God’s Tree

The winds over Morgoth howled against Argolaith's cloak as he soared just above the treetops.

His first destination was still a few days away on foot—a jagged crater of celestial metal long buried in legend.

But before he could even reach the mountain's edge, he felt it.

A shift in the air.

Pressure.

The kind that made skin crawl.

In the distance, something massive moved through the forest.

Then, from below, a roar—followed by half a dozen more.

He stopped in the air, hovering.

Leaves rustled wildly.

From the dense canopy below, a whole pack of Saint Beasts burst into the clearing—twelve of them in total, fully grown and fanged with crackling auras.

Their eyes locked onto him instantly.

Without hesitation, Argolaith raised a hand.

A translucent cube shimmered into existence beside him, swirling faintly with internal energy.

The moment the beasts unleashed their magic, it struck the cube like water into sponge.

Flames, lightning, frost—it all surged against the cube's surface.

Argolaith hovered quietly, watching the threads of raw power spiral inward.

But after a few seconds, he frowned.

"That's it?" he murmured.

The cube had barely changed. No new spell. Not even a proper pulse.

He sighed.

"I forgot… its purpose is slow. Measured."

The cube's gift was long-term. Not immediate salvation.

He dismissed it with a flick of his fingers.

Then his hand reached over his shoulder, gripping the hilt of his old blade.

The sword hissed as it was drawn, catching the fading sunlight.

Argolaith dropped low to meet the beasts.

"I guess we're doing this the old way."

The first one lunged with frost-rimmed claws, but Argolaith twisted and swept his blade upward in a clean arc, severing its limb before driving the sword through its chest.

Its body faded into his storage ring with a blink of thought.

Two more came from the sides—one covered in molten fur, the other with wings of jagged ice.

He spun between them, ducking one and carving the other's legs from beneath it.

Each time a Saint Beast fell, he stored its corpse.

Their magic would be useful later—if not for potion-making, then for research.

He was efficient. Silent. Lethal.

Five minutes later, the last one fell to a stab through the eye.

Its howl faded into a whisper, and the grove quieted once more.

Argolaith wiped the blade clean and sheathed it.

He looked at the sky, now tinted purple by dusk.

Then his eyes shifted to the cube he'd dismissed.

It floated beside him again, obedient and patient.

He watched it swirl for a few moments.

Then, an idea sparked.

"What if," he whispered, "I use it not as a tool… but as part of the sword?"

The thought rooted itself immediately.

It made perfect sense.

The cube's nature was to absorb magic slowly, to evolve.

To learn.

"And if it were the edge," he murmured, "it would only ever cut what it decided to learn from…"

Wrongdoers, tainted spells, curses—it would reject anything pure.

Just like he wanted.

He grinned slightly to himself.

It was elegant.

Subtle.

Maybe even poetic.

His thoughts churned as he stepped away from the clearing.

The next destination lay just beyond the hills.

He'd need star-forged ore, perhaps some darkglass alloy…

But now, he had a purpose.

Not just for a sword—but for something worthy of being called his.

The stars above had barely shifted when Argolaith stood at the edge of the crater's heart.

Nestled within the scorched stone was a yawning mouth of darkness—an old cave, half-collapsed, its walls scorched by time or something older.

He stepped forward, the ground crunching under his boots, and entered without hesitation.

The descent was steep.

Roots dangled like claws from the ceiling, and the deeper he went, the more ancient the place felt.

Moss clung to the walls in places, but it was dry, crisp, like parchment left in the sun.

He passed broken stones, shattered bone piles, and crude carvings etched into the cavern walls—runes of unknown origin that pulsed faintly when he looked too long.

Their meanings slipped past his mind like half-remembered dreams.

A low heat pulsed from the rocks beneath his feet.

Sweat formed at his brow, and he loosened the collar of his tunic.

He noticed the air shimmering near the walls, like the breath of something sleeping just out of sight.

As he walked further, three lesser cave beasts ambushed him—fangs sharp, claws dripping venom.

He cut them down without breaking stride, storing their corpses in his ring with a flick of his wrist.

Their blood steamed as it hit the stone.

The sound he'd first felt—low and rhythmic—was getting louder.

Like something massive breathing, deep beneath the crust of the world.

He paused once, hand resting against the wall, but pressed onward.

Eventually, the tunnel opened into a wide chamber.

It was dimly lit by glowing crystals embedded in the ceiling, their colors flickering between soft blue and angry red.

Steam coiled up from cracks in the stone.

Argolaith wiped his forehead and sighed.

His stomach growled.

He hadn't eaten since morning.

He cleared a flat space near one of the cooler corners and took a moment to kneel.

From his storage ring, he pulled out a thick slab of Saint Beast meat—marbled, dense, still faintly warm with residual mana.

Next came a handful of magical vegetables: bright green stalks that pulsed with life, a golden root that shimmered faintly, and a few herbs that smelled like wind and smoke.

He laid everything out carefully.

Using a low-spark fire rune etched into the stone, he created a controlled flame.

The cave walls danced in its flickering light, shadows stretching like watchers in the dark.

He seared the steak first, listening to it hiss and crackle.

A golden crust formed on the surface, the mana-rich juices caramelizing into something savory.

The scent was rich—meaty, sharp, slightly sweet.

The vegetables he sliced with precise motions, tossing them in a heated pan of silversap oil.

They sizzled, their colors deepening, releasing an earthy fragrance that settled the heat in his chest.

He plated everything on a flat stone, letting the juices run down the sides.

He ate slowly, savoring each bite, allowing the mana to replenish his strength.

Each chew grounded him, reminded him that he was alive—breathing, moving, surviving.

When he was finished, he cleaned the space with a damp cloth from his ring and packed up.

The cave still pulsed with breath-like echoes, and something deep below stirred.

But he felt better now—stronger, clearer.

He rose to his feet, brushing dust from his robes.

The tunnel continued on—black and endless.

He gathered his things and stepped forward once more, the flame from his rune dimming behind him.

Somewhere ahead, something ancient waited.

But Argolaith walked without fear.

He had work to do.