Heir of the Fog

CHAPTER THIRTY

Where Stone Becomes Soil

The detour to District 2 had been quite long. Kara did not hold any original map of the city in her memory; we only had what the Chainrunners had shown us—a patchwork of routes and notes sketched for their runs. It felt as though I were piecing together fragments of a world that once existed, hoping to find my way through a maze of fog and wreckage.

District 2 was one of the lower districts that had been destroyed on the day I arrived. Back then, the primary road remained unblocked, and traveling from District 100 to District 2 was not such a struggle. Times were different now. Debris clogged old passages, and stronger beasts prowled every corner. One misstep could mean plunging into a collapsed walkway or encountering a creature more deadly than anything I had faced before.

Valuable artifacts, particularly those used to improve food production, were rarely discussed openly among districts. Nobody wanted to risk losing their advantage, so no one shared details of these precious creations.

We only knew that District 2 possessed an artifact which somehow empowered cultivation within its borders. But that knowledge, without any specific description, left me sifting through miles of broken structures in search of a ghost. The devastation here made District 2's ruins sprawl in every direction—walls half-standing, battered streets choked by twisted metal and lumps of concrete. Finding anything specific was nearly impossible.

Still, I focused on the old logistical buildings, combing through every scrap of paper or half-burnt document that might hint at District 2's artifacts. The search felt endless. Yet I held on to the faint possibility that if I succeeded, I might truly solve the hunger crisis. Or at least solve it for some districts.

That notion reminded me of District 100 and how they had tried to kill me without hearing my reasons. Was it truly my responsibility to save them all if they treated me like a monster? A single artifact might not end hunger across every district, but it could help District 98—my home and perhaps District 99. Would ignoring the rest be right? My conscience said no, but I resolved to avoid District 100 from now on. There was only so much I could do and I doubted a single artifact could solve hunger everywhere.

During my time in District 2, I found myself constantly beset by powerful creatures. Most of them bore onyx cores, and the labyrinth of rubble gave them countless hiding spots. The district's once-grand scale made the search doubly hard. Even so, I managed to find records mentioning multiple artifacts.

One lead eventually directed me to the remains of some noble estate—a battered complex of halls and courtyards half sunken into the earth. I spent weeks clearing debris and navigating collapsed floors until I finally stumbled upon something that piqued my interest: the Shardbound Bracers.

They had belonged to the Chainrunner Captain of District 2 back when the district thrived. I learned District 2 had been wealthier than most, exporting food in large quantities. With that prosperity came the ability to acquire more artifacts. I did discover other relics in these ruins, but all were too large or cumbersome to haul around—massive contraptions or half-smashed devices that might have once been impressive. The Shardbound Bracers, however, looked perfectly suited to me.

I slipped them on over my existing gauntlets. Each bracer was made from Obsidianhide, a dark, segmented material reminiscent of old leather but with a certain rigid strength. Under dim light, it had a shifting, shadowy sheen, much like fractured volcanic glass. A network of runic engravings covered its surface—lines broken into fragments yet still bound by invisible magic, carrying a faint hum of power.

According to Kara, obsidianhide was an alchemically treated fabric that contained trace elements from shattered leyline crystals, enabling it to morph into "floating barriers." The runes themselves could reassemble into different configurations, pulling apart when the artifact's power was triggered.

I recalled reading about these bracers in one of Elina's lessons. They were famously known for disassembling into shards that hovered in front of the wearer, forming a barrier for three seconds—enough to intercept a lethal blow—before reconstructing themselves. Impressively, they recharged in only five minutes, meaning they could be used repeatedly in a drawn-out battle if the duration of the battle is long.

Further, this defense was self-assisting. Once activated, the bracers automatically detected the direction of an incoming attack, deploying the shards to shield the wearer.

There was also a manual option, though Kara warned it required intense training to direct the shards manually in the chaos of combat. Legends said they were created by the Obsidian Order, a group of ancient alchemists from Araksiun's golden age who utilized broken leylines for their artifacts. The craftsmanship here was staggering, the faint runic lines hinting at eons of lost knowledge.

It felt surreal acknowledging how many artifacts I now possessed. I already had Kara—my AI companion—the living cloak Hazeveil, which aided my stealth with its shadow properties, and the Gauntlets of the Starving Maw, offering limited protection plus a potent strike that needed half a day to recharge. Now, I had these Shardbound Bracers too, a formidable item for quick defense. And then there was the baffling piece both Kara and I could not fully decipher: The Prophet's Tongue.

Kara had urged me to abandon it, but I couldn't bear to. If it was showcased in that grand cathedral—where people once walked upon actual gold, surely it was more precious than anything else in there. The fact that the entire cathedral collapsed into dust the moment I removed the jar was a testament to its unsettling importance. If it could trigger the collapse of an eons-old structure, who knew what secret power it held?

Sadly, none of these artifacts aligned with what I truly sought. For months—literal months—I combed through District 2's ruins, chasing documents regarding an artifact that enhanced local crop growth.

In the end, I never found direct mention of the item itself, but I did uncover records showing how the district had produced most of its food. It turned out they did not rely on any singular facility. Rather, they used an open field that lay somewhere across the vast sprawl.

The ward of District 2 had been remarkably large, so there was ample land to cultivate. That was unusual, since many wards shrank over time as it was required due the weakening of the wards. Something here allowed District 2's perimeter to remain extensive, far more so than in other districts. I suspected that crucial artifact explained their success in maintaining such a vast range, all while reaping abundant harvests.

Had it been District 98 or 99, I might have simply wandered until I stumbled onto it. But District 2's ward had once been enormous, presumably because it required less power to sustain. If the artifact was behind that phenomenon, it might still lie out there, buried in farmland turned to rubble, or perhaps lost under twisted streets and fallen structures.

I could only guess what that open field looked like now—probably reclaimed by the fog and prowled by beasts. Yet a part of me clung to the thought that if I found it, I might discover a clue about the lost relic that gave District 2 such an advantage. Maybe it was the key to feeding a district with far less strain on the ward's energy. Maybe it could help me help District 98 and District 99. Or maybe it was just another echo of a world long past.

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Not only was it kept secret, but the artifact in District 2 seemed so important that apparently even most of the locals had been unaware of its exact nature, based on the countless letters and documents I found. Only those who worked in the fields had access to that knowledge and the necessary permissions. The rest of the district's population might have only speculated about it, or heard whispered rumors.

I had expected to spend countless more weeks combing through terrain, because the open fields covered more than ten kilometers of range. Oddly, those fields still seemed brimming with cultivated plants, even though their caretakers had long since perished. Wild growth had also taken over, twisting the once-orderly rows of crops into a tangled jungle that consumed entire swaths of ruined streets.

Yet the strangest part was how quickly I found the artifact once I arrived at the fields. It stood out unmistakably, as if it distorted the fog itself and drew more sunlight to that piece of land. Stepping forward, I realized I was looking at…

A Life Tree.

I had heard legends about such a thing, but I never imagined it could be real. The moment I laid eyes on its colossal trunk, I did not need Kara's input to recognize what it was. Its appearance matched all the details Elina had mentioned in her advanced lessons.

It towered overhead, far beyond any natural plant. The trunk alone spanned at least fifty meters across, clad in smooth, pale-golden bark. A faint, greenish glow pulsed beneath its surface, resembling lifeblood rather than sap. Kara's measurements suggested the tree rose around two hundred meters high—its upper canopy lost in the swirling fog, leaving the ground below in a dim, eternal twilight.

Massive, emerald-green leaves fluttered far above me, each leaf larger than a grown man. Whenever the breeze stirred them, they released a gentle, shimmering mist that drifted among the branches. I guessed it was some manifestation of the tree's life-giving magic, the same magic that had once nourished District 2's fields.

Beneath my feet, the network of roots appeared to snake through layers of collapsed buildings, merging with rubble, as though reclaiming the area for nature. In some places, enormous roots emerged aboveground, looping around twisted metal frames or broken walls before plunging back into the earth.

Without human intervention, the farmland had been overtaken by thick vegetation—a genuine jungle within the bones of a ruined city. I even spotted a small river, newly formed, flowing past the remains of what were once roads. It was as if the Life Tree had breathed new vitality into the place, warping the architecture to accommodate its growth.

So this was the artifact of District 2. It explained everything: how they managed such extensive farmland and why it was guarded with secrecy. Many people, driven by greed, would want to chop the tree down for raw materials, hoping to craft new artifacts from its bark or roots. And perhaps it was never formally documented, either from fear that outside powers would covet it, or because everyone who labored in these fields knew it only as an unspoken truth.

Still, I found it curious. Anyone who ventured deeply enough into the district would eventually see it. Then again, the fog often concealed such wonders. Up to that point, I hadn't encountered any other creature capable of seeing as far as I could in the fog. Even beasts with far more advanced vision than mine didn't seem able to pierce through it as effectively as I could.

Cautiously, I approached the Life Tree, stepping into the thick greenery that encircled its trunk. I paid careful attention to where I placed my feet, wary of the twisting roots that rose from the soil like guardians. Almost at once, I felt a soothing warmth spreading through me, as if the minor cuts and bruises on my body were already starting to heal. Even my persistent fatigue began to ebb.

Legends claimed that those standing under a Life Tree experienced accelerated recovery and even an extension of lifespan. But they also warned that the tree's gifts were not given lightly—if it judged someone unworthy, it could ensnare them in its roots, lulling them into an eternal slumber. Perhaps the people of District 2 had controlled it somehow, preventing such grim fates. Now, with the district destroyed, this ancient power stood unbound, growing constantly as if it were trying to overtake everything in its path.

I edged further in, noticing how the beasts prowling this jungle looked different from those in other parts of the district. The Life Tree's presence must have altered the local ecosystem, creating unique predators drawn to the vitality saturating the air.

Using Hazeveil, I slipped into the shadows, trying to avoid any confrontation. It was a slow process—hours of creeping forward, listening for roars or rustling foliage that might signal danger. But deep in my mind, I knew the Life Tree itself sensed me the moment I crossed its threshold. If the legends held truth, it was no ordinary plant.

Supposedly, a Life Tree originated from the seeds of some mythical garden. Each tree bore only a single fruit every five years, shaped like a silvery apple. The fruit healed fatal illnesses, significantly prolonged life, and granted immunity to many ailments. Wounds could mend at incredible speed. But the price was uncertain; the stories spoke of those who took the fruit unworthily and fell prey to the Tree's judgment.

After threading my way through thick foliage, I reached the massive trunk. A sense of awe stilled my breath. One root as thick as a building's foundation snaked along a rubble-strewn street. Ancient walls were crumbling under the force of newly sprouted branches. Overhead, shafts of sunlight pierced the fog, illuminating me in a pale glow. I pressed my palm to the bark, feeling the gentle thrum of energy coursing beneath it. At first, it was soothing—a promise of renewal.

Then I felt only despair. I had finally found the artifact I sought. More impressive than any I could have hoped for. Yet how could I possibly transport a towering tree the size of a small mountain? The short answer: I could not.

This was no man-portable device. It was alive, rooted in the city's foundation, altering the land itself to flourish in this wasteland. If I hoped to solve hunger for District 98, or any district, I would need the Tree moved or replicated. Neither option seemed feasible.

I clenched my fist in frustration, remembering the sacrifices and months of searching. The fact that this alone could have fed so many—perhaps all the districts—brought me close to despair. Unable to restrain myself, I aimed a punch at the trunk with all my might, the same blow that could shatter stone walls. My knuckles stung sharply, but the bark remained unmarked. The Tree didn't even quiver.

Suddenly, something light struck the top of my head. It wasn't an attack. The impact was too soft. I reached up reflexively and caught an object before it hit the ground. A single silvery fruit glistened in my hand—the Life Tree's fabled apple.

A consolation prize, perhaps?

Sinking to a seat on the mossy ground, I gazed up at the canopy. The dappled sunlight played across the leaves, and I felt a quiet acceptance. If this was the only thing I could carry away, then so be it. Gently, I bit into the silver fruit. Its flesh was indescribably sweet and rich, a flavor that made me momentarily forget my frustration.

While I ate, thick roots began to creep across nearby ruins. I saw them coiling around a pile of broken concrete that was once some tall structure, crushing it to dust. The Life Tree was reclaiming District 2, absorbing the rubble and rubble into its endless cycle of life and growth.

That was the nature of the fog-laden world we lived in: destruction made room for renewal. The cycle of life and death begins not with creation but with the tearing down of what came before. And in order to achieve such destruction, one must act based on the first rule—brutality. Only on top of that destruction can life eventually flourish once again.

This giant tree… it embodied that cycle, weaving it into a single, unstoppable current of existence. It was probably well past my stage, which is why my punch did nothing to its trunk. My anger and disappointment felt small in the face of that timeless process.

Finishing the fruit, I noticed even my minor injuries had vanished, and Kara quietly reported that certain tumors—side effects of my ongoing regenerative enhancements—had disappeared from my body. My strength felt renewed, and a subtle comprehension of healing filled my mind library. Yet as clarity dawned, so did an overwhelming drowsiness. I tried to fight it, but my limbs grew heavy.

Without warning, the roots emerged from the ground around me, forming a tight ring. They coiled into a cocoon-like structure, blotting out the sunlight. My instincts roared in alarm—was the Tree judging me unworthy? But I could do nothing. My consciousness slipped quickly. Perhaps I was on the verge of a long sleep, or maybe I was succumbing to the fabled "eternal slumber" in the Life Tree's embrace.

Darkness enveloped me, and I let out a last, weary breath. In that final moment before oblivion, I sensed no malice, only the ancient hum of the Tree's colossal heart, pulsing in tune with the earth. Then all was still, and I surrendered, powerless to resist whatever fate the Life Tree had in store.