“…And you’re speaking like an outsider, Zamian Greenfield,” Yokki muttered, slipping her hands into the sleeves of her green robe.

  Zamian noticed her attire had changed along with her cultivation, but he wasn’t in the mood to comment on either.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” he said, his tone edged with anger. Turning sharply, he glared at Kurt, still coughing on his knees. “First, I want some answers from this coward about who killed my aunt.”

  Taking a half-step forward, Zamian was stopped by Yokki’s calm, sweet voice.

  “It was one of the Sultan’s sons, Ruen,” she stated matter-of-factly.

  Zamian paused mid-motion, turning his face slightly, though his body remained directed at Kurt. His eyes gleamed dangerously.

  Yokki took his silence as permission to continue. Sighing, she said, “He led the attack on the market and nearby areas. The outsiders deemed that part of the Sanctuary worthless, so it became the playground for the more… wicked of them.”

  “And he was alone?” Zamian asked through clenched teeth, grinding them audibly.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Yokki answered, shaking her head. “We’d need to investigate to know for certain.”

  Zamian’s glare lingered on Yokki for a moment before he shifted his gaze to Bohlo, still kneeling on the ground, with Soho holding him tightly, concern etched on the older man’s face.

  Then his eyes moved to Tulip, pale as death, her back pressed firmly against the wall, wide-eyed and trembling. ‘She’s afraid of me… again,’ he thought.

  Finally, his gaze settled on Kurt, still kneeling, avoiding Zamian’s eyes as he rubbed his bruised neck, coughing intermittently.

  The oppressive tension in the room was palpable. The group of Zealots, all nine of them, exchanged uneasy glances, ready to act at the slightest provocation.

  Zamian moved.

  Kurt flinched, covering his face and squeezing his eyes shut, expecting the worst. But when no blow came, he hesitantly peeked through his fingers. Zamian’s outstretched hand was in front of him.

  Blinking in surprise, Kurt met Zamian’s gaze, the young man's sad eyes unexpectedly soft. Hesitantly, Kurt took the offered hand, and Zamian helped him stand.

  “I’m sorry,” Zamian said quietly, patting Kurt’s shoulder.

  Turning to face the tense, watching crowd, Zamian raised his voice slightly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, looking at each of them. Then, he walked to Bohlo’s side, knelt beside him and Soho, and pulled them both into a tight embrace.

  His voice cracked as he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  For the first time since the invasion began, the main hall—the waiting room—fell completely silent. No one, not even Yokki or the Zealots, dared to move or speak.

  After a few moments, Zamian stood, tear tracks still visible on his face. He turned to Yokki, his voice even.

  “Is the Sanctuary planning to fight back, or are you just going to let all of this happen without consequences?”

  Behind her veil, Yokki smiled. “Why do you think we have a War Room?”

  Nodding, Zamian spoke in a lower tone. “Besides everything, these people are Verdant God’s believers.” He pointed toward Bohlo and Soho. “Could you please take… Aunt Misandra’s body and bury her, so they can plant a seed?”

  Before Yokki could respond, Soho answered instead. “Lord Chosen Dante already did it,” he kissed Bohlo’s head gently. “I was waiting for my son to arrive, so I could conclude the ritual.” The ex-shopkeeper smiled and looked up at Zamian, who met his gaze. “Would you like to come with us?”

  Zamian froze, the moment etching itself into his mind as a single doubt resonated within him. ‘What if I had been there? Could I have stopped it?’ He stared at Soho.

  “N—” Zamian began to answer but was interrupted by another voice.

  “Yes, Z will come. He is family,” Bohlo said, standing with a distant gaze and helping his father off the ground. The muscled, shirtless cultivator looked at Zamian with pleading, grief-stricken eyes that brimmed with sorrow and despair.

  Blinking, Zamian nodded.

  Yokki gestured to one of the Zealots to guide them. Before Zamian fully registered it, they passed through two vined doors inside the building and stopped at a garden filled with saplings. They stood before a patch of grassless earth covered in dirt.

  Soho took a seed from his pocket and handed it to Bohlo, who knelt and whispered his prayers.

  “Z, can you help me dig?” Bohlo asked in a broken voice, his eyes wet with tears.

  Nodding, Zamian knelt mechanically and dug a hole. Once Bohlo placed the seed inside, they covered it together. Soho sprinkled water from a wooden bowl and prayed aloud, finishing with, “My Misandra, may the Verdant God allow us to meet in the next cycle, proving our love is never-ending.”

  When Soho finished, both he and Bohlo looked expectantly at Zamian, waiting for his prayers.

  Instead of speaking, Zamian touched the ground, sending his essence into the buried seed. He muttered softly, “Thank you for taking care of me when my parents were busy. Thank you for giving birth to my best friend. And…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Rest in peace, knowing I’ll avenge you and take care of your husband and son.”

  A sapling slowly sprouted from the ground as Zamian continued channeling his essence into it. He gave it everything, down to the last drop, ignoring the toll it took on his cultivation.

  “Zamian, there are Zealots here who would have done that for you,” Soho said, patting Zamian’s back, though the gratitude in his eyes betrayed the weight behind his words.

  Zamian knew that if Bohlo could, he would have poured his essence into his mother’s sprout. But the bigger man had nothing left to give, and waiting for him to cultivate enough would have taken far too long.

  Smiling, Zamian stood, his gaze fixed on the sapling—the most beautiful and vibrant in the garden. “As Bohlo said, I’m family.”

  Pulling Soho and Bohlo into a gentle hug, Zamian said, “Now, you both should rest and talk. Bohlo hasn’t had a proper sleep, and by the looks of it, neither have you, Uncle Soho.”

  “What about you, Z?” Bohlo muttered, not denying the truth.

  “I’ll rest,” Zamian said, his eyes gleaming. “But not now.”

  Inside a room with a single vined door, Zamian sat on cushioned foliage, subtly moving his muscles to gather green essence while half-concentrating on his birth visualization, without success in getting the same feeling as when he closed his eyes or acted like a Farmer.

  Three others were present, sipping tea.

  “Cleric Chosen, I know he’s Dante’s son, but why should he be here?” asked a man who appeared to be in his forties. He wore wooden armor, had a clean-shaven face, long black hair, and the striking absence of his right arm.

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  Zamian glanced at the green text above the speaker’s head.

  [LEVEL 4 - MORTAL TIER - CREATION PATHWAY]

  “Chosen Fern, as I’ve said before, I’m not the Cleric Chosen anymore. You can call me by my name,” Yokki replied, graciously covering her face with her dress sleeves as she sipped her tea. “And he is here representing Dante. The man himself said so. Don’t you remember?”

  Scowling, Fern glared at Zamian but shook his head and stayed silent.

  “I don’t believe the young one will leak our secrets or plans,” the third figure, an older woman, said slowly. “But it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been betrayed, hm.” Her eyes glowed green as she gazed at Zamian.

  Noticing her stare, Zamian glanced at the text above her head.

  [LEVEL 4 - MORTAL TIER - CREATION PATHWAY]

  “Lady Cella, we can, of course, remove Zamian from this meeting,” Yokki said sweetly, her voice unshaken. “But who would like to explain that to his father?”

  Chuckling, Cella waved her hand dismissively. “No one respects us elders anymore.”

  As the tension eased and the two Chosen waited for the meeting to begin, Yokki opened her mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by Zamian.

  “Where is the Stargazing Brother who fled and later came here?” Zamian asked, his eyes scanning the room for potential hiding spots.

  Fern’s eyes glowed green as he slapped the ground with his remaining hand. “And why does that matter to you, Zealot?”

  Meeting Fern’s glare, Zamian responded evenly. “I need to know what happened to him and why he didn’t arrive to collect me as my father arranged.”

  Fern scowled, shifting his gaze to Yokki, who raised her hand to calm him.

  “There’s no reason to keep that hidden,” Yokki said, shaking her head before lowering her hand. “That elder is seriously injured and still receiving treatment from Lady Cella here. You might not know, Zamian, but she was the Cleric Chosen before I took her place after her… disappearance.”

  “And just in time,” Cella cackled. “Or I’d be one of those outsiders’ slaves by now.”

  “When he wakes, we can tell you more,” Yokki offered. “Is that acceptable?”

  “It is,” Zamian nodded, his instincts affirming her words—except for the part about Cella’s disappearance.

  “Well, now that’s resolved—” Yokki began, only to be interrupted again.

  “I want a place to cultivate,” Zamian stated firmly. “The quietest spot with the most essence you can find. I also need it close to Bohlo and Uncle Soho, while Tulip and Kurt can be placed farther away. They should only access my space with my permission.”

  The room fell silent.

  Calla cackled again, while Fern’s eyes seemed on the verge of popping out.

  Before anyone could shout at him, Zamian continued. “Kurt is an outsider, and he has valuable information about the Sultan’s motives and one of the Sultan’s concubines, Clarice.” He then fixed his gaze on Yokki, his expression hard as if staring into her eyeless face.

  Yokki remained silent, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her wooden cup.

  “The reason you’re helping is because you want to know about your daughter,” Zamian stated, standing up. “Clarice is the one who abducted her.”

  Cella and Fern turned their attention to Yokki, but she stayed silent, her fingers now still.

  “I don’t like you,” Zamian said evenly. “And I never will. No matter how much good you’re trying to do or how many times you pretend to take my side.” Walking toward the vined door, he glanced back at Yokki. “Instead of staying here and playing mind games with all of you, I’ll cultivate, get stronger, and listen to your plans. If they’re good enough, I’ll follow. If not…” he shrugged.

  Fern’s eyes grew colder, and Cella sipped her tea without a word. Yokki, lost in thought, caressed her hair absentmindedly.

  After a moment, she turned to Cella and gave a slight nod.

  Cella’s eyes glowed green, and the vined door opened. Two Zealots stepped inside.

  “Munike, bring Zamian’s friends, Tulip and Kurt, here. They’re the man and woman who came with him. Ask the other Zealots for their descriptions, but know that Kurt is an outsider and Tulip was once a Cleric,” Yokki instructed.

  One of the Zealots moved to leave, while Yokki gestured to the remaining one. “Wallace, take Zamian to the underground building and let him choose a cultivation room. After his friends Bohlo and Soho wake up, take them there as well.”

  The Zealot nodded but smirked at Yokki. “Doesn’t seem like you’re blind,” he remarked.

  Yokki smiled beneath her veil but chose not to respond.

  Zamian followed the Zealot out of the room, the vined door closing behind them.

  Fern broke the silence first, sipping his tea with a now-cold tone. “He’s dangerous.”

  Cella nodded, turning to Yokki. “Now I understand how you’ve become like this. His soul… there’s something inside. It’s terrifying.” She shuddered.

  Yokki sighed, her fingers tapping lightly on the tea cutlery beside her. “I should’ve asked him about Lakea. That might’ve been what tipped him off.”

  Fern rose, walking to the spot where Zamian had been seated. He plucked a single leaf from the cushions, which gleamed faintly in his hand.

  “He didn’t notice when it entered his armor,” Fern murmured, studying the leaf, “but his body wasn’t even scratched.” Crushing the leaf in his palm, he absorbed it into his body.

  “We know he’s intelligent and that his body is far stronger than expected,” Cella mused, humming softly. “But we can’t be sure about his instincts or his true limits.”

  Fern turned to Yokki. “Do you want me to test him? Or should we just spy on him for now?”

  Yokki shook her head. “No. He’s becoming more and more mysterious. We should avoid antagonizing him further. Besides, he isn’t our true enemy. Like it or not, we’re on the same side.”

  “He’s here,” Cella said suddenly, her eyes glowing as the vined door opened.

  Fern reverted to his angry demeanor as the door parted, while Cella cackled softly. Yokki, smiling faintly under her veil, asked, “What happened?”

  Stepping into the room and slowly observing each Chosen, Zamian offered a slight smile. “Nothing. I just realized I forgot to ask about the Sanctuary’s current situation. Have the Children of Verdant appeared?”

  Clicking his tongue, Fern muttered just loud enough for Zamian to hear, “Such a cheeky brat.”

  Zamian’s smile remained, his eyes narrowing slightly as he turned his gaze to Yokki, silently waiting for an answer.

  Sighing, the veiled woman began to speak, detailing the current situation outside the Camp of Salvation.

  “Thank you,” Zamian said, dismissing the Zealot who had escorted him to the room. As the door closed behind him, he let out a long sigh.

  ‘It seems a common door,’ he thought and then made sure it was locked.

  Inspecting the underground space, Zamian immediately noticed the abundance of green essence. It was almost as dense as the energy in Yokki’s garden after his father’s modifications—which made it better than anything Zamian had ever experienced. Unlike before, this energy was sustainable, not a fleeting miracle made by his father’s might.

  He walked to the center of the garden. A few white leaves clung to the wooden ceiling above, their faint light casting a tranquil glow over the surrounding plants and a gentle stream of water. Without hesitation, Zamian let himself fall onto the grass, lying flat as he gazed at the ceiling.

  Reaching into one of the bags he had “kindly” requested from Kurt before the War Room meeting, he pulled out a carved piece of bark. Along with fruits and scraps of fabric, this map of the underground tunnels had been their lifeline. Now, he had updated it, ensuring it was precise enough should he need it again.

  Tracing the lines with his fingers, Zamian suddenly clenched his fist. The bark crumbled in his grip, splintering into fragments until nothing remained.

  “Now it’s time to leave the vipers and check on the insects,” he muttered to himself. Stretching his body, he reflexively began gathering essence, the process calming his mind.

  Judging he had gathered enough, Zamian willed the wooden armor on his body to dissolve, leaving him naked. Chuckling, he observed his own form, momentarily distracted by how his lean muscles moved beneath his skin.

  “It’s almost like there are dozens of roots under my flesh, always shifting,” he murmured, marveling at the subtle changes in his physique.

  Shaking his head to refocus, his gaze shifted to the white dot hovering at the edge of his vision.

  “Maybe you’re done giving me quests, but there’s still plenty I need to do on my own,” he said.

  Closing his eyes, Zamian willed himself into the dark space within his mind.

  To his surprise, the humanoid form made of countless specks of light appeared unchanged, but for the fact that the balance of colors was significantly altered. The white and green lights now vastly outnumbered the red, with other colors almost imperceptible.

  Above the figure’s head, two crystals floated, their intricate patterns drawing Zamian’s attention.

  ‘Not as drastic a change as I expected,’ he thought. Willing his vision to move closer, he studied the crystals, noticing subtle differences in their designs.

  ‘These markings… they’re different. The one with fourteen characters isn’t like the one with sixteen,’ he mused.

  As he stared, his vision abruptly filled with white light.

  ‘Of course,’ Zamian thought, unsurprised as the familiar scene of the White Tower materialized before him, accompanied by the sprawling buildings below and the endless sky above.

  As before, he found himself standing at the base of the tower, watching as disciples in white robes entered through countless doors.

  He turned to observe the scene everyone else was focused on. Within moments, a green leaf appeared in the air, and from it, Lin Zhi materialized, his form as monstrous and unsettling as ever.

  A phantom pain flared in Zamian’s left shoulder as he recalled their previous encounter.

  “Greetings,” Lin Zhi said, his buzzing voice echoing unnaturally as his four green eyes blinked in sequence. The insect-like entities composing his face moved faster with every word.

  “Sit,” Lin Zhi commanded, his root-like legs extending to elevate him above the seated disciples.

  Zamian obeyed, sitting with the others as Lin Zhi loomed above them.

  “Rejoice,” the creature buzzed, its voice reverberating in the space. “Today, you learn.”

  The air around Lin Zhi thickened with green essence as he spoke.

  “Lin Zhi shall teach you.”

  Gasps, murmurs, and cries filled the room—some disciples surprised, others dismayed, fearful, or mournful.

  But Zamian smiled, unlike the others, and thought to himself, ‘Yes, today I will learn from you. But someday…’

  “To learn, we must first struggle,” Lin Zhi began, the green essence around him pulsating.

  Zamian’s eyes gleamed, his expression cold. ‘I’ll be the one making you struggle, blighted thing.’