Days have bled into nights since the Chamber of Mandibles fell and Kircekeer Qhenti faced the unmatched power of Sunna, its oppressive silence replaced by the vibrant hum of renewal.
The Kustarids, once cogs in a machine of ceaseless consumption, now move with purpose through the transformed ruins. Under Sprout's guidance, revered as Father of Depths and Surface, a title whispered with awe but never spoken outright, their society has begun to unfurl like mycelium through fertile soil.
Where jagged silk barricades once stifled movement, communal gardens of bioluminescent fungi now glow softly, tended by teams of workers whose clicks and chitters have evolved into a language of cooperation.
They craft not traps, but intricate tapestries depicting their salvation, threads dyed in hues of lichen and crushed minerals. Yet names still hold sacred weight; to utter Sprout directly remains taboo, as though his true name might shatter the fragile miracle he's wrought.
'Rome was not built in a day' was Ren's opinion when he discovered such thing. The last thing he wants is to replace Kircekeer Qhenti as the new oppressive deity.
Humtoc thrives in this nascent world, a whirlwind of curiosity amid the methodical Kustarids. His small green form darts up sheer rock faces with spider-like agility, a skill honed under Brunor's patient tutelage, a grizzled hunter whose once-ruthless and coward tactics now fuel lessons in stealth.
By dawn, the goblin practices weaving silk into tensile ropes, his hands fumbling but determined; by dusk, he scribbles strange letters in the soft earth, documenting Kustarid lore with a zeal that borders on obsession.
Yet Garm's shadow looms ever-present. The wolf lounges atop a gutted spire of the former Mother's dais, crimson eyes tracking every interaction. When a young Kustarid offers Humtoc a freshly spun silk cloak, Garm's lip curls, a rumble warning, "Garm is watching".
Trust, it seems, is a thread still too thin to bear weight.
The new city itself, Voth Jabross, 'City of Rebirth' rises as a testament to metamorphosis. Sprout had resisted naming it, wary of imposing his will, but the Kustarids' insistence bordered on reverence.
"A nest must have a name" they'd chittered, mandibles clacking in unison. "Or it remains a grave".
Ren relented, choosing words from their evolving lexicon that echoed their transformation: Voth for 'rooted strength' Jabross for 'dawn after long dark'. The Chamber's bones now scaffold terraced dwellings, its acidic slurry pits repurposed into aquifers feeding cascading moss-farms. Even the air has changed, sweet with nectar from cave-blossoms cultivated where the Mother's pheromones once choked hope.
Yet Sprout's presence lingers like sunlight filtered through leaves. The Kustarids leave offerings at the foot of a magnificent oak Ren coaxed from the stone, a symbol of his pact with them and the icon of the Verdant Grace par excellence.
Beetle-shell amulets, woven silk garlands, even shards of the Mother's shattered carapace pile there, tokens of a people learning gratitude. Ren moves among them, his wooden form both sovereign and servant, pruning rot from fungi and mending fractures in their fledgling unity.
Ren's fungal eyes trace the labyrinthine arches of Voth Jabross, its cavernous expanse now alive with the industrious hum of Kustarid labor.
Silk banners flutter where cobweb barricades once loomed, their iridescent threads catching the soft glow of bioluminescent fungi.
Yet even this metamorphosis feels contained, a jewel box compared to the boundless skies Garm's primal soul craves. The wolf paces at Sprout's side, his claws scoring grooves into the polished stone floor, each restless step a thunderclap in the otherwise ordered quiet.
"Garm asks" the wolf begins abruptly, halting mid-stride. "If young Master has decided when to return to surface".
His crimson gaze flicks toward the cavern's ceiling, as though he might bore through it with sheer will.
Sprout's bark-carved face tilts upward, following Garm's stare. The gesture is deliberate, almost meditative, but Ren's thoughts churn beneath.
'They're not ready. Not yet' his wooden fingers brush the petrified oak at the city's heart, its roots pulsing faintly with the Verdant Grace's vigilance.
"As swiftly as time allows" he intones, the words measured. "We shall bide our moments until the Kustarids have attained true self-sufficiency."
Garm's ear twitches, a barely restrained flick of irritation. "Garm is contrary to young Master's idea". The wolf's growl lowers, a subsonic rumble that sends ripples through a nearby pool of groundwater. "Garm thinks… something brews on the surface. Sooner. Later. Garm's bones itch with it".
'Liar' Ren thinks, though not unkindly. He watches Garm's tail lash like a caged pendulum, the wolf's massive frame dwarfing the Kustarid artisans who scatter from his path.
'You hate these tunnels. The weight of stone. The absence of wind'. Yet he cannot dismiss the warning entirely. Humtoc's laughter rings out across the cavern as the goblin leaps from a silk rope, his green form a blur against the oak's gnarled trunk. The child belongs under open skies, sunlight dappling his eager face, not here, in this curated twilight.
"What stirs such conviction in thy words, Garm?" Sprout presses, turning fully toward the wolf. His voice softens, moss creeping into its timbre. "Pray, share the wisdom that guides thee".
Garm hesitates. For a creature forged in Helheim's immeasurable cacophony, the pause is uncharacteristic.
His muzzle dips, shadows pooling in the hollows of his skull-like visage. "Garm is… worried for Humtoc" he admits finally, the confession grinding out like gravel. "And Garm… wants to run. To hunt. To feel'.
A clawed paw crushes a stray pebble to dust. "Garm cannot breathe stone forever".
Ren's grip tightens on the [Twig of Yggdrasil]. The wolf's vulnerability disarms him, a crack in the armor of the Helheim's Warden.
He studies Humtoc, now teaching a cluster of Kustarid younglings to climb using silk harnesses. The goblin's movements are sharper, more assured; [Wisdom of the Oak] has honed him from a trembling wretch into a fledgling leader. 'Level 5, perhaps? Maybe higher'. Yet growth demands space this cavern cannot provide.
"Thy wisdom speaks true" Sprout concedes, lichen blooming along his joints, a telltale sign of conflict.
"Yet thy caution is not misplaced. The Kustarids, though spirited, are yet unseasoned. To abandon them too soon…"
He trails off, the unspoken consequence hanging like a blade: regression. Collapse. Another Mother rising from the ashes.
Garm's nostrils flare, catching the scent of resolve wavering. "Young Master can summon Lady Hela's butler" he blurts, the words tumbling out as though rehearsed. "Atlach-Nacha. He too is spider. He will take good care of Young Master's… pets".
The title pets drips with sarcasm, but his ears flatten, an admission of weakness and longing for the surface.
Ren's mind recoils. 'Summon a demigod spider-butler? To babysit? Wait, I don't think I've ever beat Atlach-Nacha, I don't know if [God of Hunt] affects him... Now that I think about it, wasn't Atlach-Nacha part of the [Lovecraftian Mythos] event? I bought the membership if I remember correctly'.
Beneath the absurdity lies pragmatism. Atlach-Nacha, with his eight soul-weaving arms and penchant for order, could enforce stability where Sprout's absence might invite chaos.
"Thou wouldst… petition Hela's court?" Sprout murmurs, his many blossoms flickering with intrigue.
Garm's tail thumps once, a reluctant yes. "For Humtoc" he adds quietly, as though the boy's name absolves his pride.
Ren exhales through Sprout's wooden lungs, the sound a sigh of rustling leaves. 'We're a mess' he thinks, fondness tempering his worry. 'A wolf pining for moonlight, a goblin outgrowing his surroundings, and a godling playing gardener to spiders' .
His wooden fingers curl around the [Twig of Yggdrasil] ready to summon Hela's butler. 'I didn't know Atlach-Nacha was the butler of the goddess of the deads. Strange lore the developers of YGGDRASIL came up with, or was it a change due to me arriving in this New World?'.
Sprout raises the [Twig of Yggdrasil, its gnarled surface humming with latent power. With a flick of his wrist, he activates [God of Hunt, and the air before him fractures.
A portal tears open, its edges blooming with vibrant peonies and chrysanthemums, their petals cascading like cherry blossoms. Autumn leaves, crimson, gold, and burnt umber, swirl in a hypnotic vortex around splintered branches that crackle with arcane energy.
From this chaos of flora and decay steps… a spider, a normal, mundane spider.
Atlach-Nacha is unremarkable in size, no larger than a common tarantula, his body cloaked in plush, velvety fur the color of midnight violets.
Yet his attire defies expectation: a tailored butler's suit, immaculate in its stitching, hugs his cephalothorax with aristocratic precision.
The jacket, tailored to accommodate his eight limbs, boasts brass buttons engraved with helixes of Hela's sigil. A minuscule cravat, starched to perfection, sits beneath his mandibles, and two of his legs are folded behind him in a posture of refined repose, mimicking classic royal etiquette.
His remaining limbs move with balletic grace, each step precise as a metronome's tick.
Golden eyes, luminous and unnervingly humanoid, lock onto Sprout. With a deft flick of his spinneret, Atlach-Nacha launches a thread of iridescent silk, swinging onto Sprout's shoulder with both the poise of a seasoned performer and a waltz expert.
The spider clears his throat, a sound like silk sliding over glass, and speaks:
"Greetings, Lord Sprout" his voice mellifluous, as if distilled from honey and harpsichord notes. "I am the humble butler of Her Excellency, the Goddess Hela. It is an honor to serve at your behest" he bows, one foreleg sweeping forward in a flourish that would shame royal courtiers.
Garm's ears flatten. "Atlach-Nacha" he grunts, the name a curse.
The spider pivots, a single golden eye winking, a gesture both playful and unnerving. "Ah, the Warden of Helheim! How delightful to see you outside the abyss. Still chewing on bones, I presume?"
Ren reels.
In YGGDRASIL, Atlach-Nacha had been a raid boss, just like Garm has been, a colossal horror whose webs strangled entire parties. However his appearance is completely different.
Now, shrunken and suited, he exudes the menace of a velvet-gloved fist. 'This is a weakened summon? From the guides I read talking about Atlach-Nacha he shouldn't be like this' Ren's mind races. 'He's… dapper. Terrifyingly dapper'.
The butler adjusts his cravat, oblivious to, or savoring, the dissonance. "Now" he purrs. "How may I assist?"
'I have to ask. I must ask' Ren thinks, his curiosity burning in his now wooden mind.
"Atlach-Nacha... thy form and essence now seem far removed from the echoes of memory I carry. What transformation hath taken hold of thee?" says the [Sprout of Yggdrasil].
Atlach-Nacha's chuckle is a silk-lined blade, smooth, lethal, and intimately familiar with the art of cutting.
"Oh, my lord" he purrs, mandibles clicking in a rhythm that mocks human laughter. One golden eye glints as it slides toward Garm, who looms like a storm cloud made flesh. "I would have wagered my finest waistcoat that our dear Warden here had… enlightened you".
The spider's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, though every Kustarid in earshot freezes mid-task, their instincts screaming of apex predators in their midst. "We are not shadows of our former glory, but perfected servants. As you are the scion of the All-Mother herself, her more than divine edict compels us to shield you with every fiber of our being".
'What. The. Hell?' Ren's mind stutters. The revelation hits like a sledgehammer of ice. 'Full raid bosses. Here. Now. And I've been ordering them around like NPCs-'
His thoughts fracture, images of YGGDRASIL's gaming carnage flashing unbidden: Garm's pixelated jaws shearing through entire guilds, Atlach-Nacha's webs trapping players in endless loops of metaphorical agony.
'This Garm could atomize me with a sneeze. That spider could unravel my soul thread by thread'.
Atlach-Nacha, ever the courtier, reads the silence. "Ah, my apologies, my Lord" he simpers, adjusting his cravat with a fastidious leg.
"My prior… visage was a mere courtesy, a theatrical flourish to entertain my beloved challengers. This-" He gestures to his doll-sized form, the suit's embroidery shimmering with Hela's personal sigils. "Is the truth. Elegance need not be grandiose, wouldn't you agree?"
'Oh' Ren's psyche flatlines. 'So the skyscraper-sized horror that only the efforts of the top 3 guilds: Trinity, World Searcher and 2ch Alliance combined managed to beat without losing too much was the illusion, and this… this dandy is the real cosmic nightmare'.
Sprout's body, mercifully, betrays nothing. No twitch of bark, no flare of bioluminescent lichen. To Garm and Atlach-Nacha, he is a monolith of calm, a deity weighing cosmos-shaking decisions. Inside, Ren clings to that illusion like a lifeline. 'Breathe. They obey Sprout. And Sprout is… me. Or close enough'.
The wolf's growl vibrates the air, a sound that once heralded boss-phase transitions. "Garm serves better than this spider" he rumbles, the admission scorched with pride. "Only Garm is truly worthy of Young Master" a hint of envy is in the wolf's voice.
Atlach-Nacha's leg twitches, a spider's shrug. "But of course! Why, I'd sooner chew off my own spinnerets than question your words Warden" he jokes.
Ren seizes the persona like armor. 'Worthy. Right. Because nothing says worthy like nearly pissing yourself'.
Yet as Sprout's resolve steadies him, the panic recedes, replaced by cold clarity. These beings, these forces, kneel not to Ren Hasegawa, the overworked doctor, but to the mantle he now wears. A mantle he'll wield for the foreseeable future.
"Thy loyalty" Sprout intones, the [Twig of Yggdrasil] pulsing like a heartbeat, "is noted".
The spider butler bows, deeper this time, his golden eyes gleaming with something ancient and hungry. "Always, my lord, now can we get to businesses?".
'Right'.
Sprout gestures toward Voth Jabross, his wooden hand carving an arc through the cavern's dim light. "As thou canst observe, fair butler" he intones, the chamber's acoustics deepening his voice to a resonant boom.
"These Kustarids of mine, blessed by the Verdant Grace, require guidance to thrive. Guidance that, alas, I cannot always bestow, for my duties call me to more distant lands".
Atlach-Nacha's golden eyes gleam as he surveys the fledgling city, its silk-draped arches and fungi-lit hollow areas a far cry from Hela's obsidian spires.
"Oh, my Lord I am flattered" he murmurs, mandibles clicking in delight. "Are you perhaps entrusting me with governance of this… quaint endeavor?"
A foreleg gestures dismissively at a Kustarid artisan struggling to knot a tapestry. "It lacks refinement, certainly, but what is civilization if not a blank canvas?"
His voice drops to a conspiratorial purr. "I shall weave order from this delightful chaos. A touch of Lady Hela's aesthetic could help, am I right? Black silk banners, maybe? Or, chandeliers of preserved carapaces?"
Before Sprout can respond, a blur of green darts into the clearing. "M-Master! Look!" Humtoc skids to a halt, chest puffed with pride, clutching a crude tunic of undyed white silk.
The fabric hangs lopsided, seams puckered where his claws pierced the threads, but his grin outshines the cavern's fungal glow.
Atlach-Nacha vanishesnot in a flicker, but in the space between heartbeats. One moment he perches on Sprout's shoulder; the next, he dangles upside-down from a thread so fine it seems spun from starlight, his cravat brushing Humtoc's nose.
The web anchoring him stretches upward into impossible darkness, as though tethered to a hook in the void itself.
Garm's growl shakes loose pebbles from the ceiling. "Careful, butler" he snarls, fangs bared. The wolf's hackles rise, his shadow swelling to engulf around the spider, a wordless threat.
'When did he?' Ren's thought stutters, but Sprout's composure holds. Atlach-Nacha's movement defies logic, not magic, at least it couldn't be time altering magic as Sprout has items equipped to prevent that.
"May I?" The spider butler plucks the tunic from Humtoc's grip with a delicate foreleg, examining it through a lense that materializes from nowhere. "Admirable effort, young sir! Though asymmetry is the hallmark of rustic charm".
Humtoc tilts his head, eyes wide. "You're… shiny. Are you Garm's friend?"
Atlach-Nacha's laugh tinkles like shattered crystal. "Colleagues, dear boy! The Warden guards death's gate; I… curate its aesthetics and tend to its Lady's desires".
Garm's lip curls. "Young Master" he interjects, pacing a furrow into the stone. "Can we go?" His whine carries the edge of a stormfront—impatient, inevitable.
"Garm's paws itch. Garm's nose thirsts for open air. Garm's teeth—"
"Yearn to gnaw something that fights back" Atlach-Nacha finishes, smirking. "How quaint".
Humtoc, oblivious to the tension, tugs Sprout's moss-cloaked arm. "Will Atlach teach me better stitching, Master? I want to make a cloak! With colors!"
The spider butler preens. "But of course! Crimson to mask bloodstains. Gold to blind enemies. The essentials, really".
Garm's growl crescendos, shaking dust from the cavern's ribs, the wolf sick and tired kf Atlach-Nacha. "Now. Young Master. Please".
Ren stifles a laugh, or tries to. Sprout's lichen ripples in a way that might be divine amusement. "Patience, steadfast guardian" he rumbles. "Our departure nears".
Atlach-Nacha bows, his web retracting until he perches once more on Sprout's shoulder, a sentry in silk. "Fear not, Lord Sprout. I shall mold these drab halls into a masterpiece… starting with proper lighting".
—
Danu Midgar's words fester in Neia's skull like a splinter dipped in venom. They coil through her thoughts during night watches, whisper taunts in the clatter of armor, and hiss accusations in the rasp of her own breath.
Sleep abandons her. When she closes her eyes, she sees his moss-agate gaze dissecting her, hypocrite etched into every flicker.
She stalks the battlements at dawn, shadows pooling beneath her eyes, her fingers tracing the sword's pommel not for courage, but penance. The soldiers avoid her, as always, but now their sidelong glances feel deserved.
"Thou scrutinzest me, branding threat ere thou knowest the motive".
His voice, velvet and blade, echoes in the clang of the Great Wall blacksmith's hammer, the creak of the windlass. Even the crows seem to mock her, their caws sharpening into laughter.
Hypocrisy. The word is a parasite, gnawing at her marrow. She's become the very thing she despises: a judge draped in self-righteous rags, her suspicions as blunt and cruel as the paladins who sneer at her "criminal eyes".
Midgar's calm scrutiny holds up a mirror, and the reflection sickens her, a girl so desperate to prove her worth, she weaponizes her own pain.
Her boot scuffs a loose stone, sending it skittering into the abyss below the Wall. She grips the parapet, knuckles bleaching to bone. 'I need to find him'. Not to interrogate, but to kneel. To say the words that curdle in her throat: I was wrong.
But doubt lingers, a serpent in the grass. What if her instincts are right? What if his golden braids and forest-deep voice are a mask, his kindness a snare?
No. Neia straightens, the dawn wind clawing at her cape. Even if he is a demon in human skin, she'll face him with honesty. That, at least, she owes herself.
She descends the stairs, her shadow stretching long and gaunt across the cobbles.
However the bells of the gate toll, signaling a presence outside of the Great Wall near the outpost.
'What's happening?' asks herself Neia, turning around and ascending the stairs to reach the top of the Great Wall.
—
Buser, the Grand Kingbif Destruction, carves a path of ruin through the Abelion Hills, his war cry echoing like a landslide as he leads his remaining loyalists, a horde of battle-scarred Bafolk drunk on bloodlust and vengeance.
Their hooves trample the earth into a quagmire of splintered bone and shattered steel, their frenzied march guided not by strategy, but by the Mad Infidel King's singular obsession: to raze the God-Tree's roots and dance like a madman on its splintered remains.
Yet with every roaring charge, every village of Goblins, Orcs or any other races reduced to ash, the warlord unknowingly dances on strings pulled by traitors in his own inner circle, herded like a bull toward the Great Wall's iron-clad jaws.
Among the conspirators, none is more cunning, or more covetous, than Rauff, Buser's thirdborn son from his second wife.
Where Ondalk's rebels grovel for divine favor, Rauff hungers for something far more tangible: wealth. Gold. Gems. Everything that shines. The clatter of coin and the gleam of enchanted steel. His ambitions are not born of faith, but avarice, a vision of the Bafolk not as conquerors, but as mercenary lords, selling their brutality to the highest bidder.
To Rauff, war is not an holy crusade; it is commerce. An art he learnt from witnessing the Dark Dwarves living in the southern part of the Abelion Hills, on the mountains' slopes.
While his father's wrath is a blunt instrument; his own greed is a scalpel, carving profit from carnage.
The young Bafolk prince is a grotesque parody of Old Earth's military-industrial titans.
His silvery horns, polished to a merchant's sheen, are ringed with stolen gold bands. His cloak, stitched from the silk of rare silkworms, bulges with maps and ledgers detailing mineral-rich territories and vulnerable caravans.
While Buser dreams of pyres, Rauff whispers of contracts, of leasing Bafolk hordes as siegebreakers to human nobles, of auctioning stolen steeds to everyone, of transforming the Abelion Hills into an arms bazaar where blood is currency.
"The God-Tree does not want prayers" Rauff hissed to his cadre of profiteers, their eyes glinting with the same gold-fever. "It wants tribute. And we shall be its tax collectors".
Through poisoned whispers and forged clues, he steers his father's rampage toward the Great Wall's nearest and weakest gate, not to topple it, but to bait the Holy Kingdom into desperation and to exploit them to take down his father.
Let them hire Bafolk mercenaries to repel Buser's own forces. Let them bleed their treasuries dry. Rauff's claws, ink-stained from tallying hypothetical profits, itch to sign the first contract.
Buser, lost in his storm of rage, sees only enemies to crush. Rauff sees clients. His plans will bring richness to him and prosperity to the Bafolk, even that it's a secondary objective only needed for him to be the one to get all the bounties.
Buser's rampage halts at the foot of the Great Wall, its towering stones stained with decades of wind and battles.
Around him, the forest lies in ruins, splintered trunks smoldering, their sap hissing like dying serpents as his [Sand Shooter] cleaves through the last oak.
In his wrath-blurred vision, every gnarled branch had morphed into the God-Tree's mocking limbs, every rustle of leaves its taunting whisper. Now, only the Great Wall remains, its shadow stretching over him like a sneer.
"Humans" he snarls, flecks of spittle glinting on his braided beard. His emerald eyes rake the battlements, counting the pitiful clusters of soldiers scrambling to nock arrows and hoist spears.
To him, they are insects clinging to a carcass,annoying, but inconsequential. "They will make a fine warmup" he growls, hefting [Sand Shooter, its curved blade humming with dwarven runes that glow like molten slag. The weapon thrums in his grip, eager to taste marrow.
Rauff lingers at the rear, half-hidden in the skeletal remains of the forest. His hands tap a silent, impatient rhythm against his thigh as he watches his father's hulking silhouette charge the gate.
The young prince's nostrils flare, not with battle-lust, but disgust. Buser's brute force is a squandered currency, a hammer where a scalpel would profit. Let the old fool batter himself bloody against the Wall's enchanted stones. Let the humans bleed him with ballistae and boiling oil.
"Strike harder, Father" Rauff mutters, venom lacing the title. His golden eyes glint as Buser's first blow sunders the gate's iron reinforcements, sparks cascading like coins spilled from a ruptured vault. The prince's ledger-mind tallies the carnage: every shattered shield a bargaining chip. Every corpse a down payment.
Above, a rain of arrows darkens the sky. Buser roars, [Sand Shooter] whirling in a lethal dance, deflecting shafts with contemptuous ease. Rauff smiles. Let the humans exhaust their quivers. Let Buser's rage dull his senses. When the Mad King stumbles, and he will stumble, the real conquest begins.
The God-Tree's favor is not won by shattered gates, but by gold. And Rauff intends to mine it from his father's grave.