Zamian kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell his father the truth—the older man was the one constantly avoiding the issue. The real problem was that Zamian didn’t know the answer himself.

  Yes, it had been his decision to take the opportunity to harm Yokki. It wasn’t just about revenge, though that played a part. She was dangerous, and his actions were as much defensive as they were offensive.

  But Zamian couldn’t deny that outside factors had influenced him. The White Dot had not only provided him with the means to counter Yokki’s technique but also granted him the ability to read her emotions and manipulate them. And then there was the White Key, a constant reminder of the quests and rewards tied to his mysterious gift—an ever-present nudge urging him forward.

  “Moving against Yokki was my choice,” Zamian finally said, his voice steady as he stood, using the tree for support. “But my gift offered the means and the… extra motivation to act. I would have done it even without those factors, father. But, yes, they swayed my decision.”

  Dante’s gaze lingered on Zamian, measuring his words. “Good for you to recognize it, boy. But remember this: do not follow those motivations unless you know they’re truly yours, son.”

  Without waiting for an answer, the white-haired cultivator held Zamian’s arm and stomped on the ground, causing the wall to sink, vines retreating into the earth like a tide pulling back.

  “Now come,” Dante said. “I can’t stay here any longer.”

  Zamian nodded silently and followed his father back to the center of the garden, where the others waited. To the group’s right, the two injured Zealots remained on the ground, their eyes shut as they channeled essence to heal their battered bodies.

  Bohlo rushed to the duo, helping Zamian to take a seat and then standing on guard by his friend’s side.

  “You two," Dante said, gesturing to the Zealots who had accompanied him, Bohlo, and Zamian through the forest––the other members of the welcome committee besides Hosta. “Take the spies with you. And the rest of you,” his gaze shifted to the remaining Zealots, “you take the Cleric Chosen. I trust you to keep her safe.” Dante concluded, his eyes glowing green as he sent essence below ground.

  At Dante’s direction, the Zealots moved quickly, crafting an impromptu bed from wood and leaves. They carefully lifted their injured companions onto it, one Zealot taking the front and the other the rear, their movements deliberate and practiced.

  Tamara, along with two other Zealots, carried the Cleric Chosen, still encased in her protective leaf cocoon. Lakea moved to her mother’s side without hesitation, whispering softly in the direction of her mother’s head, while caressing the cocoon, and the two Clerics followed her closely, still masked.

  Then, without warning, the ground beneath them began to rumble. The grass swayed violently as if caught in an invisible storm. One by one, the towering trees crashed to the earth, their thunderous falls echoing through the garden. Even the bushes and flowers seemed to recoil, sinking into the soil as though devoured by the earth itself.

  It was chaos—an earthquake consuming the entire garden—yet no one reacted. The cultivators moved as if oblivious to the destruction unfolding around them, their focus unbroken.

  After a few moments, only the white, green, and blue leaves of the ceiling remained untouched. Every other plant or piece of wood larger than grass had sunk below the ground, leaving the garden eerily barren. The entrance—or exit, depending on one’s perspective—was now clearly visible. The cultivators glanced at it briefly before shifting their focus back to Dante.

  “The five Enlightened will stay here,” Dante commanded, his glowing eyes sweeping across the group. “Choose different places, and I’ll reemerge the garden.”

  Zamian, too drained to argue, lay back exactly where he was, staring at the shifting ceiling above. Bohlo scratched his head, shrugged, and took a few steps away from his friend before flopping to the ground with a resigned sigh.

  Lakea opened her mouth as if to speak, but stopped herself when she caught Dante’s stern gaze. Without a word, she turned and walked to the opposite side of the garden from Zamian, lowering herself to the ground and sitting cross-legged. The two Clerics accompanying her exchanged glances, then bowed their heads and sat a short distance away.

  As Dante finished surveying the place, he turned and strode toward the door, each of his steps sending green ripples across the garden, which shook strongly, and trees began to reemerge, sprouting in what appeared to be a random pattern.

  The Zealots followed him, crossing the door behind him. One by one, they exit the Cleric Chosen’s garden.

  After the Chosen and the Zealots left, the five Enlightened felt the garden calming down, no more earthquakes or emerging trees messing with their senses. Every single one of them was surrounded by trees a strong stream of green essence in arm’s reach.

  Zamian smirked. He could see nothing beyond the bushes and trees; only a strong white light from above. The young man saw his father remodeling their garden twice, both times being a brutal thing to watch. And now, looking at the strong flow of essence, he could only laugh.

  Whatever his father had done, Zamian knew it was unsustainable. This amount of essence concentrated in one place was unheard of. As far as he understood, gardens like this relied on the steady supply from the Colossal Tree’s Roots, their lifeblood drawn from its immense reserves of essence.

  And yet, here was a garden practically bursting with essence, flowing like a river through its core.

  Zamian’s smirk widened. ‘He’s broken something, hasn’t he?’ he thought, shaking his head as the green light reflected in his eyes. ‘Whatever this is, it won’t last.’

  For some reason, the thought of causing permanent damage to Yokki’s garden made Zamian feel thrilled.

  “Bohlo, can you hear me?” he called out loudly in Bohlo’s direction. A wall of flowers and vines stood beyond the tree and bushes surrounding him.

  ‘Father blocked sound with plants? How? This is insane,’ having no response, Zamian could only guess, and this served to remind himself yet again he barely knew the true power of a Chosen.

  He kept pondering. 'It isn’t just about their might, but the diversity in their powers… What else could father do?' Focusing on the faint shimmer of the White Dot in his vision, he muttered, “Blighted thing, what else are you hiding?”

  Shaking his head to clear the thoughts, he took a deep breath, inhaling the green essence around him.

  'It’s time to settle some things, and then I should cultivate. I can’t let this opportunity slip away, no matter how tired I am! And firstly, let’s check White Dot’s reward!' Resolving himself, Zamian opened his hand to glance at the White Key.

  But there was nothing there.

  Startled, he clenched and opened his fist repeatedly, his gaze scanning the grass for the missing object. Only when he confirmed he could still feel the item’s smooth texture in his palm did he relax slightly, though confusion lingered.

  ‘Now that I think about it, this thing doesn’t feel like a key at all,’ frowning, he grabbed a handful of grass and pressed it against the invisible object, compressing the grass to outline the key.

  Zamian had seen keys before—his house had a wooden key for his mother’s lockbox, where she stored her clothes. But the White Key’s shape was unlike anything he’d encountered.

  Instead of a rough shaft with a notched edge leading to a larger bow, this key had only a smooth, cylindrical shaft ending in a perfectly rounded tip.

  “A tiny stick with a ball at the end? Really?” he muttered, pressing the object as if trying to activate it.

  Nothing happened.

  He tried channeling essence into it, but the item remained unresponsive. Holding the key, Zamian sighed in anger. The shape didn’t matter—what mattered was the lack of a lock to use it on!

  'How does the White Dot promise me a book, only to give me a key to a White Tower? Will this blighted thing write the book for me?'

  The naming didn’t escape him, either. He was sure the White Key and the White Dot were deeply connected, even if he’d been the one to name his companion.

  Fighting against his tired body, Zamian slowly stood, plucking petals of different colors from the wall of vines. He covered the invisible key with the petals and placed it carefully on his lap after settling into a cross-legged position. 'Now, even if you fall to the ground, I won’t lose you.'

  Taking a deep breath, he let Nature’s essence flow into him. He forced himself not to reflect on the trial, Yokki’s attack, his strange ability to read her feelings, the Stargazing Brothers, or even his father’s unsettling display of power.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Zamian pushed it all aside—for Lakea.

  It wasn’t love. It was the memory of her crying over her mother, her body shaking with sobs. He didn’t feel sympathy for her—he doubted she even liked him after the ordeal, much less thought of him as a friend like she once did. No, it was something else weighing on him.

  "I am weak," he growled through gritted teeth. “I am as weak as vermin.”

  What could he have done if it were his father, instead of Yokki, convulsing on the ground, bleeding?

  What could he do if a dozen Chosen arrived at the trial, forcing him, Bohlo, and his father to submit?

  What could he do if Clerics appeared at his home again, demanding his mother leave with them while his father was away at the Lord’s Tree?

  Nothing.

  Again, I wouldn’t be able to do anything.

  That’s why Zamian ignored what had already happened and focused on first understanding his reward. After that, his next goal was clear: cultivate on this place that his father had prepared!

  Just as he was about to begin chanting, his instincts screamed at him. His stomach churned, a wave of nausea rippling through his body. 'Wh-What is this?' he thought, alarmed by the overwhelming sensation. The whispers of his instincts weren’t whispers anymore—they were screams.

  He first willed the White Dot to show his stats.

  STATS POINTS

  Body: 15/54

  Mind: 13/50

  Soul: 18/100

  He had recovered a few points just from resting a little, proving neither his soul, body, or mind was injured. ‘Could it be something inside the dark space? But didn’t father say he checked my soul?’

  Deciding to verify the situation, with eyes closed, Zamian pushed his consciousness to the dark space, where the human silhouette made of motes of light existed. There, he saw flickering red motes stabilizing themselves—just like his sored body, they seemed more tired than damaged.

  Zamian scanned the scene, noting no green halo or any other peculiar sign. The Astral Seal, the force he knew had wounded Yokki, was nowhere to be found. His other motes of light, mostly green and white, shone brightly

  His gaze lingered on the flickering red motes. It was the only anomaly. He willed them to move, expecting nothing to happen, just like before.

  But they moved.

  As a torrent of light, they moved inside the humanoid form, shoving the other motes of light to the edges. Slowly, the red motes formed a vortex, their once-flickering light stabilizing into a steady glow. Amidst this vortex, Zamian could see ripples of red, forming images, some static, others in slow motion.

  Mesmerized by the scene, his vision zoomed in to the vortex. ‘I remember this,’ he thought, looking at a static image of a beautiful black-haired woman sitting on a wooden chair reading a book with one hand while she held a teacup in the other. ‘Mom.’

  The static image shifted. A red tide of light surged from it, rushing toward him. Startled, Zamian couldn’t react—he was inside his dark space, his soul, unable to even close his eyes. The red light consumed him, blinding and overwhelming. When it faded, he found himself standing at home—or at least a version of it, bathed in a red hue.

  “Wh-What is happening? Wh—” His voice broke the silence, trembling with confusion. But something was off. His voice sounded higher, younger.

  A soft chuckle came from his side. Turning instinctively, he froze. Warmth spread through his chest, and tears welled in his eyes, as he looked at the figure by his side.

  “Zammy, were you sleeping on the floor again?” the black-haired woman said, her voice soft and melodic, tinted with the same red hue as everything else. She wore a long silk dress that shimmered in the crimson glow, holding a book in one hand and a teacup in the other. “You should be playing with Bohlo, Lakea, Pat, and the others.”

  Jasmine, Zamian’s mother, placed the book and teacup on the wooden table beside her and walked toward him. Her soft footsteps barely made a sound on the red-hued floor.

  “Did something happen?” she asked, her voice full of concern as her worried eyes scanned his expression. “Did you have a nightmare?” Kneeling by Zamian’s side, she gently rested his head on her lap.

  Zamian remained silent, his small fist clenched tightly. He held back his emotions, but his gaze never left her face.

  “Sweetie, talk to me,” she hummed an odd tune, sounding like a marching band, slightly offbeat.

  Zamian recalled the tune. His mother used to say it was a soothing sound for her, even if he thought it was an odd sound. Some outsiders taught her as a kid, and she never forgot. While it had cheered him up in the past, it had never truly soothed him.

  Now, though, it stirred a bittersweet warmth in his chest.

  Jasmine caressed her son’s face, her thumb brushing away the tears that Zamian himself didn’t remember when he had shed. “Have you calmed down, darling?” she asked, her voice tender. Her loving, worried eyes never left his. “Please, talk to me.”

  Zamian’s mind raced. He wanted to believe he had somehow been sent back to the past. That this was a divine intervention, a chance to undo everything. A chance to warn his father not to leave that blighted day, to open the book his mother had given him and embrace the White Dot earlier, to save his family from their eventual downfall.

  The red hue, however, made him doubt that was the case. This wasn’t the past—it couldn’t be. Still, there was one thing he could do, no matter what this was.

  Sitting up, Zamian turned and hugged his mother tightly. Her flowery scent filled his senses, grounding him. He whispered, “Love you, Mom.”

  Startled by her son's sudden demonstration of love, Jasmine hugged him back, smiled softly, and said, “Love you too, Zammy.” She chuckled, her voice light and teasing. “You’re my favorite son.”

  Zamian chuckled softly, but the sound soon shifted. The chuckle turned into a laugh, and the laugh into a cry. His shoulders shook as he clung to his mother even tighter. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I want to protect him, mom. I can’t lose father too. But—” he hiccupped, his voice cracking—“I don’t know how to save him. I know he misses you, so much more than I do. I know.”

  His words came faster, tumbling out in a rush of pain. “But why? Why can’t he move on? Why?” His voice rose to a wail, raw and desperate. “He’ll end his mortal cycle, deranged, tainted. Why, Mom, why can’t I move on either?”

  Zamian buried his face in her chest, his screams muffled by the fabric of her dress.

  Jasmine kept caressing Zamian’s hair amidst his breakdown, humming the marching sound again. She neither interrupted the boy nor moved from her place.

  After a few moments, Zamian’s cries quieted, his breaths slowing as he regained control. He pulled away from his mother, his head low. Sitting cross-legged in front of her, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, his gaze fixed on the floor.

  “Zammy, look at me,” Jasmine said gently.

  The young boy turned to her, his red, puffy eyes meeting her gaze.

  She nodded, respecting his choice to sit apart, and smiled softly. “Would you mind drinking tea with me? I can read a book for you, sweetie. I know you won’t touch them otherwise.” She chuckled, her voice light, as a small round table emerged between them, crafted from leaves and wood, complete with delicate bowls.

  As Jasmine began preparing tea, Zamian found himself captivated by her movements. Venting to her had lifted a weight off his chest, and now, watching her hands work, the locked memories in his heart seemed to loosen.

  He smiled faintly. “Thank you, mom,” he said as she handed him a cup of tea. He took a small sip and paused, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Grape tea? Really?”

  “Hmm?” Jasmine tilted her head in mock confusion. “Is my young boy complaining about my tea? Maybe I’m old enough to be hallucinating.” She looked around theatrically, glancing from side to side, before locking eyes with him and taking a deliberate sip from her own cup.

  A moment passed, and they both burst into laughter.

  “Storytime, Zammy,” Jasmine announced playfully, vines snaking over to deliver two books onto the table. She placed them in front of him, her eyes sparkling. “Choose, choose,” she said, clapping her hands and beaming at him.

  Zamian’s eyes widened as he stared at the book covers. “No!” he screamed, his voice echoing through the red-hued space. The titles were unreadable—a scramble of letters jumbled across the covers.

  That was a flaw.

  As his parents had once taught him—and as he’d experienced firsthand—flaws could appear during cultivation, especially when imagining or visualizing something. Nature’s essence would correct the flaw, allowing the cultivator to restart the cycle.

  But this wasn’t a cultivation session.

  The moment the flaw appeared, everything froze. The scene around him cracked and fragmented, breaking apart into countless red motes of light.

  The bright light overwhelmed him, forcing him to close his eyes. When he opened them again, he was back in the dark space, staring at the humanoid form of motes of multicolored light.

  The vortex had stopped. The red motes no longer flickered, now still and stable. Zamian tried to move them again, to zoom his vision closer, but nothing happened.

  He tried again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Frustration clawed at him as the stillness mocked his efforts. Finally, he left the dark space and opened his eyes, his heart pounding. His gaze darted around, searching for his mother.

  But all he saw was the green garden, bathed in Nature’s essence.

  'Don’t be childish,' he thought, shaking his head. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly before standing.

  Zamian moved to a nearby tree, reclining against its trunk. He placed the invisible key on his lap again, his gaze drifting upward. The bright white leaves above shone down, their light warming his face. A gentle breeze rustled his hair. For the first time in what felt like forever, he smiled, a heavy burden lifting from his chest.

  As he prepared to cultivate again, he paused, his eyes snapping open in astonishment. Something felt… off. Inspecting his body, he noted that while his physical exhaustion remained, his mind felt clearer, sharper than before.

  He chuckled, the sound low and disbelieving. When he checked the amount of essence within him, a laugh burst from his lips, tinged with disbelief.

  Zamian willed the White Dot to show his relevant information.

  PERSONAL INFORMATION

  Name: Zamian Greenfield

  Level: 2 [60%]

  Tier: Mortal

  Main Pathway (!): Impure

  Title: None

  (!): Perpetuity Pathway and Creation Pathway detected. Please, choose your Main Pathway.

  STATS POINTS

  Body: 15/54

  Mind: 20/50

  Soul: 100/100

  Reading the information about his Level and status, Zamian couldn’t help but feel overjoyed. Whatever had happened inside his soul had accelerated his recovery. Not only that, but his cultivation had surged to 60% in mere moments. 'One more day, and I’ll surely become a Zealot,' he thought, a grin spreading across his face.

  But as his eyes skimmed through other texts, his excitement froze. His expression turned to one of shock.

  Mechanically, he willed his essence to move, his hand trembling slightly. The usual green glow emerged above his palm, vibrant and familiar. But around it, swirling faintly, was something else—a red mist.

  Frowning, Zamian steadied himself and began to chant, “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.” He focused his energy, commanding the green essence to flow into his hands, activating the Everbark Technique.

  The green essence responded as always, moving through his body and hardening his flesh, turning it into something resembling bark. His hands took on a wooden texture, tough and rigid. But the red mist didn’t follow.

  'Enlightened gain their first technique when they cultivate,' Zamian thought, his mind racing. 'We chant Nature’s Knowledge so the essence understands our desires. Zealots, though—they can command essence directly, visualizing their will without needing to speak.'

  He dismissed the technique before it could drain more of his energy, his hand returning to its normal state. The red mist lingered, swirling faintly but refusing to integrate with his actions.

  Zamian’s frown deepened as his thoughts turned to the text that had stunned him earlier.

  'What does an Impure Pathway mean?'