A knock at the cottage door was an event. I paused my evening mana circulation, the gentle hum of the gathering crystal fading to the background. Cautiously, I opened the door.
An old woman stood there. Not frail-old, but weathered-old, like a gnarled and deeply rooted tree. Her eyes were the colour of dried sage, and they held a piercing intelligence. She wore practical, earth-toned robes and carried a basket filled with pungent, unfamiliar herbs.
"You are the one asking after the Greenwardens?" Her voice was dry, like leaves rustling.
"I am," I said, keeping my expression neutral. "Can I help you?"
"Perhaps. I am Mara. Not the guild clerk. The other one. I tend the gardens at the old temple on the hill." She looked past me, into the dim cottage, her nostrils flaring slightly. "I smell Silverthread. Enhanced. And something else… a sharp, fiery life. New."
My guard went up. Her senses were preternatural. This was no simple herbalist.
"I've been experimenting," I admitted, stepping aside in invitation. She entered, her gaze sweeping the room, lingering on the open pages of Kaelan's journal (I'd copied the alchemical notes onto separate sheets, hiding the Sylvan Circuit theory). Her eyes landed on the small, potted Dragon's Kiss plant on the windowsill.
She walked over and gently touched a leaf, her eyes closing. "A guided evolution. Not a hybrid. You pushed the Fire-Berry's heart along a path it was already leaning towards. That is… subtle work. The touch of a true green-whisperer, not a brute-force earth-mage."
She turned to me. "The Greenwardens were wiped out three centuries ago. Their groves burned, their lore scattered. You are too young to be a lost apprentice. So you are either a very lucky intuitive or a charlatan. Which is it?"
"I found… fragments," I said, weaving truth into the lie. "An old journal in a forgotten place. It spoke of principles, not spells. Of listening to the green song. I've been trying to relearn the melody."
Mara studied me for a long moment, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. "The song is hard to hear in this age of shouting steel and flashing magic. I have a fragment of my own." She pulled a wrapped bundle from her basket. Unfolded, it revealed a piece of what looked like thick, preserved bark. On its surface were intricate, swirling patterns that looked less like ink and more like grown pigments, forming a script I couldn't read.
"This is a leaf from a Lore Tree," she said reverently. "A living book cultivated by the Greenwardens. This fragment survived the purge. It contains knowledge, but the cipher is organic. The script changes, reacts to light, moisture, and the mana of the reader. I have tried for years to read it. It shows me pictures of roots and leaves, but the meaning is locked."
She placed the bark fragment on my table. "You say you can hear the song. Help me read this. In return, I will share what we learn. And," she added, her sage eyes sharp, "I have a stock of Crystalized Sap. I hear from the alchemist you've been buying basic salves by the barrel. One jar of true Sap is worth a hundred of those. It will mend channel strain almost instantly."
My heart leapt. Crystalized Sap was exactly what I needed to reduce my recovery time between Rootbound sessions, effectively doubling my training speed. But the bark fragment was the greater prize. Real Greenwarden knowledge could accelerate my Plant Mastery exponentially.
"I can try," I said.
I sat before the fragment, placing my hands on either side of it. I closed my eyes and activated Mana Eyes (E) and Plant Creation (F) in unison.
The world shifted. The bark fragment wasn't an object; it was a fossilized moment of life. Its mana was deep, complex, and dormant—a sleeping forest in miniature. The script on its surface glowed with a faint, multi-hued light, each glyph a tiny knot of different plant essences.
I didn't try to read it with my mind. I tried to feel it with the nascent Sylvan network in my palms. I let a trickle of my own green, growing mana seep into the bark, not to dominate, but to resonate.
At first, nothing. Then, a vibration. The glyphs began to shift, their colours swirling. Images flashed in my perception, not in my eyes, but in my mana sense:
· A root piercing deep, dark soil, seeking a hidden spring.
· A vine coiling around a stone, not to crush, but to hold.
· A flower opening only under the light of the twin moons.
It was a language of relationships and processes, not words.
"It's… not telling what," I murmured, my voice distant. "It's telling how. This glyph isn't 'healing herb.' It's the 'principle of drawing purity from the deep earth.' This one is 'the method of strength through gentle persistence.'"
Mara's breath caught. "You are deciphering the axiomatic language. The core principles. That is deeper than any simple recipe."
For an hour, I journeyed through the fragment's stored wisdom. I learned a principle for drawing out toxins (useful for future anti-venoms), a concept for strengthening cellular structure (which could lead to tougher crops or even enhance my own body further), and a haunting, half-glimpsed axiom about "the communion of rot and rebirth"—the cycle of life and death, which resonated with my quest for the Gravewyrm Bloom.
When I finally pulled back, exhausted and sweating, the fragment's glow faded. I had not unlocked its full secrets, but I had mapped a portion of its inner forest.
Mara looked at me with something akin to awe. "You are a whisperer. The fragment hasn't responded like that in fifty years." She carefully rewrapped the treasure and placed a small, crystalline jar of amber-coloured sap on the table. "Our bargain. This is yours. Come to the temple gardens when you recover. We have more to discuss."
After she left, I uncorked the jar. The smell was of ancient pine and honeyed sunlight. One drop on the tongue sent a wave of profound, soothing warmth through my mana channels, soothing the residual ache from my last Rootbound session. This was the real thing.
The next morning, refreshed in a way I hadn't been in months, I faced my next challenge. The Crystalized Sap would help me recover, but to progress, I needed to test my growing abilities under pressure. The guild had a new notice: "Clear Glowing Mold infestation from the 'Sapfall Caverns,' a side-chamber of the Whitefall Grotto. Caution: Spore emissions cause mana dissipation and hallucinations. E-rank party required. Hazard bonus."
It was perfect. A biological threat, not a straightforward monster. A test for my plant magic and my resilience.
I joined a party of three: a stoic D-rank guard named Tarn, an E-rank water mage named Lina who was hoping to wash the mold away, and myself.
The Sapfall Caverns earned their name. The walls wept a sticky, sweet-smelling resin that glowed with a soft blue light. And everywhere, in vibrant, pulsating patches, was the Glowing Mold. It wasn't a plant or a fungus in the normal sense; it was a primal, mana-hungry biofilm. Its spores hung in the air like glittering dust, and where they landed, they leeched colour and energy from the very light and magic around them.
Lina immediately cast a Water Jet. The mold absorbed the water, swelling and spreading faster. "It's feeding on it!" she cried.
Tarn tried to scrape it off with a shovel. The mold latched onto the metal, starting to corrode it with startling speed.
The spores found me. A cloud of them settled on my arm. I felt an immediate, draining sensation as they tried to absorb my mana. My Mana Eyes showed them as tiny, vacuum-like voids.
My first instinct was to burn it with a Mana Bullet. But that was pure energy—a feast for the mold. Then I remembered the principle from the Lore Leaf: "the communion of rot and rebirth." This mold was a creature of decay, of consumption.
I couldn't fight decay with life. But I could guide it.
I knelt, ignoring Tarn's shout to get back. I placed my hands on a clear patch of stone. I poured my mana into the earth, not with the intention of growth, but with the concept of boundary, of skin, of separation. I used Plant Creation (F) not to make a plant, but to catalyze the existing bacteria and microflora in the stone to excrete a specific, subtle compound—a natural, organic sealant.
From my touch, a wave of dull, greyish film spread over the stone, harmless but utterly inert. The glowing mold touching it recoiled, its consuming edges unable to find purchase on the non-reactive surface.
"What are you doing?" Lina gasped.
"Giving it nothing to eat," I grunted, the effort immense. I was creating life not to grow, but to wall off. It was a reverse use of my skill, and it drained me differently.
I moved along the cavern wall, painting it with barren, living sealant, creating safe zones. The mold, thwarted, began to concentrate on the remaining untreated areas. Following another principle—drawing out—I then took a handful of the sweet cave resin and, using my mana, imbued it with an amplified version of its own attractive scent. I threw this enhanced resin glob deep into the largest remaining mold patch.
The mold, driven by its hunger for energy, surged toward the concentrated resin, pulling away from the walls and coalescing into a single, pulsating mass.
"Now! Hit it with everything!" I yelled.
Tarn didn't hesitate. He threw a guild-issued Sunflare Crystal—a cheap, disposable light-bomb—into the mass. Lina hit it with a jet of pure, cold water, not to feed it, but to shock it.
The mold, concentrated and over-stimulated, could not process the sudden, violent influx of contradictory energies. With a sound like a sigh, it blackened, withered, and crumbled into harmless dust.
The cavern was clear.
Tarn clapped me on the back, a solid blow that I barely felt through my fatigue. "Never seen a mage fight mold with… whatever that was. Good thinking, kid."
Lina looked at me with new respect. "That wasn't in any spellbook."
I just nodded, saving my breath. In my mind, the victory was twofold. I'd passed a practical test, and I'd earned my hazard pay—another step toward funding my journey.
But more importantly, I'd learned I could use my power not just to create, but to curate. To define what could and could not grow. It was a power of subtle, profound control.
Walking back, the Crystalized Sap vial warm in my pocket, I realized the path was becoming clearer. I was not just building a circuit within. I was learning to write the rules of life and decay in the world outside.
The line between gardener and sovereign was beginning to blur.