As Yokki’s followers and Bohlo heard the scream, a green light flowed from their chest, strengthening them to stand up and look at the source.

  A few instants had passed since the three elders’ departure, and besides Yokki, Dante, and Zamian, no other cultivator had completely recovered from the terrible sensation from before. Moreover, they didn’t use essence, for fear of spending it unnecessarily in such a non-urgent situation—after all, essence spent needed to be recovered.

  Yokki’s scream changed their perspective, however.

  The Chosen Cleric lay thrashing on the ground, her hands clawing at her face as blood streamed from her eyes. Tamara and Lakea rushed to her side, panic etched on their faces.

  The other Cleric Enlightened held back, watching with wary eyes. The Zealots stood at the edges of the group, weapons drawn, scanning the garden’s shadowed edges—but their glances kept returning to Dante.

  Zamian observed with tired eyes, his breath heavy and shoulders slumped. A smooth, cool object pressed against his palm, hidden within his clenched fist—a reward from the side quest that had somehow materialized in his hand. His lips pressed into a thin line as he glanced at his father. Though his body ached with exhaustion, his gaze remained steady, betraying no hint of fear.

  With Yokki out of commission, this garden could swarm with another dozen Zealots, and they still wouldn’t be enough to scratch his father’s clothes, in Zamian’s opinion.

  “Mom!” Lakea’s shriek cut through the chaos. Tears streaked her face as she knelt over the writhing Chosen, struggling to hold her down.

  Tamara froze, her eyes widening. “Don’t!” she yelled, vines springing to life at her command. They snaked forward, wrapping around Lakea to shield her from her mother’s flailing limbs. “She’s in pain! If she hits you—”

  She didn’t finish. Everyone knew what a casual strike from someone like Yokki could do. A careless movement could snap an Enlightened’s neck like a twig.

  It was futile.

  Lakea held her mother down effortlessly, as the woman kept screaming.

  Dumbfounded, Tamara could only change her target, commanding the vines to encompass the duo while she assessed the situation. A shiver crawled up her spine as her gaze snapped to Dante and the others.

  Bohlo had stumbled to Zamian’s side in the meantime, holding his friend with one arm, unburdening Dante. The Chosen, meanwhile, had essence flowing to his eyes, looking in Yokki’s direction and smirking.

  “Chosen Dante, w-we need to take the Cleric Chosen to the Lord’s Tree!” Zealot Tamara’s voice trembled, her words barely holding together.

  Dante’s grin widened, his eyes narrowing with a predatory glint. “Impossible.” His gaze locked onto the Zealot, and she shrank back under its weight. “We were summoned to the Stargazing Tree by the Stargazing Brothers themselves. To abandon that would be to spit on our sacred rules.”

  “But—her condition! The blood, her lack of essence, it—” Tamara stammered, her voice breaking as desperation twisted her face.

  “She has no essence, indeed,” Dante said, amusement curling in his tone like a blade.

  A sudden cry pierced the air, raw and trembling with despair. Inside the wall of vines, Lakea clung to the Cleric Chosen, her hands trembling as she tried to rouse her mother. The woman’s breaths were shallow, her lips moving in faint, incomprehensible murmurs. Blood stained Lakea’s fingers as she shook her mother gently, panic rising in her eyes.

  Before Tamara could argue further, Dante’s grin grew sharper, flashing a hint of his usual bestial cruelty. At that moment, Zamian felt it—a sudden spike of essence, sharp and deliberate, coming from the direction of the garden's entrance.

  “Leaving us already?” Dante’s voice rang out, smooth yet mocking, cutting through the tense air like a whip.

  The three Zealots who had been inching toward the edge of the garden froze. For a split moment, they hesitated—then bolted. Green light flared around their bodies, casting ghostly shadows as they vanished into the trees. Snapping branches and crashing trunks echoed behind them, marking their frantic escape.

  ‘Father will catch them,’ Zamian thought, his gaze shifting from the fleeing Zealots to Yokki, then to the faint shimmer of the White Dot.

  He willed the White Dot to display his full information.

  PERSONAL INFORMATION

  Name: Zamian Greenfield

  Level: 2 [46%]

  Tier: Mortal

  Main Pathway: Creation

  Title: None

  STATS POINTS

  Body: 14/54

  Mind: 10/50

  Soul: 12/100

  REWARDS

  White Key - First Floor

  Description: Key to access White Tower’s First Floor

  Ancient Astral Seal

  Description: A Star Seal guarding your Astral Self.

  Ancient Identify Technique (Passive)

  Description: See the secrets beyond the limitations of time

  QUEST LOG

  Last Quest: Get revenge on your friend's behalf

  Reward: 01 Book from White Tower's First Floor

  Status: Completed

  Main Quest: Destroy an Unholy Sapling before the end of the month

  Reward: Special Physique (??)

  Status: Ongoing (13 days left)

  Zamian clenched his fist, reassured as his eyes lingered on the White Key. 'Good, good,' he thought. The Astral Seal must have been what helped him deal with Yokki.

  The Ancient Identify Technique had done its part, letting him deceive the creepy old men, but the Astral Seal had performed exactly as his father had predicted. He’d gambled everything on it—and, for once, luck had been on his side.

  Flexing his hands, Zamian noticed, with relief, the absence of the usual throbbing headache. Instead, there was only the dull fog clouding his mind and the weight of exhaustion dragging at his limbs. His stat caps were intact, and he already knew his depleted stats would recover with time. Small victories, but victories nonetheless.

  'Did I have 45% or 46% in Level 2 before?' The question nagged at him. 'And did the Astral Seal also help me read Yokki’s feelings...?'

  His thoughts faltered as a wave of dread hit him, cold and suffocating. His body stiffened, and his gaze darted toward the fallen trees where the Zealots had vanished.

  Screams erupted from the other side, raw and panicked, cutting through the stillness like a blade. Beyond the chaos, a dark green glow radiated from his father’s feet, spreading in rhythmic pulses that rippled across the ground. The grass around them shuddered, bowing as the waves of energy surged forward, relentless and unstoppable.

  After a few more screams and the sound of splintering wood, three massive vines—thick as tree trunks—emerged, each gripping a mangled body. The Zealots’ arms and legs dangled at unnatural angles, blood dripping from their torn limbs. Their muffled screams seeped through the leaves covering their mouths, barely audible beneath the grinding sound of vines dragging their battered bodies across the dirt.

  The vines dumped the Zealots in a heap near Dante and then retreated into the ground. With a faint green flash, the soil sealed itself as if nothing had happened. Humming softly, Dante stepped onto the chest of one Zealot, his weight pressing down as he glanced at Tamara with a sharp, knowing look.

  “Explain,” he said, his bestial grin stretching unnaturally wide, from ear to ear.

  Beside Zamian, Bohlo trembled violently. The oppressive sense of dread thickened, suffocating the air around them. Even Lakea, who had been crying moments ago, collapsed silently over her mother’s body, her strength gone.

  “Th-they must be traitors, Chosen Dante,” Tamara stammered, her face pale, her wide eyes darting between the bloodied Zealots and Dante’s cruel smile.

  “Are they? Traitors to our Sanctuary?” Dante’s mocking tone sliced through the tense air. He stomped down hard, essence flaring in his leg. His foot sank through the chest of the Zealot beneath him as though the man were made of wet clay. The sickening crunch of bones breaking silenced the Zealot's muffled cries.

  With a single movement, Dante had ended the man’s mortal cycle.

  The remaining two Zealots thrashed against their bindings, their eyes wild with terror. Tears streamed down their faces as they frantically funneled essence into their wounds, desperate to stop the bleeding. The scent of blood and fear hung thick in the air, mixing with the raw power radiating from the Chosen.

  Looking at the scene, Tamara murmured. "Nature is the Cycle, so our path is never-ending. Nature is the Creation, so our path is ever strong. Nature is the Truth, so our path is the only one."

  “Be smart, Zealot Tamara. Be. Smart,” Dante gave his advice after waiting for her to complete the chant.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Tamara took a deep, shuddering breath, her teeth clenched. “Th-they are spies,” she said, forcing the words out. “Snakes sent from the Lord’s Tree to keep an eye on our Cleric Chosen. They must have seen what happened—and ran to report.”

  Dante stepped forward, his bare foot pressing into the dirt-streaked face of Hosta, one of the mangled Zealots. She was part of their welcome committee.

  “Blighted snakes, yes. But,” Dante hummed, looking at Hosta’s tearing eyes, “Snakes who were just following orders.”

  As Dante settled his foot back on the ground, the glow of essence faded completely from his body. Even his piercing eyes dimmed, their usual gleam replaced by a more subdued light. The oppressive sense of dread that had gripped the garden vanished, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake.

  Crossing his arms, Dante shook his head, his long, disheveled white hair swaying slightly with the motion. He cast a sly wink at Zamian, his lips curling into a mischievous smirk, before turning to address the remaining cultivators.

  Zamian smiled back. ‘This old man sure is reliable,’ he thought while listening to his father’s speech.

  “Discovering serpents in one’s home is never pleasant. They appear to be a friendly vine, a branch you can count on while traveling through the forest, only to bite you at the worst moments,” he lamented in a fake tone. “I am no snake, however.”

  With measured paces, he went to Yokki. Moving his hands, the vine cage encompassing her and Lakea crumbled. Lakea was hugging her mother, her eyes red but without more tears, shooting Dante an angered look—she had just passed out, and was already seeing this monster coming closer after recovering her bearings!

  “She has no essence,” Dante said. “Her mortal cycle will end here if she’s left untreated. Move, girl.”

  “You—you,” Lakea stammered, biting her lips hard enough to almost draw blood. “Will you hurt her?”

  “She’s my wife’s friend,” Dante replied, smirking. “Why would I hurt her?”

  Lakea glanced at Zamian, before narrowing back at Dante. “I’m no fool. You know why,” she replied, almost angrily.

  Crouching beside Lakea, the Chosen whispered while brushing his disheveled white hair, “What if I told you she is more useful to me alive?” He smiled at the young Cleric, “Besides, what are your other options here, kid?”

  Lakea looked at her mother, who was mumbling incoherent words under her breath until now, her eyes covered by so much blood that one couldn’t even tell if she still had them there.

  Lakea’s anger faltered, replaced by a deep sadness as she looked away. Closing her eyes and with a heavy voice, she asked, “What do you want to save her?”

  Humming, the Chosen waved his arm for his Zamian, who came closer with Bohlo’s help.

  “Boy,” Dante spoke, and Zamian narrowed his eyes while listening to such a playful tone. “I’ll save your dear Aunt Yokki, as you asked me to. But Lakea here is curious—she wants to know what I want in return,” he grinned. “Tell us, what do we want?”

  Zamian was taken aback. After seeing his father ending the Zealot’s mortal cycle with a stomp, he wondered which false truths could justify the situation to the other Chosen. Even if Dante finished all witnesses, a bloodbath in the Cleric Chosen’s abode, with 3 Cleric Enlightened, 8 Zealots, and the Cleric Chosen herself ending their mortal cycles would be a hard thing to explain.

  'Why would I want to save this blighted woman? She hurt me! I bet she wanted you gone, father!’ Zamian thought, doubting his ears as he processed Dante’s question.

  Lakea sent a doubtful glance to Zamian, her big orange eyes scrutinizing the young cultivator. Bohlo, on the other hand, was biting his lips for fear of saying something he shouldn’t, his eyes staring at the grass below him.

  Swallowing his doubts and irritation, Zamian glanced at Dante, and said in an even tone, “Father, It was terrible what happened to Aunt Yokki. Please, help her only out of the goodness in our hearts.”

  Then, shifting his gaze to Lakea, he added, “I would just like your help to conclude my divine mission, okay?”

  Dante’s eyes glowed softly as leaves began to emerge from the ground, swirling upward to gently wrap around Yokki’s body while they carefully moved Lakea away from her mother. The young woman didn’t resist. Instead, she clenched her fists tightly and stood up, her gaze flicking away from Zamian for an instant to check on her mother’s condition.

  “What kind of help? What mission—no, you mean the mission about Nurture Ritual?”

  “I need to stay close to the Sapling until Nurture Ritual’s ending,” Zamian answered.

  Lakea nodded slowly. “Okay. As I need to care for my mother, I’ll send one of the Clerics to help you.”

  “No need to bother yourself with your mother, girl,” Dante interrupted, his task complete. Yokki’s body was now entirely encased in a cocoon of leaves. “I will take care of her until Zamian concludes his mission.”

  Lakea couldn’t hide her concerned face as she understood what was being implied. With a heavy sigh, she nodded in silence.

  “Can you help me then, Cleric Lakea?” Zamian asked, his voice low, as his tiredness grew.

  “I will just accompany you, so it should be easy, and I’ll then see my mother.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” he mumbled, “My mission is almost a secret. I only told you because this is a trial, and I would never lie in one. We need to conclude God’s mission in secret.”

  “Why would the Verdant God give you a secret mission about a Colossal Sapling?” Lakea asked, her brows knitting together.

  “God acts in mysterious ways. How could I possibly know why He does or doesn’t do anything, Cleric Lakea?” He smirked.

  “But everybody here knows your mission. The Stargazing Brothers also heard about your situation. How can you keep hiding it ?” Lakea sounded puzzled.

  Zamian hesitated, glancing at his father. If the Stargazing Brothers—mainly that eerie old Chosen—had truly been listening since the beginning, the situation could spiral out of control.

  “Yes, boy, they heard it all. Their gazes were here even before we arrived,” Dante said, much to Zamian's concern.

  “But don’t fret over it,” Dante continued, waving a hand dismissively. “Those old farts always send someone to watch every trial. Been like that since the old days. I expected some geezer to show up.” He paused, his dark eyes glinting with curiosity. “The only surprise was the most annoying trio making an appearance.”

  “Will they leak—talk with others about what happened today?” Zamian pressed.

  “No way to know,” Dante shrugged. “They usually keep to themselves,” he then smiled and looked at the leaf-entombed-Yokki. “And the other Chosen will have greater issues to deal with."

  “I understand. Maybe we should finish this trial, and deal with loose ends?”

  “Boy, this trial is already over. The moment the geezers said they were pleased with you, you were pardoned. Only on a Sacred Trial the Cleric Chosen could protest—well, if she was awake," Dante grinned.

  “What about the loose ends?”

  “There are no loose ends. ” Dante replied with another dismissive wave of his hand, “You stay here while I take Yokki and the rest of the Zealots to the Stargazing Tree.”

  “What?” Lakea shrieked, “I will go with my mother until the Stargating Tree at least!”

  Dante’s grin didn’t waver as his sharp eyes swept across the gathering. Zamian followed his father’s gaze, noticing how every cultivator—including the two mangled, bloodied Zealots still lying on the ground—watched the conversation intently, their focus glued to the Chosen.

  “Besides Cleric Lakea,” Dante said, showing his bestial grin once again, “anybody else disagree?”

  A hasty chorus of “No, Chosen Dante,” could be heard, as if these Zealots were afraid of answering too slowly.

  “Good, good,” Dante nodded. “Now, everyone stay here. I’ll check on my boy’s condition.”

  Helping Zamian out of Bohlo’s arm, he patted the muscled man on the arms in approval, before taking Zamian to the other side of the garden. The Chosen’s eye shone a dark green light, and a myriad of vines and leaves made a small dome around them.

  “Boy, you sure surprised me,” Dante said, lowering himself to the ground and helping Zamian do the same. They sat with their backs against the makeshift wall of leaves.

  “You surprised me too, old man,” Zamian shot back. “I’ve never seen someone being stomped like that.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Dante replied, ruffling Zamian’s hair in an attempt to comfort him. “Our souls make it easier to handle these situations, kid.”

  Zamian grimaced but didn’t pull away. “I hope a life of fighting isn’t something I’ll need to have,” he said, shaking his head.

  “...”

  “...”

  After a moment of silence, Dante chuckled. “You were smart back there, kiddo. How did you know what to say?”

  “Father, on our way here, you said you would tell them that the Verdant God blessed my mother's spirit to return and save me. I just changed this a little, still using Verdant God as a pretense, thinking how I could hide a false tree in a real garden," Zamian said, feeling pleased with himself.

  “That much was obvious,” Dante said with a shrug. “Using the Verdant God’s name in the trial was smart. People here fear and respect Him, you know that. I’d have preferred to be the one lying when we had the chance, but those old geezers would’ve sniffed out the truth in a heartbeat.”

  Dante’s expression shifted. “But no, boy—that’s not what I’m asking. What I want to know is how you knew not to lie outright. How did you figure out they could see the Cycle of Truth?”

  Zamian blinked, his expression confused. “Wh—You told me, Dad. You told me not to lie. You told me not to let Bohlo lie either.”

  Seeing his son’s expression, the Chosen sighed, avoiding the young man’s gaze.

  Zamian’s heart sank. “Dad... You told me, right?” he asked, already aware of the answer.

  “I don’t remember,” Dante admitted with a wry smile. “But I’m glad I could do something for you. Truth be told, I was ready to fight our way out of here when you inevitably ended up lying.”

  Silence settled between them, the father and son gazing the ceiling, their thoughts and concerns hidden.

  “Would you win against those old geezers? One of them was a Chosen,” Zamian broke the silence, his tone teasing. “Sometimes I think you can only bully the weak.”

  Dante turned at the remark, catching the mocking glint in his son’s eyes, and then he laughed. “Boy, I could paint this Sanctuary red to save you. Only that blighted Warrior Chosen and the Children of Verdant could hope to stop me from taking you out of here alive.”

  “Come on,” Zamian shot back, smirking. “There must be a dozen Chosen at the Lord’s Tree. I bet they’d gang up and beat you into a pulp.”

  “Boy, unless Verdant God Himself moves from God’s Tree to take your life, I promise you, while I breathe you shall breathe too,” Dante said, the green flow in his eyes flaring briefly.

  Zamian knew his father and trusted the man, so he understood why he said all that. ‘You can’t lose me like you lost mother’, he thought, but instead of voicing it, the young cultivator said, “Don’t worry, old man. Even Verdant God won’t stop me from saving you if the time comes.”

  Dante blinked, startled for a moment, before his grin returned, sharper and more amused. “Don’t make false promises. You’re almost a man now, and soon your words will be as valuable as your blood—to those who matter.”

  Zamian nodded, letting the moment settle between them. “I understand,” he said quietly, then paused. “What’s the plan now?”

  “Firstly, how are you feeling, boy?”

  “Tired. I was thinking about checking on my soul—”

  “No need to do that now,” Dante interrupted, his voice firm. “I checked it earlier. Somehow, you used the crystal essence inside your soul, little monster. I don’t want to know why or how. I know the gift inside you defended against Yokki’s attack—and harmed her in return. Don’t you dare tell me anything else. Do you hear me?”

  “Dad—” Zamian started, but Dante cut him off again.

  “Just tell me one thing,” the Chosen said, leaning closer. “Did you influence Yokki to attack you?”

  “I think I did. Somehow, I could feel her—” A hand clamped Zamian’s mouth close, bloodshot eyes glaring at him. Zamian could see anger and sadness mixed in his father's gaze.

  “Boy,” Dante growled, his voice low and strained. “Do not trust me. Do not tell me your secrets. Whatever is happening to me—it’s too dangerous. Please.” His gaze softened slightly, but the sadness in his eyes deepened. “Knowing you could influence her actions is enough.”

  Dante let go, his hand falling to his side as if even that action had drained him, his gaze empty for a fleeting moment.

  Zamian massaged his jaw, the lingering pressure still stinging, ‘Old man… I bet you’re remembering about mother,’ he thought, recognizing his father’s gaze.

  Dante straightened, grinning again, “I will close this abode after taking the Zealots with me. The two Clerics, Lakea, Bohlo and you will stay here."

  “Do you think Bohlo is in good condition to defend us, old man?” Zamian asked, his smirk laced with exhaustion. “Because I’m beaten and broken inside. I can’t do much more than talk back if Lakea tries anything.”

  Dante laughed, shaking his head in exasperation. “That hairless gorilla could take you in a melee fight anytime, kiddo. You’re quick with words, but he’s quick with fists.” He grinned. “There’s no chance those three Clerics can stand against him. And besides, I’ll leave you kids separated from one another. You’re all just Enlightened. Breaking through my barriers would take each of you at least a day.”

  Zamian nodded. “And what about you? Taking Yokki with the Zealots doesn’t sound safe. They’ll tell the other Chosen about what you did.”

  Dante’s grin faded, his expression hardening. “Boy, what you did to her already sealed their fates,” he said, standing up. "Now, answer me: was it your choice to make a move against her, or was it from the thing inside your head?”