With a downcast expression and wearing wooden pants thinner and more delicate than other Zealots’ armor, Zamian strode alongside Marlos and Bohlo, who wore cheerful expressions, toward a wooden dome-like structure. Tulip and Kurt trailed a few steps behind, their heads bowed.

  Back at the hideout, Kurt had managed to bring the bags while fleeing to the tunnels. Zamian, however, hadn’t had the time—or the mood—to make proper pants, so he resorted to using Nature’s Embrace to create a pair. He had been momentarily surprised by how thin and delicate they turned out, unlike the bulkier wooden armor typical for Zealots.

  Lost in thought, Zamian suddenly felt a heavy slap on his back, sending him stumbling forward.

  “Come on, little man!” Marlos said cheerfully. “No need to meet the others looking like you’ve lost your whole family, right? Ohohoho!”

  Zamian shot him a deadly glare but held his tongue. This time, he chose not to suppress his emotions, letting the anger and sorrow churn freely within him.

  Before he could spiral too deeply into his thoughts, a firm but gentle hand rested on his shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, Z. Your father will be back,” Bohlo said, smiling with a warmth that reached his eyes. “The Sanctuary needs its hero, like the Warrior Chosen said.”

  Zamian gave a wry smile, nodding while thinking, ‘Yes, but I need my father.’

  His expression remained sorrowful as he recalled the Warrior Chosen introducing himself and explaining the dire situation. His instincts had confirmed there was no deception, yet it didn’t ease the weight in his chest.

  Back at the Stargazing Tree, his father had arrived carrying Yokki, though her followers had mysteriously disappeared. After the Stargazing Brothers began the meeting, discussing what Marlos had called "boring topics," an explosion erupted. The current Lord Chosen had launched an attack with his allies and the outsiders’ Warlords.

  Even Marlos had been preoccupied with planning an escape. Meanwhile, Dante and one of the Stargazing Brothers unleashed a staggering amount of Nature’s essence, toppling the Stargazing Tree itself and allowing four Chosen to escape: Dante, Marlos, Yokki—still carried by Dante—and one of the Stargazing Brothers.

  Following this, Dante had rushed to town, rescuing as many commoners as he could with Marlos assisting him. Eventually, Marlos had brought those they could trust to this hidden outpost—perched in the uppermost part of the Sanctuary, difficult to locate.

  While the commoners and cultivators regrouped here, Dante had ventured into the desert, causing widespread destruction to scatter the Oasis’s forces.

  Dante had briefly come to retrieve Zamian but had to leave again. Now, biting his lip, Zamian looked at the tall Warrior Chosen beside him. “How did he know when and where to find me?”

  Caressing his bald head, Marlos answered, “He didn’t.” Pausing to gather his thoughts, he continued, “Yesterday, the remaining Stargazing Brother came here, barely alive, speaking in his cryptic way about how he failed to save you. So, I sent a group of Zealots to find your father. How was I supposed to know that lunatic would rush back so quickly?”

  “And why would he save me?” Zamian asked mechanically.

  “A deal with your father,” Marlos responded, laughing. “Ohoho, and don’t ask me what kind of deal. Whatever passes through the minds of an old creep and a lunatic isn’t my concern.”

  After a few moments, they arrived at a giant wooden dome, windowless and either soundproof or devoid of people, because even at five arm-lengths from it, they couldn’t hear a single sound from inside.

  “Uh… Where’s the door?” Bohlo asked, the only one excited to enter.

  Laughing, Marlos stepped ahead and lightly punched the wooden structure. A green wave of essence flowed from his fist along the walls. After a breath, the wood caved in on itself, opening a hole the size of Marlos, revealing a space filled with wooden houses. People were walking everywhere, eating, and tending to the injured.

  “Here, little ones,” Marlos beamed, pointing inside. “Welcome to the Camp of Salvation.”

  Bohlo rushed ahead, trembling with excitement. Zamian followed behind him, while Tulip and Kurt hushed close to his back, barely daring to breathe too loudly.

  Glancing at Kurt, Zamian noticed the man had put his shirt back on, hiding his features.

  “Just head to the center. You’ll see some familiar faces!” Marlos shouted after them as the hole closed behind them. None of them were surprised; the Warrior Chosen had made it clear he was responsible for patrolling the perimeter—without rest.

  Walking shirtless beside Bohlo, Zamian took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down as his eyes briefly flickered green and white. Shaking his head in disbelief, he conjured a wooden armor that left his hands, face, and feet exposed.

  “Get it together, Zamian,” he muttered under his breath. “You didn’t even realize you were walking around shirtless like some monkey!” He hissed the last part aloud.

  “Hey,” Bohlo called out, feigning hurt. “Not everyone hates the feel of it, okay?” He pointed at his own bare chest.

  Zamian waved his hand dismissively and chuckled, keeping his pace. “Alright, big guy,” he said, then turned to look behind him. “What about you two? Are you scared?” He smirked.

  Kurt nodded silently, while Tulip was lost in thought, her gaze fixed on the wounded lying in the street, waiting for care.

  Noticing her expression, Zamian chose not to make any jokes.

  While the dome was full of wooden houses and bustling people, Zamian and his group moved undeterred, mostly due to the pale cultivator’s wooden armor, a clear sign of his status as a Zealot.

  Soon, they arrived at what Zamian assumed was the center of the camp. “You must be joking,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  As they continued, two Enlightened guards stood watch by a familiar vined door, stopping them in their tracks.

  “Identify yourself before entering, Zealot!” one of the guards demanded, his gaze sharp and unwavering.

  “Zamian Greenfield,” Zamian replied, massaging his temples. ‘Please let me be wrong about who’s inside,’ he thought grimly.

  To his surprise, both guards immediately knelt on both knees, shouting in unison, “This Enlightened greets the soil stepped on by Zealot Zamian and his followers, wishing for the sacred light of Verdant to shine through your families' leaves forever."

  Stunned for a moment, Zamian smiled bitterly. ‘I would have been happy to receive their greetings a few days ago, but now…’ Shaking off the thought, he waved his hand and said, “This Zealot hears the sound leaving your mouths. Rise to the light of Verdant, both of you.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The guards stood and one of them knocked on the door behind them in a distinct rhythm. A moment later, the vines coiled and opened. The same guard rushed ahead.

  Zamian entered, followed closely by Bohlo, Kurt, and Tulip.

  As he stepped inside, he felt the weight of dozens of eyes on him.

  The room, much like the rest of the dome, was illuminated by white leaves, casting a clear, almost serene light over the space. Zamian found himself in a circular house with numerous vined doors lining the walls. At the center, like a waiting room, were several wooden tables and chairs.

  “Bohlo!” an old man shouted, rising quickly from his seat and rushing toward them—or rather, toward Bohlo.

  “Dad!” Bohlo cried, his voice breaking with relief and joy as he embraced his father, the shopkeeper Soho. Tears streamed freely down his face.

  Also relieved to see his Uncle Soho, Zamian chose not to interrupt the heartfelt reunion. Around the room, a few others sighed in relief, with some clapping quietly. Most, however, looked downcast, adjusting their seats uneasily.

  ‘Now, what should we do?’ Zamian wondered. Turning to Kurt to ask for one of the bags, he noticed the bearded outsider staring at the ground, while Tulip scanned the room, her fists clenched and eyes trembling.

  Wryly smiling, Zamian stepped behind them and gently pushed them aside before moving to face them directly. Placing a hand on each of their shoulders, he whispered, “Look at me.”

  They flinched but slowly raised their eyes to meet his.

  “You’re both older than me,” he began softly. “Yes, you’re weaker now, but you’ve lived longer. You’ve seen more of life than I have, had more experiences. Right?”

  Kurt and Tulip exchanged a confused glance but nodded hesitantly.

  “Then let me tell you this: I may not understand your guilt, pain, or shame—whatever it is you’re feeling when you look at the people you’ve hurt—but if you don’t find a way to deal with it and forgive yourselves, you’ll live blighted lives forever,” he said, his voice steady but firm. Patting their shoulders, he turned and walked away.

  What Zamian didn’t share in his short speech was the deeper reason behind it. Watching them reminded him of someone with even greater guilt and an even more lost gaze: his father.

  ‘Well, I hope it helped,’ Zamian thought, glancing at Bohlo and Soho speaking animatedly. ‘Where is Aunt Misandra…’ He noticed that while Bohlo spoke excitedly, tears of joy streaming down his face, his father nodded along, though a glint of sadness lingered in his eyes.

  As his instincts warned of approaching presences, Zamian turned to see two Zealots accompanied by the Enlightened guard from earlier hastily making their way toward him.

  When they reached him, they paused, and Zamian immediately shook his head.

  “We’re at war; there’s no need to waste time with these greetings,” Zamian said as they began to kneel. ‘The less I hear or speak about that blighted Verdant God, the better,’ he thought.

  Stunned, the Zealots exchanged glances before nodding. “As you wish, Zealot Zamian,” one of them said. “We’ve been tasked to escort you to the War Room.”

  Nodding, Zamian gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “They’re coming too. They both have valuable information to share.”

  Even if Kurt and Tulip had thoughts of refusing, Zamian was confident he could convince them.

  “Zealot, this…” one of the Zealots began, wearing a troubled expression.

  ‘Whoever commands this place is but a sapling compared to my father’s prestige,’ Zamian thought, fully aware of the duo’s hesitation.

  What War Room? What Camp of Salvation? If the Warrior Chosen hadn’t misunderstood or exaggerated, most people here wouldn’t even be alive without Dante.

  “You can check with your superiors,” Zamian said, and one of the Zealots quickly excused himself, disappearing behind a nearby vined door.

  The Enlightened guard bowed before stepping outside to resume his post at the main entrance.

  Shaking his head, Zamian noticed Soho looking in his direction. Smiling, he waved, and Soho began walking toward him.

  Concerned about the older man’s age, Zamian rushed forward to meet him, wrapping him in a tight hug.

  “Uncle Soho, it’s good to see you!” Zamian said warmly.

  Soho gazed at him with wet eyes, Bohlo standing behind, beaming. “You seem more mature,” Soho said, patting Zamian’s shoulders. “A Zealot, so young.” His voice quivered as though holding back tears. “War… It’s never good. It makes the young suffer and grow up too fast, stealing the best years of their lives.”

  As the old man tapped on Zamian’s wooden armor, the young cultivator had to control himself, fighting the ache in his chest. Seeing his uncle, another fatherly figure in his life, so concerned only deepened his sorrow.

  Looking between Soho and Bohlo, Zamian hesitated for a moment before asking softly, “Where… Where is Aunt Misandra?”

  Bohlo, who had been dumbly smiling behind Soho, suddenly looked as if he had been struck by a falling tree. Stumbling, his eyes shook as he first glanced at his father and then frantically scanned the surroundings. “Mom!” he shouted.

  Soho’s gaze faltered, his expression heavy with sorrow. He didn’t respond immediately, clearly struggling to gather his thoughts. When he finally spoke, his voice was choked. “Walls of earth emerged on our street. Destroyed so many houses. So many people were caught.”

  Zamian moved his mouth to speak, but Bohlo interrupted him, rushing to his father’s side. Grabbing Soho by the shoulders, Bohlo shook him, his voice breaking with desperation. “Where is Mom, Dad?”

  Soho’s trembling hands reached up to hold Bohlo’s face. His lips moved silently for a moment before he finally managed to whisper, “She loved you, Bohlo. More than anything.”

  “Where is she?” Bohlo cried again, his voice cracking as tears streamed down his face.

  Soho’s hands trembled harder. His voice, low and dispirited, finally broke the silence. “Her mortal cycle… ended days ago.”

  Bohlo let go of his father, staggering two steps before dropping to his knees. His voice, now hollow, murmured, “Mom… Mom…” as dazed tears fell silently to the ground beneath him.

  Listening to Soho, Zamian felt his heart drop, the world spinning around him.

  Then, as his gaze shifted to Bohlo, he was struck by a painful reminder of himself—how he had once clung to denial over his mother’s situation, unable to accept that he would never see her again.

  Fury quickly overtook his grief.

  Zamian turned sharply, his wet eyes locking onto Kurt, who had once again lowered his gaze to the floor.

  Seeing Zamian approach, Kurt stammered, “Great Sir, wait—” but his plea was cut off as Zamian’s hand shot forward, grabbing him by the neck and forcing him to his knees.

  The surrounding people, accustomed to cries and outbursts in the Camp of Salvation, froze at the sight. Fear rippled through them, and they cautiously backed away, wary of the wrath of an uncontrolled Zealot.

  Squeezing Kurt’s neck, Zamian’s grip was like a vice, and his trembling wooden arm betrayed the weight of his emotions. Tears fell, one from each eye, splattering against his wooden armor.

  His voice was hoarse, raw, and filled with rage as he shouted, “Listen to me! If you don’t tell me, right now, who the vermin responsible for this is, I will tear you apart, slowly, a finger at a time.”

  “I-I can’t b-bre—” Kurt gasped, his hands clawing at Zamian’s arm. He tried to gather essence into his neck and hands, but each attempt failed as his instincts screamed at him not to resist.

  As Zamian seriously considered killing Kurt to appease his anger, five Zealots rushed toward him, one of them barking an order. “Zealot! We can’t allow fights here. Release the man at once!”

  Each of the five Zealots held a wooden spear, encircling Zamian with their weapons drawn and pointed.

  Meanwhile, Tulip stood far off, watching fearfully. Soho knelt beside Bohlo, but it looked like he was ready to rise and intervene.

  Zamian smirked, tears streaming down his face. Shouting, he declared, “There won’t be a fight here.” He turned sharply, and the Zealots flinched, stepping back as their instincts screamed in alarm. “But if you try to stop me, there will be a massacre.”

  The Zealots exchanged uneasy glances. No matter what their instincts told them, they couldn’t back down while inside the heart of the Camp. It was unthinkable—a single Zealot, young and unknown, threatening five of them? How could they fail to subdue him if necessary?

  As the tense standoff continued, and Kurt’s face turned purple, another group approached. Four Zealots surrounded a veiled woman with orange hair.

  Zamian glanced at the newcomers, his gaze narrowing as he read the texts above their heads, confirming the four were indeed Zealots. But it was the text above the woman at the center, whose hands were uncovered, that made his scowl deepen, as he already recognized her orange hair.

  [LEVEL 1 - MORTAL TIER - CREATION PATHWAY]

  With a commanding yet gentle voice, the veiled woman spoke. “Lower your weapons.” She waved a hand, her motion calm but authoritative, and gestured toward Zamian. “That is your savior’s child, Zamian Greenfield.”

  The Zealots hesitated but began to lower their weapons. The woman stepped forward, instructing the four accompanying her to stay back.

  Zamian, meanwhile, released Kurt’s neck. The outsider collapsed to the ground, coughing and clutching at his neck and chest.

  Turning toward the woman, Zamian’s gaze burned with anger as she stopped just an arm’s length away.

  “Come here to have another look at my soul, you blighted woman?” Zamian spat, his voice venomous as he moved essence through his body.

  The woman shook her head, her hand slowly lifting her veil.

  Even in his anger, Zamian flinched.

  Though still beautiful, her skin was cracked, her lips bruised, and—most shockingly—where her eyes should have been, there were only two hollow sockets covered by green sap.

  Letting her veil fall again, she answered calmly, “Neither at your soul nor anything else.”

  Pausing, Zamian’s voice burned with hatred. “I fail to see why my father saved you, blighted thing.” He exhaled sharply. “You should be dead, not my aunt Misandra.”

  Sighing, the former Cleric Chosen, Yokki Duskpeach, replied, “It wasn’t time for my mortal cycle to end… yet.”