The Great Wall's gates groan open. The cogs and the levers sounding with the solemnity of ancient bones shifting, their blackened iron hinges weeping rust as they part.
A rare event, usually, the Gates are opened only during times when foreign embassies are visiting the Holy Kingdom. Moreover the stationing Generals need permission from the Holy King himself to open the gates, but the sight of Sprout make the soldiers forget this obligation.
Sunlight spills through the widening gap, gilding Sprout's human form in a halo of gold, a deliberate, almost theatrical reveal. The soldiers lining the battlements lean forward, their weapons forgotten, eyes wide and breath held.
To them, he is not a mere man, but a myth made flesh: hair like spun sunlight, armor of living wood that whispers secrets to the wind, a presence that radiates the quiet authority of a forest untouched by time.
A miracle sent by the God of Earth himself.
'This isn't a welcome. It's a parade, why are they so... full of reverence?' Ren thinks, unnerved by the reverence in their stares, feeling like some sort of relic in a church stared by its believers.
His human heart pounds, a frantic, once familiar now alien rhythm in this borrowed body, as the general approaches. The man moves with the crisp precision of a career soldier, but his steps falter when he nears, as if the air itself resists him.
'Wait a second' Ren's mind snags on a memory[Grove's Charm, a passive ability peculiar to the Archdruid Job Class that once softened NPCs hostility in YGGDRASIL.
But here, in this New World where game's code bleeds into reality, its effects are… more, much more efficient and real.
The soldiers' gazes aren't just neutral; they're rapt, their pupils dilated, lips parted in unconscious awe. The general's stern face softens, his hand twitching as if fighting the urge to kneel.
'Does this count as mind manipulation?''
Guilt flickers, but it's swiftly smothered by Sprout's creeping rationale, verdant and inexorable. 'Humans do not have the same rights as animals or plants or any other of Nature's children'. The thought slithers into Ren's consciousness, smooth as sap, and he shivers as he almost didn't notice it.
'Since when did I…?'
The general stops an arm's length away, his steel breastplate glinting. Up close, his goatee is meticulously trimmed, his blonde buzz cut a testament to discipline. Yet his eyes betray him, pupils blown wide, sweat beading at his temple. [Grove's Charm] works its magic, weaving trust into the fabric of his mind.
[Grove's Charm] in YGGDRASIL let an Archdruid be more welcomed by those NPCs that were hostile to him.
For example, a [Plant, as an heteromorphic race, were bad seen by the humanoids or undead NPCs, so having an ability like [Grove's Charm] modified their opinion to a neutral value.
'So now that Sprout has a human appearance [Grove's Charm] raises their opinion to a positive value. It makes sense... I believe' realizes Ren as a flicker of doubt blossoms in his head.
"Greetings" the general says, voice strained between authority and awe. He clears his throat, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword, a reflexive gesture, not a threat. "You must be a traveler from afar. Traversing the Abelion Hills isn't a frivolous task, especially with those… disgusting demi-humans lurking".
The venom in his tone when he spits 'demi-humans' jars Ren. 'Disgusting?' Sprout's borrowed lips curl, not in anger, but in disdain. A reaction that isn't wholly Ren's.
"The Hills are hushed now" Sprout replies, his voice a sonorous rumble that makes the soldiers sway like saplings in a breeze. "Their ravages have been… chastened".
The general smiles in genuine gratitude. His shoulders relax; his smile is brittle but genuine. "Then you've done the Holy Kingdom a service, stranger. Come, rest in our halls. We've much to discuss. My name is Cincinnatus Ayala, it is a pleasure to meet you, sir".
"The pleasure is entirely mine. Thou mayest address me as Danu Midgar" tells Sprout making an overzealous bow.
As the man turns, Ren's thoughts churn. 'They're not just trusting me. They're enthralled. And I'm… okay with it?'
Ren follows General Ayala towards the military bastion behind the Great Wall. He strides forward, the soldiers parting like reeds before a river, their whispers trailing him:
"A saint…?" murmurs one in awe.
"An hero?" tells another in admiration.
"It must be him the one who made the demi-humans flee!" says more audible that the others another soldier, with respect and relief.
"Silence! That's unrespectful" shushes yet another soldier.
Ren studies the looks of each and every soldiers, counting them. 'They are just a bit more than a dozen' he points out. 'Seeing the length of this Wall, the manpower needed to guard all of it must be enormous'.
Between all the looks of admiration Ren sees one of doubt. Among the many soldiers stands a blonde girl who scrutinize Sprout with her piercing gaze. 'It seems someone is able to resist [Grove's Charm]. She could be useful to speak to'.
—
Neia Baraja lingers at the edge of the soldiers line, her crow-black eyes slicing through the adoration thick in the air.
While soldiers murmur blessings and happily praises the newcomer, her gaze remains locked on Danu Midgar, the stranger who walks like a king and speaks like a prophet.
His golden braids catch the sunlight like gilded chains, his armor of living wood a grotesque parody of the Holy Kingdom's steel. 'He's too perfect. Too serene'.
Her fingers curl around her sword's pommel, the familiar ridges grounding her as suspicion coils in her gut.
'How does one man scatter armies? Armies of Zoastia and Bafolk, no less!'. This question haunts Neia's mind.
Neia's question however can't be answered now as she sees as Danu Midgar enters the Generals' keep, a place where she isn't permitted to walk into.
'I must investigate this matter further! That's what a paladin would do'.
'I have to hear what they are saying... if only I had the same hearing of dad I could just stand in front of the door...'.
The question gnaws as she watches Midgar glides into the Generals' keep, his every step a mockery of mortal frailty.
The soldiers part for him, their reverence a stench in her nostrils. Fools. Neia melts into the shadows, her charcoal cape blending with the keep's weathered stone.
Years of trailing her father through Kalinsha's alleys honed her silence; she moves like a wraith, boots barely grazing the gravel, breath held until her lungs burn.
A crate stacked near a high window becomes her perch. She scales it with feline grace, muscles taut, pulse a drumbeat in her ears.
Peering through grimy glass, she drinks in the scene: General Ayala, ever the sycophant, pours water from a pitcher etched with the Holy Kingdom's crest, their water, rationed and sacred, into a chalice for this interloper.
"Please Mr. Midgar serve yourself, you must be tired after your long travels" says General Ayala, causing Neia to tighten her teeth.
Midgar accepts it with a nod, his moss-agate eyes glinting. "Thee have my gratitude, Noble General".
The voice, smooth as honey, deep as a chasm, sets her teeth on edge. Liar. Her knuckles whiten. 'That chalice should grace the lips of frontline soldiers, not some woods-drenched charlatan'.
Ayala leans forward, eager, already ensnared. Neia shifts for a better angle, but-
The General's head turns.
She drops, spine slamming against the crate, heart clawing up her throat. Idiot. Pabel Baraja's voice barks in her mind: "Curiosity gutted the cat, dear. You're not a paladin and you won't have to become one".
When silence returns, she risks another glance. Midgar's profile is a study in calculated calm, but Neia catches it, the way his fingers linger too long on the chalice, as if savoring not the water, but the power it represents. Ayala drones on, oblivious.
'He's playing them'.
Her jaw tightens. The crate creaks under her grip. She's no mage, no seer, but she knows masks. This one, carved from oak and arrogance, hides rot beneath.
'And I'll peel it off'.
—
The chalice weighs like an anvil in Ren's grip, its silver surface slick with condensation, or perhaps his own sweat. He forces his borrowed hands steady, the [Fur of the Nemean Lion] adorning his wooden armor brushing his neck like a reminder of the lie he wears.
Across the scarred oak table, General Ayala leans forward, his goatee quivering with barely contained fascination.
The man's eyes gleam, pupils dilated under [Grove's Charm]'s verdant thrall, and Ren feels the skill's pull like roots tightening around his conscience. 'Keep working' he prays silently. 'Just a little longer'.
"Mr. Midgar" Ayala begins, fingers drumming the map unfurled between them. "You must hail from lands far beyond our reckoning. Your speech, so refined, so… archaic. A scholar's tongue, no doubt in that".
Ren's mind races. Sprout's voice slips out, sonorous and assured, belying the storm beneath: "Verily. My homeland lies in a realm far beyond thy… Holy Kingdom, am I right?"
He pauses, feigning contemplation, though his eyes, moss-agate green in this guise, flick to the map. The parchment is yellowed, its edges frayed, inked with jagged borders and names that twist his stomach: Holy Kingdom of Roble, Re-Estize Kingdom, Baharuth Empire, Slane Theocracy.
Human powers, each etched in blood and dogma. Beyond their edges, cryptic symbols denote elven forests, dwarven holds, draconic peaks.
General Ayala nods his head. "Yes, our Nation is called Holy Kingdom of Roble as you can see on this map".
'This New World is fractured in many separate kingdoms, some of them differing even in the dominant race inhabiting them' Ren thinks, recalling YGGDRASIL's nine realms, orderly compartmentalized. This map is chaos, a quilt of clashing realms.
'And if humans are cornered here… what lurks beyond? What threats?'
Ayala traces the Abelion Hills with a calloused finger, he then trails beyond the map, on the table. "To survive the wilds beyond our Wall… You're either blessed or mad, Midgar".
'Or maybe both' Ren muses, noting how the general's tone lacks skepticism. [Grove's Charm] hums in his veins, a low, verdant thrum that bends trust like saplings to sunlight. Guilt pricks, mind manipulation, but Sprout's logic smothers it. 'They are but leaves in the wind. Necessary'.
"Indeed" Sprout intones, raising the chalice in mock gratitude. "My journey hath not been without trials, yet fortune smiled upon me when I happened upon thy fair Nation".
The words taste like ash. Ren's human soul recoils at the theatrics, but the general drinks it in, nodding fervently in agreement.
'Four human nations with non-human territories pressing at their borders. And me, a walking anomaly in this New World in wooden armor' Ren's gaze lingers on the Slane Theocracy, fanatics, Ayala called them.
Ren's focus fractures, there, at the edge of his vision, a shadow flickers in the high window. Neia. Her gaze drills into him, sharp as a falcon's, and for a heartbeat, he swears those crow-black eyes see past the wooden armor, the golden braids, the lies.
'Why does she stare like I've got a dagger at her throat?' he wonders, the thought a splinter in his mind.
Beneath Sprout's serene facade, Ren's pulse quickens. [Grove's Charm] thrums in his veins like a second heartbeat, bending the general's trust, but it does nothing to dull Neia's suspicion. 'I just have to behave naturally'.
"May I ask what you intend to do now, Mr. Midgar?" Ayala's voice slices through the tension, his tone deferential, almost reverent.
Sprout's reply flows effortlessly, smooth as sap from a birch. "I shall visit thy country, if it be permitted. I seek to learn more of the human nations in this realm".
'Truth, for once' Ren concedes silently. Knowledge is survival here. Sprout's gaze lands again on the Abelion Hills, where the [Sprout of Yggdrasil] carved the reputation of a God with few words and even fewer moves.
Ayala's finger taps Kalinsha, a fortress city inked in bold strokes. "The nearest settlement is here. Two days' walk, less, if you secure a mount."
Ren nods, Sprout's voice a mask of gratitude. "Thy words are of great utility. I thank thee, noble General. I bid you farewell".
Outside Ren sees Neia's shadow vanishing while Sprout nods his head and says goodbye to the general leaving the keep.
'I have to speak with the girl' decides Ren, his resolve adamant.
—
The wind bites at Neia's cheeks as she strides away from the keep, her charcoal cape snapping behind her like a battle standard.
Shadows cling to the Great Wall's base, its stone merlons clawing at the sky like the jagged teeth of some primordial beast. Her boots crunch over gravel, each step echoing the turmoil in her mind.
'What's with that guy?'.
The question gnaws, relentless. Danu Midgar's calm, almost disinterested inquiries replay in her head, surrounding nations, geography, borders, not a single probe into troop movements, fortifications, or the Holy Kingdom's vulnerabilities.
'A traveler?'
She scoffs. No traveler survives the Abelion Hills without scars, without desperation etched into their bones. Yet Midgar's hands were smooth, his posture relaxed, as if death itself had granted him passage
She pauses, tilting her head back to study the Wall's weathered stones. Decades of siege and storm have pocked its surface, yet it stands, a monument to human defiance.
'Just like him'. The thought slips in unbidden. Midgar's presence had been… unyielding. Not the rigid discipline of a soldier, but the immovable certainty of a mountain. Impossible. Everyone knows the wilds beyond the known Continent devour the unwary. Humans don't live there. They die screaming.
Her fingers brush the crest on her sword, the crest frozen in iron. 'Paladins seek truth'. her mother's voice reminds her. 'Even when it bites back'.
A resolve hardens in her chest. She'll corner him, demand answers-
A prickle crawls up her spine. She's being watched.
Neia whirls, her training overriding panic. Across the courtyard, the keep's door groans shut. There, framed by sunlight, stands Danu Midgar. His moss-agate eyes lock onto hers, unblinking, as if he'd known she lingered all along.
The golden braids framing his face catch the light, weaving a halo around features too perfect, too still. No smirk twists his lips, no frown mars his brow, just a gaze that pierces her soul like a drawn blade.
Her breath hitches. 'How long has he been there?'
The distance between them hums, charged and brittle. Around them, soldiers shuffle oblivious. Neia's hand drifts to her sword, but Midgar doesn't flinch, instead he approaches her.
—
While their Master was doing his 'reconnaissance' beyond the Great Wall, Humtoc and Garm are keeping themselves busy by exploring the Abelion Hills.
The forests bordering the Great Wall stretch before them, a beautiful tapestry of rich earth and flourish plants, the air thick with the scent of moss, flowers and dew. The noises of fleeing armies now a far memory.
Garm prowls the undergrowth terrain, his obsidian fur blending with the shadows created by the trees while Humtoc perches atop his shoulders, tiny fingers knotted in the wolf's mane.
The goblin's wide, luminous eyes dart across the labyrinth of trees, his uplifted mind buzzing with questions.
"What happened to the scary horse creatures and the furry ogres?" Humtoc chirps, meaning the Zoastia and the Bafolk as he addresses them as horse creatures and furry ogres, as he swings a twig like a sceptre mimicking his Master.
"Young Master warned them" Garm rumbles, his voice a landslide of gravel and embers. The wolf pauses, nostrils flaring as he sniffs the wind, no musk of Bafolk, no sour stench of Zoastia.
"Garm will have to wait for a goat meal. Garm is a bit sad..." he whines, serpentine tongue lolling as saliva drips, hissing, onto the thirsty ground.
"What is goat?" Humtoc tilts his head, the word foreign yet tantalizing.
"Tasty meal!" Garm barks, crimson eyes gleaming. "Lady Hela often gave Garm sweet bread soaked with the blood of goats!"
Humtoc's eyes lit up after hearing so many new words and concepts. He begins to bombard Garm with questions, as he starts bouncing in place. "Hela? Sweet bread? What are those things? Are they friends? Can I eat them too?"
A low growl reverberates through Garm's chest. "Who. Garm demands respect for Lady Hela. She is Goddess of the deads unworthy of Valhalla's sacred halls and Garm's employer".
"I-I understand!" Humtoc squeaks, shrinking into the wolf's fur before curiosity reignites. "So… is Lady Hela like Master?"
Garm's laughter booms, shaking the nearby brambles. "Garm's answer is no".
He halts, turning his massive head to fix Humtoc with a stare that could freeze magma. "Young Master is a seedling. A seedling of the All-Mother. A seedling of Yggdrasil, the World's Oak". His voice drops, reverent.
"Everything is born from Yggdrasil. Everything will return to Yggdrasil".
Humtoc's twig falls forgotten. "Seedling? Is Yggdrasil Master's mother?"
"No". Garm's tail swishes, scattering birds from a tree. "Yggdrasil is Garm's and Humtoc's mother. Young Master is Yggdrasil. A small, young, and weak seed of the All-Mother".
The goblin blinks, processing. Around them, the wind stirs, carrying the faintest whisper of leaves, or perhaps the World Tree itself, sighing.
"But… but Master is strong!" Humtoc protests, clinging to Garm's fur as if it might anchor him to this revelation.
Garm's ears twitch, catching the distant trill of a songbird before his rumbling voice drowns it out. "There are many things Humtoc ignores" he begins, pausing to sniff a cluster of luminescent mushrooms sprouting from a rotting log.
Their bioluminescent glow fades as he passes, as though the forest itself recoils from his gravity. "Garm tells Humtoc a secret that young Master doesn't know".
Humtoc leans forward, twig-like fingers tightening in Garm's fur. "Secret? What secret? Does Master have a treasure?!" he says in childish naivety.
The wolf huffs, a sound like boulders grinding deep underground. "Garm accepted to let young Master go alone… to let him grow".
A beetle scuttles across the path; Garm's paw crushes it absently, the crunch echoing like a snapped bone. "But if problem comes to Young Master…"
His crimson eyes flare, and the air thickens, heavy with the scent of ozone. Above, birds scatter from the trees in a cacophony of panicked wings. "This entire world couldn't stop Garm's ire".
Humtoc whimpers, shrinking back as Garm's growl vibrates through his ribs. The wolf continues, unheeding: "I am Garm. Warden of Helheim. Even the gods of Asgard respect this name."
A gust of wind howls through the trees, tearing leaves from branches that spiral around them like emerald ash. "Garm will be the one to slay god of war Tyr when Ragnarok comes".
The forest falls silent. No birdsong, no rustle of prey, only the creak of ancient oaks bending away from the wolf's declaration.
Humtoc's breath hitches, his wide eyes reflecting the sudden darkness as clouds blot the sun.
Garm halts, sensing the goblin's confusion. His ears flatten, and he nuzzles Humtoc gently, the gesture incongruously tender. "Garm is sorry" he murmurs, his voice softening to a rumble that stirs the fallen leaves beneath them. "Time will come when Humtoc and all people of this world will learn the truth of the World Tree… but not now".
The tension breaks. Sunlight filters through the clouds once more, and a squirrel chitters overhead, emboldened by the wolf's retreating fury. Humtoc uncurls slowly, though his fingers remain tangled in Garm's fur.
"So..." the goblin ventures, watching a butterfly alight on a nearby flower, its wings trembling as though sensing the wolf's residual wrath. "You and Young Master aren't from… here?"
Garm doesn't answer with words. A low growl of confirmation ripples from his throat, deep enough to send ripples across a nearby puddle. The butterfly flees.
—
The Annunciation of the God-Tree has sundered the Bafolk, cleaving the once-unified tribe into fractious bands bound by fear, ambition, or madness.
Though the mantle of chieftain and formal king yet rests upon Buser, called now by many the Mad Infidel King, his authority crumbles like shale beneath the weight of his own fury.
His loyalists, a cadre of warriors drunk on wrath and pride, roam Buser's camp, howling vows of vengeance against the God-Tree, their minds unmoored from reason. These Bafolk are, however, the strongest, the toughest, the ones who possess more magic items, the former chieftains' families before Buser.
Yet the greater part of the tribe, cowed by the divine wrath witnessed at the Annunciation, now scours the forests in desperate pilgrimage.
These scattered bands, though united in their terror of the God-Tree's promised retribution, vie among themselves for favor in His sight.
Foremost among these groups strides Ondalk, a Bafolk of cunning tongue and hollow piety, who has declared himself 'Holy King' and herald of the new order.
His followers, numbering in the hundreds, comb the woodlands with feverish zeal, driven not by faith, but by the primal instinct to survive, and to claim primacy as the God-Tree's 'blessed tribe'.
"Over there!" hisses a scout, his spear trembling toward a shadowed grove. Ondalk's band presses onward, hooves churning the loam as they navigate the oppressive thickets.
"I hate forests" grumbles a younger warrior, kicking at a tangle of roots. "The foliage clings to my hooves like grime on the Mad King's name" he spits in disgust.
"Silence!" snaps an elder, his horns and body etched with the signs of battles and famines. "We seek the God-Tree not for comfort, but for salvation. Should the Zoastia, or worse, the humans, claim His favor first, we are doomed".
Suddenly, the forest stills as the lead Bafolk freezes mid-stride, his spear trembling toward the clearing ahead.
Sunlight filters through the canopy, dappling the massive obsidian form that materializes from the shadows, Garm, a monolith of muscle and malice, his crimson eyes smoldering like twin hellish suns.
The wolf's arrival defies reason; a creature of such enormity should shatter the undergrowth, yet he slips into their midst silent as a phantom. His serpentine tongue slithers over jagged fangs, saliva glistening in threads that hiss where they strike the forest floor.
"T-the Holy Wolf" the scout breathes, reverence and terror warring in his voice. Behind him, the Bafolk ranks stiffen, hooves digging into the loam as primal instinct screams the word predator.
Garm's gaze sweeps over them, slow and deliberate, lingering on each quivering goatman as if weighing their marrow. The younger ones tremble, their bravado crumbling under the weight of his gluttonous stare, a look that carves through flesh to tally bone.
"These are the goats Garm was talking about" the wolf rumbles, his voice a tectonic growl that shudders through the earth. Humtoc's head pops up from the thicket of Garm's fur, wide-eyed and curious.
A stifled snort escapes a gangly Bafolk youth. "A goblin?" he mutters, lips curling in disdain.
Garm's head lowers, eclipsing the sun as his jaws yawn wide enough to engulf the offender whole, the one who dared to speak so lowly of one conscious of the [Wisdom of the Oak]. The air reeks of iron and rot, the stench of a thousand battlefields condensed into a single breath.
"Garm, stay put!"
The command slices through the tension, absurd in its chirping bravado. All eyes swivel to Humtoc, who clings to the wolf's mane like a burr, his tiny frame nearly swallowed by Garm's shadow. For a heartbeat, even the forest holds its breath.
The wolf's head tilts, his hellish gaze narrowing. "Who taught you that command?"
Humtoc puffs out his chest, twig-like arms crossed. "Erm… I came up with it!"
Silence. Then-
"Garm likes that answer!" the wolf's laughter booms, shaking pinecones from the trees as the Bafolk flinch, hands clapped over ears.
When the echoes fade, Garm looms over the cowering scouts once more, though his teeth now glint in something akin to a grin. "You are lucky goats. Garm isn't that hungry… yet".
His tongue flicks a stray droplet of saliva onto the youth's hoof, sizzling like acid. "Be thankful to Humtoc for that".
The Bafolk sag, muscles unlocked by fragile relief. The elder scout bows so deeply his horns scrape the dirt. "W-we live to serve the God-Tree's will" he stammers, voice cracking.
The most zealous among the Bafolk steps forward, his horns glinting with fervor as he bows low, hooves sinking into the soft earth. "Holy Wolf" he begins, voice trembling with reverence. "You speak of hunger. We offer a sacrifice worthy of the God-Tree's wrath, the Mad Infidel King, Buser. He dares plot against the divine trunk. Let us bring him to you!"
Garm's head tilts, his crimson eyes narrowing like twin embers in the gloom. "Garm doesn't kill without young Master's consent" he growls, the words rumbling like distant thunder.
"Garm only kills threats. And you goats…" his tongue flicks, dripping saliva that sizzles on the ground. "You are no threat".
The Bafolk, undeterred, presses on. "Then… may we pay homage to the God-Tree?"
The wolf's lips curl, revealing fangs as long as daggers. "Garm rejects. Young Master is not present". He takes a step forward, the ground trembling beneath his weight. "Go. Garm's hunger grows".