A shadowy figure moved swiftly, agilely running down the slope and entering their line of sight.
"Rhaegar!"
Rhaenyra was startled. She grabbed Helena with one hand while blocking Rhaegar with the other.
"Hiss… screech…"
The Devourer let out a sharp cry, its vertical pupils locking onto the small figure, its nostrils flaring as it exhaled hot air.
This was the source of the scent it had detected—this little bug.
Holding up a torch, Rhaegar peered through the dim night and finally saw the approaching figure's face.
It was a short, chubby old man dressed in coarse linen garments.
Though called an old man, he had thick, curly black hair and a full beard.
On his head was a wreath woven from fresh flowers and vines.
"Don't be afraid. It's just an old man."
Rhaegar stepped forward slightly, speaking softly to calm the frightened sisters.
The chubby old man held a twisted staff made from weirwood branches. His fat trembled as he jogged toward them.
With a swift motion, Rhaegar drew his dragon claw dagger and coldly questioned, "Who are you? Why are you on the Isle of Faces?"
Everyone knew that the Isle of Faces was an uninhabited island.
The old man raised his staff above his head with both hands and answered honestly, "I am Gal the Greenhand, a guardian sworn to the Old Gods."
As he spoke, his beady green eyes darted back and forth between the three of them, his round belly protruding forward.
"A Green Man!"
Rhaegar was momentarily stunned, lowering his sword slightly.
The term "Green Man" did not refer to a specific race but rather an ancient and mysterious order.
After the Children of the Forest and the First Men made their pact on the Isle of Faces, the sacred organization of the Green Men was officially formed, tasked with guarding this weirwood-covered island in the south.
But those were tales from long ago.
The Green Men had long since faded from the world, vanishing alongside the Children of the Forest.
Growing wary, Rhaegar scrutinized the man and questioned, "Do you have any proof?"
"A Green Man is a Green Man. There is no proof."
Gal the Greenhand shook his head, utterly unfazed.
He truly was a Green Man—just not a very capable one.
"You've been living on the island all this time?"
Rhaegar was skeptical and pressed further.
"There's no food or drink here. I'd starve to death."
Gal the Greenhand was candid, shrugging as he replied, "I usually work as a healer in villages near Harrenhal, exchanging my services for food."
After all, a Green Man was still a man.
And men needed to eat, drink, and survive within society.
Rhaegar frowned, half-believing his words.
He turned to meet Rhaenyra's equally doubtful gaze.
Pondering for a moment, Rhaenyra asked, "What is your family name? Are you related to Garth Greenhand?"
The title "Greenhand" was an honorific.
It originated from a legendary First Men king during the Age of Heroes.
According to legend, this king was large and stout, with antlers on his head, and possessed green hair and eyes.
He wielded mysterious magic, causing flowers and grass to sprout wherever he walked.
It was said that a mere touch from him could bring young women into their first bloom and restore older women's fertility.
Women blessed by him could safely give birth to twins or triplets.
The myths surrounding him were many and varied.
But one thing was certain—
Garth Greenhand was a king, and he had many children.
His eldest son, Garth Gardener, founded House Gardener and became the first King of the Reach.
House Gardener was eventually wiped out during Aegon's Conquest.
The current rulers of the South, House Tyrell of Highgarden, were chosen by Aegon the Conqueror due to their close marriage ties with House Gardener, making them one of the remaining bloodlines of Garth Greenhand.
Hearing Rhaenyra's question, Gal the Greenhand scratched his head uncertainly and said, "I don't have a family name. I come from the Reach. I heard the weirwoods calling me to become a Green Man, so I came to the Isle of Faces."
"As for my connection to Garth Greenhand…"
After some thought, he grinned sheepishly. "I probably have a little of his blood in me. The name is just a bit of self-flattery."
In truth, most noble families in the Reach carried some trace of Garth Greenhand's blood.
With each question and answer, his background became clearer.
Rhaegar frowned and asked, "Why did you try to stop me from touching the weirwood?"
"The Old Gods gave me a vision. They reject your touch."
Gal the Greenhand straightened his face, attempting to appear solemn as he explained, "The Isle of Faces is the last sacred land of the Old Gods in the South. Dragons will bring ruin here."
Rhaegar was utterly baffled. He confirmed, "If I touch the weirwood, the Isle of Faces will be destroyed?"
What kind of logic was that?
The Isle of Faces was nothing more than an uninhabited island with a few weirwoods—completely insignificant.
How could he possibly destroy it?
Unless…
A glint of understanding flashed in Rhaegar's eyes. He cast a subtle glance at the ancient weirwood, his mind racing.
With that thought, he stepped closer to the weirwood.
"Wait!"
Gal the Greenhand hurriedly called out, sweating profusely. "Prince, I truly have a terrible premonition! Please, stay away!"
The closer Rhaegar got to the weirwood, the more it seemed to let out a sorrowful wail in his mind.
It unsettled him, making his whole body feel feverish.
Rhaegar glanced at Gal, then firmly placed his palm against the ancient weirwood.
A chubby old man had appeared out of nowhere, claiming to be a Green Man, and with just a few words, he expected Rhaegar to turn away?
How ridiculous.
Look at the Devourer—it was staring intently at the weirwoods, as if anticipating something.
Rhaegar never put any faith in the tales of the Children of the Forest, the First Men, or the Green Men.
These so-called mystical beings, once revered as legends, were ultimately driven to extinction by the dragonlords of the Freehold Empire.
He was a descendant of ancient Valyria, a true dragon-blooded Targaryen who could tame dragons.
He had no fear of being cast out by the so-called Old Gods of the South.
As his palm made contact with the weirwood's rough bark, a notification echoed in his mind.
**"Exploration mission initiated. Target: The Oath-bearing Weirwood."**
**[Oathwood]**
**Exploration progress: 0.1%**
No cataclysm, no shattering of the heavens and earth.
There were no gazes from the gods, nor curses from demons.
Everything was calm. Rhaegar smirked slightly, running his fingers over the bark of the weirwood tree.
"Unexpectedly, I triggered an Explorer's Quest," he thought to himself, feeling a surge of joy.
Greenhand Gal stood frozen in place, staring at the scene in confusion.
"Nothing happened?"
Rhaenyra waved her torch and retorted, "What did you expect to happen?"
"No! Nothing at all," Gal quickly shook his head and said awkwardly, "The Old Gods have been silent for years—I thought an oracle might descend."
He did feel a sense of unease, but the weirwood itself seemed perfectly fine.
Listening to their conversation, Rhaegar's eyes flickered with an idea.
This relic would have an impact on the Isle of Faces.
"Rhaenyra, let's spend the night here."
Rhaegar pulled a spare blanket from his dimensional bracelet.
To maintain his exploration progress, he needed to sleep near the weirwood.
Rhaenyra didn't object but glanced at Greenhand Gal.
Understanding the hint, Gal quickly stepped back and said, "My boat is on the beach. I'll take my leave now."
Since the weirwood was unharmed, there was no reason for him to stay.
Taking one last reluctant glance at the sacred trees, he shouldered his staff and disappeared into the night.
"Grhh…"
The Devourer let out a low growl, its massive body crouching to the ground as it stood guard over Rhaegar and the others.
Rhaegar started a campfire for warmth, spending the night under the open sky with Rhaenyra and Helaena.
—
The next morning.
The weather was clear, and the sun hung high in the sky.
Golden rays filtered through the weirwood's crimson leaves, casting dappled light on Rhaegar's sleeping face.
"Grhh…"
A distant dragon's roar echoed through the air, mingling with the gentle rush of a nearby stream, pulling Rhaegar out of his slumber.
His eyes fluttered open, still groggy.
The first thing he saw was the weirwood's face—its bleeding, wailing visage.
The sudden sight made Rhaegar jolt upright in alarm.
With a flailing motion, he rolled away to create distance.
Regaining his senses, he propped himself up on the damp soil, his expression filled with exasperation.
A thousand words clogged his throat, but he didn't know how to voice them.
He cursed under his breath, "What kind of taste did the Children of the Forest have, carving a face like that?"
After a moment, his racing heart finally calmed.
Looking down, he saw that the blanket wrapped around his waist hadn't fallen off.
Scanning the area, he noticed the campfire had burned out, and Rhaenyra and Helaena were nowhere to be seen.
"The exploration is complete. Please collect the relic's treasure."
A system notification rang in his ears.
Rhaegar's spirits lifted, and he pulled up the system panel to check.
**[Oathwood]**
**Exploration Progress: 100%**
Glancing at the grotesque weirwood face, he suddenly found it much more tolerable.
He got to his feet and circled the tree.
Amid the dense crimson foliage, he spotted a watermelon-sized orb of red light.
"Found it."
Rhaegar chuckled and reached out to touch it.
*Pop!*
The orb had a soft, cushion-like texture. As soon as he made contact, it burst into shimmering red particles that merged into his hand.
**"Relic successfully collected. Analyzing…"**
**"Analysis complete. Classified as a Legendary Relic: Slash-and-Burn."**
"A legendary item—no surprise, considering it's an ancient tree steeped in history," Rhaegar thought excitedly, immediately checking its properties.
A hazy vision appeared in his mind—a sickle and a piece of charcoal.
With a thought, he tried to summon them.
**"Relic has not been activated!"**
The system's voice chimed again.
Rhaegar hesitated, then examined the relic's description.
**"The Blade or the Fire?"**
A simple, straightforward question.
Rhaegar had a guess—it was a choice.
Looking at the worn-down, jagged bronze sickle, he didn't hesitate to pick the burning charcoal instead.
The words of House Targaryen echoed in his mind: *"Fire and Blood."*
Naturally, he chose the fire.
*Crack!*
The bronze sickle shattered instantly, vanishing from his consciousness.
Meanwhile, the charcoal sizzled and ignited, glowing a brilliant red.
An idea struck Rhaegar—he attempted to summon the burning ember.
**Plop—**
A piece of charcoal appeared out of thin air, floating right in front of him.
Just as Rega reached out to grab it, an unexpected change occurred.
**Boom!**
The charcoal instantly exploded, scattering ash onto the soil, merging into the land of the island.
The next second—
**Rumble—**
The entire Thousand-Faced Isle began to tremble as if struck by an earthquake.
**"Caw, caw, caw..."**
The tremors disturbed the lake, sending flocks of black swans fleeing in panic.
Rega struggled to keep his balance as a notification sounded in his ears.
**"Congratulations! Slash-and-Burn has been activated. You have obtained..."**
[Flame of Breaking Ground]
- **Grade:** Legendary (Red)
- **Effect:** Unearths flames from deep underground, subtly reshaping the environment over time.
- **Evaluation:** "A one-time spark, fleeting and ephemeral."
*(End of Chapter)*