AnnouncementSo, hello~ A lot of people wished for it and even wrote me. It is the alternate Story of TREEvolution. This one pys on Earth and is no LitRPG or Monster Evolution Story. The tree-themed spirit of the story is the same and well, there will be a lot of things

  A fair warning, this story is R-18! There will be blood, death, and other gruesome stuff (but a lot less than in the original). I will give CWs before chapters if I think they are needed.

  Another discimer: This story contains Transgender, Lesbian, and overall Queer themes. If any of those things make you angry, turn around and read a different story. I'm gonna delete any problematic comment I come across.

  LittleVixen

  Obvious Self-Hatred

  [colpse]

  Book One — Re-Growth

  The arm had been ringing for a while now. The constant droning sent vibrations through the nightstand, slowly edging the water gss towards the edge. Yet the man lying in bed didn’t bother to turn it off. It wasn’t that he was still asleep—no, he was wide awake, staring at the gray ingrain wallpaper. His eyes were lifeless, void of joy or happiness.

  Another five minutes passed before he finally decided to end the arm. He missed and knocked over the gss instead, sending it shattering onto the floor. A slight sigh escaped his lips. His second attempt was more successful.

  Without the arm, the harsh gargling of his lungs struggling for air filled the room. A cough forced its way from his throat—blood. He wiped it away, indifferent.

  A few more minutes passed before he managed to sit up. His legs felt numb, sluggish. With the internal energy of a broken watch, he dragged himself to the bathroom. The warm shower did nothing for him. Standing in front of the mirror, he asked himself how it had come to this.

  Rough, uneven stubble. Sunken eyes. Messy hair. His malnourished face only served to underline everything that was wrong with him. His thoughts drifted back to a time when he had been happy to wake up, go to work, and accomplish something. But for years now, he had watched his own decline in the grim reflection staring back at him.

  People had always told him he wasn’t manly enough, not strong enough, not enough. Like toxic sewage, their words had eaten away at him, leaving behind the hollow husk he was now.

  He had asked himself for years if the person in the mirror was truly him. He had asked since childhood. But expectations, family cruelty, and societal pressures never allowed him to think further—to think for himself—until it was too te. The questions had faded, repced only by the gnawing certainty that the image in the mirror had never been him. Just an amalgamation of what others wanted to see, yet could never quite achieve.

  There was a time he had wondered if he was simply gay—that maybe repressed emotions had been the thing slowly dragging him to the grave. But no. He didn’t desire men in that way. The idea of being with one, physically, felt wrong to him. Yet somehow, he found himself even more repulsive.

  Why did the idea of dating a man make him fixate on his own appearance? In the end, he was sure of only one thing: he wasn’t attracted to the concept of being male, of the burdens that came with it.

  He let out a bitter ugh at the irony of it all. Men were privileged in so many ways, yet at the same time, they were their own worst enemy.

  Sometimes, he caught himself staring at clothes in boutique windows, eyes tracing the fine lines of fabric that hugged the contours of the body. Clothes make the man, he had once thought when buying suits for work. But every time someone praised him for looking handsome, the nagging feeling that the suit wasn’t what he truly wanted lingered.

  After brushing his teeth, he turned away from the mirror, returned to the bedroom, and got dressed. He moved to the kitchen, forcing himself to eat. A simple whole-grain slice of bread with butter and the strange jelly he had accidentally bought the day before would have to do.

  Just as he lifted his first bite to his mouth, his work phone rang. Emotionless, he accepted the call.

  “Yes? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Thirty minutes. Yes. No. Okay, I’ll be there.”

  He ended the call and, without hesitation, opened the Uber app. As he ordered a cab, he cursed his luck under the sound of his chewing.

  Apparently, during the night, nature and climate activists had forced their way into a construction site where a thousand-year-old tree was set to be cut down that morning. They had tried to negotiate with the police, but after a prolonged back-and-forth, the situation had escated into a full-blown standoff. That was when he got the call—an urgent request for his immediate presence to defuse the crisis.

  If his morning hadn’t already been ruined, it certainly was now. Not that this was anything new. For a while, the world had seemed to be crumbling, inching toward a point of no return. This standoff was just the tip of the iceberg—one that, unlike its real counterparts, only grew rger and rger.

  Another sigh escaped his lips as he cursed his decision to become a mediator—his father’s idea, of course. He wasn’t even particurly good at it, but he tried. In truth, he was a wyer, but he had figured that experience in conflict resolution would be useful someday, no matter how much he hated it. Yet, somehow, most of his time these days was swallowed up by these protests, where neither side would budge without outside intervention. It was exhausting—and frustrating.

  It shouldn’t be so hard to listen to the people who would ultimately vote for you. But, of course, the company responsible for this mess—The Nartsche Bahn—was dead set on building an underground train station on a site designated as a protected monument. Why? Because they could. And because of the government money they would receive for it, naturally.

  They had bent the w, demoted the city’s cultural heritage officials overseeing the project, and redefined the protection zone so that it only covered the immediate area around the station. The corruption was btant—pin enough for anyone to see. Protests were inevitable.

  He recalled reading a report commissioned by the company—one they had conveniently never published—that proved the station was impossible to build. The rock formations in the area contained Gipskeuper, a geological yer that swelled for a century when exposed to water. A minor test borehole had already caused the nearby town’s old district to rise nearly half a meter. And yet, despite these gring issues, the company pressed on.

  Utter insanity, if you asked him.

  Now, it fell to him to defuse this ticking time bomb before things turned violent. He’d seen situations spiral out of control far too often in the past few months. Politicians too greedy for their own good were the root cause, but the public wasn’t entirely bmeless either. People loved to post online about saving the environment or demanding change, but when real action was needed, most stayed on the sidelines. They wanted the world to change—but they didn’t want to move.

  A pang of sadness settled in his chest. Caring for nature and ensuring future generations had something left to enjoy wasn’t complicated—or at least, it shouldn’t be. But he also had never joined any protests himself. He wasn’t cut out for it. He recognized the hypocrisy but tried to do what he could—eating less meat, using less heating, cycling whenever possible. He even kept a few pnts in his apartment, though not very successfully. Still, at least he tried.

  Trying not to dwell on the situation, he stood up and grabbed his watering can. Just as he was about to water his new cactus, he noticed it was already rotting. Another murder case within his own four walls.

  He debated whether he should buy another one on his way home but decided to think about it ter. With that, he left the apartment.

  The weather was bad. A quick gnce at his weather app made his mood plummet beyond recovery. A storm was coming, bringing heavy wind gusts—and of course, he had to go to a pce where trees were already being torn from the ground by human hands. The loose earth left behind would only make it easier for the storm to uproot more trees—ones that could very well fall on the protesters.

  The thought of cleaning up a disaster like that in court sent a lump into his stomach.

  Eventually, the Uber arrived, and he was on his way. He had barely settled into the car when another call came in—his father.

  “Yes, Father?” he asked, his tone devoid of emotion.

  His father’s brusque and condescending voice came through the speaker. “I heard about the protest. Wrap it up quickly. We have lunch ter with your fiancée and her family. Don’t embarrass me by arriving te—and don’t forget a present. That’s all.”

  The call ended as abruptly as it had come.

  “Everything okay?” the driver, a woman, asked with mild concern.

  “Just a family call,” he replied ftly, hoping she’d drop the subject. He wasn’t in the mood for trauma dumping. The driver raised a brow but remained silent.

  Fiancée. The word lingered in his mind. He had honestly forgotten about it. He had never even met her—only seen the pictures his father had sent. It was a business marriage, at least on his family’s side. For hers, it was about controlling rumors.

  Apparently, she was a lesbian. One day, her parents had walked in on her and found out. It disgusted him how they thought they could fix her by forcing her into marriage with someone like him. But his father was more than happy to exploit the situation—bending a few ws here, offering business benefits there, and the deal was sealed.

  The only thing he could do was see the marriage through and give her as much freedom as possible. Cover for her.

  The first raindrops hit the window. He watched them slide down the gss, picking one to follow as it raced against another—only for them to merge in the end and vanish into the endless bleakness of the gray world beyond. He touched the gss. It was cold. Calming.

  “Sir, we’ve arrived,” the driver announced.

  He paid the fare and stepped out into the chaos.

  A wall of noise greeted him—shouts, chants, the bre of megaphones—all carried by the wind and underscored by distant thunder. The sky was a dull gray, heavy with the promise of more rain.

  He opened a pack of cigarettes, took one out, and lit it. The deadly smoke filled his throat and lungs. For a brief moment, the world stood still. Then, it crashed back into motion—the rain falling against his face, the cold air cutting through him—followed by another bloody cough. Perhaps it was time to quit smoking, just like his doctor kept telling him. Maybe then the wounds in his throat would finally heal. Absentmindedly, he put out the cigarette. Maybe his future wife was a non-smoker.

  He took a deep breath and began to walk.

  The protest site was a few hundred meters ahead. Police had cordoned off the area, trying to prevent more people from joining. Yet it was clear the crowd was far rger than reported. Another group must have joined in. He vaguely recalled hearing about a separate protest elsewhere in the city. Maybe they had merged.

  As he approached, a policewoman stepped forward to stop him. He fshed his mediator badge, and she let him through. Beyond the barricade, construction workers from Nartsche Bahn loitered, waiting for the police to clear the area so they could begin their illegal work. His irritation fred. They should be working with the protestors, not against them.

  He pulled out his phone to make a call, but a voice interrupted him.

  “Ah, Mr. Maxwell! Finally, you're here. Now we can get rid of these… people,” sneered a man with an air of cartoonish viliny.

  Marco gave him a sharp look.

  The man’s slicked-back bck hair was weighed down with so much gel it had the sheen of an oil spill. His poorly tended beard was speckled with crumbs from lunch—potato dumplings, from the looks of it. A dark blue suit strained against his bloated frame, the ill-fitted fabric bunching in awkward pces like a defted soufflé. He reeked of cinnamon-apple e-cigarette vapor, though the ‘apple’ note smelled more rotten than sweet.

  Marco recognized him instantly—he had seen that face countless times on talk shows and in political magazines. Bauer. A right-wing conservative, formerly of the Christian Democratic Entrepreneurs party, now part of the Alternative for the Alternative. Their unofficial motto? Money, Power, Corruption, and Hatred.

  Marco suppressed a groan. This was going to be a long morning.

  "Yes, Mr. Bauer. I’ll do my best to find a solution that benefits everyone," he replied evenly.

  Bauer’s fake smile faltered. “Us. You’ll do what’s best for us, dear Marco Maxwell.”

  Marco narrowed his eyes. “Pardon?”

  “You heard me, Mr. Maxwell. Our party’s interests are… vital to your well-being. To the well-being of the whole country. We wouldn’t want any unfortunate accidents, now would we?”

  Marco’s patience snapped. He’d lost count of how many times corrupt officials had tried to threaten him tely—his father included. They all seemed to forget what a mediator actually did. He couldn’t dictate terms. He could only facilitate discussion. And most of the time, it ended in failure because companies and politicians refused to do the right—or sane—thing.

  But Marco had an ace up his sleeve.

  “I’m sorry, Mr.—”

  “Bauer,” the man interrupted smugly.

  “Mr. Bauer, one phone call to my father, and your political career is over.”

  The color drained from Bauer’s face. Marco wasn’t surprised. Mentioning his father—the renowned Dr. Alfred Grafdorf, president of the Federal Constitutional Court—tended to have that effect. Grafdorf was a legend in legal circles, and corruption was his personal crusade… at least, as long as it benefited him. The dark truth had only been reaffirmed by the phone call earlier.

  “Y-you don’t mean—”

  “I do,” Marco cut him off.

  Bauer stammered something about unforeseen consequences, but Marco was already turning on his heel.

  His next destination was the person actually in charge. She stood outside, beneath a police tent, a short distance from the self-made barricade the protestors had erected overnight.

  “Good morning, Chief Inspector,” Maxwell greeted.

  “Ah, Marco, good to see you. Wish it were under better circumstances,” she replied, gesturing behind her with her thumb. “What a mess.”

  “Yeah, especially with this storm brewing,” Marco noted dryly.

  “Not the best situation we’re in. The top brass wants me to force a solution before the weather gets worse. You know how it is,” the Chief Inspector said with a sigh.

  Maxwell gnced past her at the two opposing forces—one fighting for nature, the other for its destruction. Then, he turned back to the woman before him—an old friend.

  “Listen, Lissie, is there any way you can pull your people back for a while? If I can talk to the protestors without them feeling… threatened, I might be able to defuse this,” he argued.

  Lissie shook her head. “You know I can’t. They already have it in for me after that st stunt I pulled. Especially with the Mud-Monk going viral. Those dogs have been breathing down my neck since Lützerath.”

  A bitter taste spread in Marco’s mouth. “Don’t remind me. The only reason I’m being forced into this damn marriage is because I tried to protect that pce. And how did it end? Forced migration. Acres and acres of nd destroyed. For what? More useless coal that’s wrecking the pnet?” His voice rose with frustration. “You know what they said when I argued for wind energy? That it would ‘blemish the ndscape.’ And a giant fucking hole that tears up the ground and wipes out nature doesn’t?!”

  Lissie gave him a sad smile. “I know. Sometimes I wonder what I’m even fighting for.” She pced a hand on his shoulder. “But as long as we keep going, we’ll win. One day.”

  Then, her expression shifted. “On another note, is your fiancée hot?” she asked, eyes glimmering with mischief.

  Marco rubbed his temples. “Objectively? I guess. But she’s a lesbian, so I’m not even thinking about it. You, on the other hand, might like her.”

  Lissie wiggled her eyebrows. “Ooh? I might ask her out, then. You should join us, though~.”

  Marco frowned. “Why would a man join the date of two lesbians? Isn’t that… awkward?”

  For a second, he thought he saw a flicker of sadness in his oldest friend’s eyes. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

  “Nah, it’ll be fine,” she said with a grin. “We’ll have fun. Trust me.” Then, she straightened, shifting back to business. “Also, I think I can get the others to back off for a bit. Fifteen minutes—max. So hurry up, Mediator. Do your best.”

  He nodded, fshing a quick thank-you smile before moving past her.

  Rain began to fall harder, soaking him as he made his way toward the protest’s center. The leader stood beneath the towering thousand-year-old tree—a woman in her thirties with a commanding presence. She eyed Marco warily until a man beside her whispered something in her ear, softening her stance.

  “What do you want, Mr. Whoever?” she asked, her tone sharp.

  Marco sighed but didn’t react to the clear provocation. “We need a solution, fast. The police will use this storm as an excuse to break up the protest by brute force under the guise of public safety. Your people are standing under the tallest tree around—basically a giant lightning rod. The rain and loosened soil from the removed trees aren’t helping either. Trust me, I’m on your side, but we need to move everyone back.”

  The woman frowned, but another roll of thunder made the decision for her.

  “Fine,” she relented. “We’ll move to a safer distance, but we’re not leaving. Once the storm lets up, we’re coming back.”

  Marco nodded, surprised at how smoothly that had gone. Maybe the morning wasn’t as bad as he thought.

  “Move everyone back from the tree for now. Then we’ll talk again.”

  She reyed the instructions through a megaphone. The heavy rain muffled her voice, and the muddy ground made every step treacherous, but the crowd slowly dispersed from around the tree.

  Now that he was looking at it, Marco felt a strange sense of familiarity. He could swear he had seen this tree before, but he couldn’t quite pce where. Something about it pulled him closer.

  Sweet, lilting voices filled his head, coaxing him forward, beckoning him to join. Violet fireflies flickered along a path that seemed to appear before him. His focus blurred, the world around him dissolving as he followed an illusion—a small girl with green hair and bark-like skin.

  His hand stretched out, reaching for something unseen, and then—

  He touched the tree.

  A chorus erupted inside his mind.

  “Sister!”

  “Sister~”

  “Our long-awaited lost sibling—”

  “It is time…”

  “Schwester!”

  “Time.”

  “Join us.”

  “Join us!”

  “JOIN US!” “JOIN US!” “JOIN US!” “JOIN US!”

  A thundercp shattered the chant, jolting Marco back to his senses.

  A sharp breath left his lips as he stumbled away, his pulse hammering in his ears. Only now did he realize the danger he had put himself in. He turned, bming the hallucinations on his exhausted, fevered body.

  Still shaken, he started back toward the officer in charge, but his foot caught on a root.

  He slipped in the mud and hit the ground hard.

  Cursing under his breath, he pushed himself up, but before he could stand, a deafening crack split the air.

  Lightning struck the ancient tree.

  Again.

  And again—And again.

  A chilling ughter—wrong, vile, gleeful—filled his mind, drowning out the screams now echoing around him.

  Marco turned just in time to see the great tree begin to splinter. Horror rooted him in pce.

  “Ah, I knew this would be a shitty day,” Marco muttered.

  The tree came crashing down. Yet, in that moment, Marco felt no fear. No regret. Just the faintest hint of relief.

  A small, tired smile touched his lips. "Fina—"

  Suddenly, a heavy force smmed into Marco, sending him sprawling and knocking the air from his lungs as something crashed into him, driving them both to the ground. The world twisted—a blur of motion, the crack of splintering wood—an earth-shattering boom drowned out all other sound and made him believe the world itself was coming apart.

  Damp. Chill. Mire. Then—lull..

  His senses returned in fragments—the sharp bite of rain on his skin, the sluggish thud of his pulse in his ears, the weight of exhaustion sinking deep into his bones. He was alive.

  And then he saw her.

  Lissie y beside him, motionless. Her ash-dyed hair, slick with mud and rain, clung to her face. A thin line of blood traced its way down her forehead, merging with the damp earth beneath her. But—she was breathing. Alive.

  His fingers twitched, aching to reach out, but the shattered remains of the tree finally came into focus. Splintered wood. Uprooted earth. Leaves y strewn across the ground. The thunderstorm had passed, leaving only ruin in its wake. Somewhere beyond the haze, voices rose in urgent chaos—shouts, the wail of sirens, the rhythmic thud of boots against the sodden ground.

  Rescuers, thought Maxwell.

  His gaze drifted back to Lissie—the one who had saved him.

  Maxwell’s throat tightened. He wasn’t sure his life was worth saving. But the fact that she had done something so reckless, so unforgivably dangerous, just for him—

  That thought rooted itself deep inside him, burrowing into pces he wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

  Then, Lissie stirred. Her eyelids fluttered open, unfocused eyes locking onto his.

  "You think we’ll get a hazard bonus for this?" she rasped, lips quirking into a crooked grin.

  A choked sound caught in Marco’s throat—somewhere between a cough and a ugh. Then another. And another. Until the ughter broke free, raw and unrestrained, shaking loose the weight of everything that had brought him here.

  Lissie joined in, her own ughter hoarse, delirious.

  He had survived. No—they had survived.

  The rescuers hesitated, momentarily unsettled by the eerie sound of two bloodied, battered people ughing somewhere just out of reach. But as they surveyed the destruction, the sheer absurdity of it all sank in. They were conscious. Breathing. That was enough. It gave them hope.

  But Marco—Marco was slipping.

  The weight of the past months, the burdens he had carried, the exhaustion that had gnawed at him endlessly—it all crashed into him at once. His limbs felt like lead, his mind unraveling into a haze of static and frayed thoughts.

  For a moment—for just one fleeting moment—when he had believed death was inevitable, the weight had lifted.

  But it was still there. And now, it demanded its price.

  Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, curling like ink into water, swallowing the world in slow, deliberate strokes. The st thing he heard before the void took him was a single word, whispered in the recesses of his mind—

  "Schwester."

  It was beautiful. Truly entrancing…

  He didn’t know why. He didn’t know what it meant to him. But the word sank into him, like water seeping into parched earth, offering hope to a buried seed.

  And if fate willed it, that seed would take root. It would grow—spreading beyond the boundaries of this world.

  Whether into something pure and strong—

  —or something dark and all-consuming

  Something watched and it had been waiting.

  Lurking in the spaces between moments, coiling through the cracks of the world where no light reached, only rot. It had been patient—endlessly so. Years had passed in slow, sickening monotony. But now, the time had come.

  Twenty-nine years it had waited for this host. And now—finally—the host was ready.

  Or at least, they should have been.

  Something was wrong. A disturbance, subtle yet undeniable, tainted the air. Its vile, writhing vines curled inward, unseen eyes narrowing in displeasure. The wreckage. The shattered tree.

  "No… no, no… It wasn’t just a tree. It was magical. Dryads," it intoned, its words unraveling like frayed whispers, spoken in a voice that did not belong to this world.

  That had changed everything for the being. This… had not been the pn.

  Its gaze swept over the remnants of power clinging to the ruined bark like old scars. Someone else had interfered. Someone else had cast their eyes upon the host. Someone who wanted the body dead.

  The creature seethed. Its suspicions, long held, were now confirmed. The forces of this world were stirring once more.

  At first, it had suspected Anansi—that meddling trickster. But no. He was tangled in his own threads, lost in the war he had foolishly spun between man and machine.

  No, this was something else. Something older. Something greater.

  The Forgotten Ones?

  The creature recoiled, shrinking into the shadows, slipping between the folds of reality like sap seeping into fractured bark

  It could wait. Yes. It had always waited. It could wait more.

  And when the moment was right, it would move. It would whisper. It would pull the strings that had bound Marco from the moment he took his first breath.

  It had done it before.

  And it would do it again.

  And that soon enough…

  LittleVixen