Raen Crow was awakened by the sound of running water.
He opened his eyes and found himself lying on a small boat woven from living willow branches. Twelve silver vines moved silently like oars. Reeds swayed gently along both banks, responding to his breath, their dew-laden tips glimmering like stars scattered across the heavens.
"Three days," came the voice of the old elf from the prow, hoarser than Raen remembered. "Your body is... evolving."
Raen tried to sit up, but a strange sensation ran through his arm—his forearm had completely turned to wood, with only a few patches of human skin remaining at the elbow. What chilled him most was the absence of fear. It felt natural, as though this transformation was meant to be.
"Where are we?" he asked, then froze—his voice now carried the rustle of leaves.
"The end of the Emerald Waterway, at the border of elven lands." The old elf turned, fresh wounds seeping pale green fluid beside an old arrow scar. "While you were unconscious, you purified this tainted source."
Raen looked down at his chest. His crystalline heart glowed amber in the morning light. Silver fluid pulsed through a network of vines, and with each beat, particles of light floated from the vine tips, dispersing like dandelions into the air.
The boat suddenly trembled. Pebbles on the shore aligned into steps, while moss spread visibly, forming a soft carpet. The moment Raen's bare feet touched the ground, a deep, pulsing thrum echoed from afar—as if a great beast stirred beneath the earth. It was the heartbeat of the Elven Mother Tree, resonating in perfect harmony with the crystal heart in his chest.
"The Mother Tree is calling you," the old elf said, pointing toward the towering silhouette that pierced the sky. Her gnarled fingers clenched suddenly. "But the Coalition of the Abyss and the Holy Alliance has already surrounded the sanctuary."
The vines on Raen's back snapped taut. Through these extended senses, he clearly perceived the slaughter five miles west—three hundred soldiers, armed with green crystals, were butchering elven sentinels. Even more terrifying, with each kill, the crystals embedded in their weapons grew murkier, greedily absorbing life energy.
"Why can I sense this?" Raen ran his fingers over his wooden cheek. The bark's texture was coarse beneath his touch.
The old elf gave no answer. She carefully pressed a dark green crystal to Raen's brow, and visions flooded him like a broken dam:
Tens of thousands of years ago, the Goddess of Life, Aiona, entrusted her heart—split into twelve seeds—to the elves. But the seeds were cursed and corrupted.The Abyss Council discovered these tainted seeds could nurture false gods and infiltrated the Holy Alliance to begin a genocide against the elves, creating vessels to host the false divinities.Three years ago, the last corrupted seed chose this half-blood body...
When the vision ended, Raen found himself kneeling, fingers buried deep in the earth. Within a hundred paces, all the plants bowed toward him, like subjects before their newborn king.
"Now you understand," said the old elf, her voice suddenly ten years younger, glowing light beneath her cracked skin. "You are the gardener chosen by the gods."
Boom!
Smoke erupted from the direction of the Mother Tree, tearing through the sky. The stench of burning flesh wafted in the wind. The vines on Raen's back expanded into a fan-like array, poised like drawn crossbows.
"There's no time for the traditional rites," the old elf said, gripping the thickest vine, her nails digging deep into its fibers. "You must choose now—resonate with the Mother Tree."
Raen opened his mouth to ask, but the earth beneath him turned transparent. He saw glowing root-veins winding deep within the soil, all converging toward the Mother Tree's main root. Among them, twelve particularly bright roots reached toward him, ravenous with longing.
"Lie down," the old elf said, pushing his shoulders with irresistible force. "Open your heart to the Mother Tree."
The moment his back touched the earth, twelve luminous roots burst forth, entwining the vines on his back. Raen's consciousness was instantly pulled into a vast network—where every blade of grass was a star, every tree a galaxy. The Mother Tree's mind enveloped him gently: "At last, I've found you, my child."
Raen tried to speak, but realized he had become a being of pure energy. Through the roots, the Mother Tree revealed the cruel truth: the Holy Alliance's upper ranks had long been corrupted by the Abyss Council. They planned to ripen false god fruits using the tainted energy. The Mother Tree, long safeguarded by the elves, was in fact the heart relic of the Goddess Aiona—the cradle of all life.
"Make your choice," the Mother Tree's thought caressed him like spring wind. "Become the new Guardian... or yield to the false gods."
Suddenly, the vines trembled violently. War had reached the Mother Tree's trunk. Cultists were hacking into its bark with obsidian axes. Agonizing pain coursed through their connection—real, shared pain.
"There's no time..." the Mother Tree's voice cracked. "To purge the curse, you must..."
The vines snapped.
Raen jolted upright to find the old elf shielding him with her body—an arrow of holy light had pierced her frail throat. Thirty paces away, three black-robed figures stood in a triangular formation, a floating black heart between them spewing thick fog.
"Go..." The old elf's blood splattered across Raen's wooden hand.
Raen's chest opened on its own, crystal heart exposed to the air. Twelve vines shot out, latching onto the dying roots of the Mother Tree. A torrent of life force surged backward through them, and the crystal heart began to beat wildly—
120 beats.150.200.
At the instant his heart surpassed its limit, time stopped.
Falling leaves froze midair. Blood droplets turned to rubies. Flames halted like golden sculptures.
Raen watched his bark skin flake away, revealing flowing starlight beneath. His crystal heart melted into a sphere of light, reshaping itself into a flawless organ of pure energy. The twelve vines wove themselves into a crown that gently settled upon his silver-lit hair.
"In the name of Aiona," ancient Elvish flowed unbidden from his lips, "let life return to its cycle."
Stillness shattered. The Mother Tree exploded in radiant green light. All corrupted weapons detonated simultaneously. The cultists' ritual collapsed, the black heart splitting with crack-like webs.
"No!" The lead robed figure's mask crumbled, revealing the twisted face of the Holy Alliance's High Priest. "This wasn't in the prophecy!"
Raen slowly raised his hand. The Mother Tree's branches surged forth, wrapping the three cultists into cocoon-like bundles. As the branches constricted, what emerged from beneath the robes was not flesh—but bone, fused from black crystal.
"So you've already been consumed," Raen said, his voice tinged with divine sorrow. "You've become puppets of the false gods."
Purifying light swept across the battlefield. Elves fell to their knees in prayer. Human soldiers looked on in terror as the crystals embedded in their weapons turned clear, one by one.
The old elf who had shielded Raen was now dissolving into points of light, leaving behind only a single emerald leaf drifting toward the Mother Tree.
Raen looked up. The massive trunk of the Mother Tree was splitting, revealing the crystalline core of life. Twelve roots gently coiled around his body, lifting him toward the canopy. But as he ascended, Raen suddenly clutched his chest—
His heartbeat was plummeting. 101... 100... 90...
As the numbers fell, memories of his past life receded—his mother's smile, the shadowless lights of the medical academy, the first patient who died under his scalpel...
A silver leaf fell onto his lips, and the Mother Tree's final thought echoed softly: "Remember, gardener—you are part of the forest."
When the crystal of life merged with his heart and lifted Raen from the battlefield, a figure in the bushes watched from the edge.
A gnome in a gray weasel mask toyed with a surgical knife inscribed Edward Medical Instruments. As his fingers passed over the blade, the letters twisted into foreign runes.
"Time to prepare the thirteenth vessel," the gnome murmured, pressing a hand to the fresh green sprout on his chest, his voice vanishing into the rising, blood-scented wind.