saw the horde of zombies—and the robed man.

  The robed man was undoubtedly the center of this spectacular battle. Over a hundred zombies surrounded him, shielding him. Sometimes he flicked a spark of green fire at a tree-creature; with a boom, the entire giant was swallowed by ferocious flames, reduced to a pile of charcoal. Sometimes he hurled a glowing orb that exploded with a deafening crash, blowing tree-creatures to pieces.

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  Beneath the tree-creatures’ towering forms, white horses and people with pointed ears and long hair attacked the zombies and the robed man. The horses had a single sharp horn protruding from their foreheads. Ethan had heard old adventurers talk of them—unicorns, beasts that only lived in the purest, most ancient forests. The pointed-eared people must be elves—he had heard dwarves mention them back home. They lived only in forests, similar to humans but not quite “subhuman.”

  Elves—men and women alike—leapt nimbly between tree-creatures, shooting arrows at the robed man or casting spells. But the zombies around him scrambled to block the attacks with their bodies; not a single arrow or spell touched the robed man. The robed man tried to target the elves, but they darted from one tree-creature to another, too agile to hit.

  Unicorns gored zombies with their horns. When a zombie was impaled by a glowing white horn, tossed into the air, and dropped to the ground, it shattered like a broken puppet. Tree-creatures crushed zombies with their massive hands and feet, squeezing them into pulp.

  The number of zombies dwindled rapidly, while the elves’ reinforcements kept arriving—more tree-creatures swarmed in. The robed man waved his hands constantly, explosions and flames growing denser. But the tree-creatures multiplied faster than they fell; soon, the robed man was completely surrounded by them. Victory seemed certain for the elves.

  Ethan suddenly spotted a scene that clashed sharply with the chaos: a circle of moss-covered rocks, rising and falling in order, surrounding a clear spring. Three bright green leaves floated on the water’s surface—and in the center of the spring stood a nude elf maiden.

  The maiden stood motionless in the water, arms crossed over her chest, head bowed, eyes closed. Her silvery-white hair cascaded down, blending with the radiant glow of her perfect body. Her beauty was so transcendent it inspired only reverence—not a single impure thought.

  Then his attention was drawn to the three leaves floating on the water. Even from this distance, he couldn’t see what kind of leaves they were—but he felt their soul-stirring green, as if all the vitality in the world had converged in them.

  It was like a painting detached from reality, ignoring the fierce battle nearby, quietly displaying its serene beauty.

  A thunderous explosion nearly deafened Ethan. A nearby tree-creature was hit by a glowing orb; the blast sent wood shavings flying, scraping his face and leaving a stinging burn. He snapped back to his senses—realizing the tree-creature he was riding had joined the fight.

  He tried to climb down, but something tightened around his waist. The tree-creature’s vines had wrapped around him at some point, pinning him to its head.

  The constant explosions and roar of flames suddenly stopped. In their place, the robed man’s voice—like a thousand ghosts wailing—rang out, yet he chanted it like a poem: “O Dark Dragon, sleeping in the rifts of time…”

  Ethan frantically pulled at the vines around his waist, but they were soft yet tough—impossible to break.

  Only thirty or forty zombies remained, huddled around the robed man. As he raised his skeletal hands and began to chant, the zombies pressed closer, some climbing onto their companions’ shoulders to form a wall of flesh, shielding him.

  On the ground, the elves intensified their attack—spells and arrows poured down on the robed man like rain. But the zombies blocked every blow with their bodies; rotting flesh flew everywhere.

  “In the name of darkness and destruction, I summon you…” the robed man chanted, protected by the zombies. A faint, enormous shadow began to take shape in the air.

  The vines around Ethan’s waist tightened further. Panic surged through him. He didn’t know what kind of spell the robed man was casting—but he knew the speed of a spell was inversely proportional to the caster’s power and the spell’s strength. For even the robed man to chant slowly, this was far more than a simple flame that incinerated tree-creatures. And the tree-creature he was on was still moving closer.

  “Reveal your power to the world!” The robed man’s chant ended. The shadow in the air grew clearer: a giant lizard-like body covered in green scales, with a pair of massive wings on its back. It was the illusion of a cyan dragon.

  It was just an illusion—its enormous form didn’t hinder the tree-creatures’ attacks. They swung their limbs beneath it, and the number of zombies dwindled. But when the illusory dragon stretched its neck, lifted its head, and inhaled, the air around it rushed toward the void of its mouth. The gale was so strong it stirred up wood shavings on the ground.

  Ethan hurled a fireball at his waist. He was willing to get hurt to break free from the vines. On the ground, the elves had stopped attacking entirely, gathering together to conjure a glowing white barrier. The unicorns scattered in all directions.

  With a pop, the fireball exploded against his body. The vines finally snapped. But Ethan made a shocking discovery:

  The tree-creature’s advance had carried him directly beneath the dragon’s mouth. He could feel the compressed air churning inside it, fused with immense magical power. There was no time to run. He decided to gamble.

  The dragon lifted its head to the highest point. Its inhalation stopped; the gale died down. The once-chaotic battlefield fell silent—returning to the forest’s original stillness. Almost all movement ceased, except for the tree-creatures, which continued to swing their arms at the zombies forming a wall around the robed man. The lonely thuds of wood against flesh made the ominous calm even more terrifying.

  With a graceful flick of its head, the dragon spewed a flood of deathly green flame—like centuries of pent-up water bursting forth.

  In an instant, everything was submerged in the surging sea of green fire. The tall tree-creatures, upon touching the enchanted flames, melted like wax doused in red-hot iron—vanishing in a flash, leaving not even a trace of ash.

  The dragon twisted its body, shaking its head, as waves of dark green fire spread unchecked in all directions, devouring everything they touched—even sound itself. The only noise left in the world was the roar of the flame pouring from the dragon’s mouth.

  It felt like an eternity before the dark green fire finally ceased. The dragon’s illusion let out a weary growl, then began to fade—dissolving into the air as slowly as it had formed. The green flames vanished with it.

  Everything was gone: zombies, tree-creatures, elves, unicorns, even the towering ancient trees, rocks, and grass on the ground. Not a single trace of their existence remained. A blackened, scorched clearing stretched for hundreds of meters.

  In the center of this wasteland, the robed man panted, his breath like the wail of a ghost. The spell had drained almost all his magic. But all obstacles had been cleared. He looked ahead.

  Yet the spring in the distance remained—its water still clear and bright, the leaves still glowing with vibrant life, the maiden still standing silently, head bowed, eyes closed. The scene seemed untouched by the chaos around it, standing alone in the dead wasteland. The destructive magical flames had not harmed it in the slightest.

  But the robed man was not surprised—as if this was expected, even hoped for. He let out a laugh, like the collective whimper of a hundred dying wolves.

  The spring suddenly glowed with a golden light. The robed man looked up at the sky: the eclipse was nearly over, and the sun was regaining its brilliance.

  He walked toward the spring. He had won. His goal was within reach. Now he would seize that beautiful body, drain its essence dry—just as he had done to the humans before.

  Suddenly, the scorched earth beside him stirred. A figure leaped out, grabbed a unicorn’s horn from the ground, and charged at the robed man.