Chapter 86: Seed of Hope

Chapter 86: Seed of Hope

"You despicable traitors! Traitors to the elven race!"

"Come out! Look at what you've done!"

The twelve Councilors looked haggard and terrified, their robes already torn to shreds by the enraged mob. When disaster struck, they had hidden in the safety of the Grand Council Hall, counting on the Sacred Tree guards to protect them. But in the end, even the Sacred Tree guards had turned against them. It was the guards who'd ratted them out to the mob.

The high-and-mighty Holy Councilors were herded like sheep into the square. Confronted with the heaps of bloody, mangled remains, a few Councilors straight-up puked on the spot, drawing looks of pure disgust from the crowd.

Erowen and the others had already exposed the "human stakes" to the world. The people, fresh off witnessing an apocalypse-level nightmare, immediately turned their rage on the ones responsible.

Front and center was Lamanor, once the most revered and highest-ranking Holy Councilor. He got shoved into the middle of the square, tripping and eating dirt.

He scrambled up, shooting daggers at the crowd: "How dare you! You filthy commoners, I'm a Holy Descendant! ...Argh!"

A rock smacked him right in the forehead. He shrieked and went down, blood instantly pouring down his face.

He touched the gash, then stared at his bloody hand, completely stunned—whether he couldn't believe someone actually chucked a rock at him, or that a Holy Descendant's blood could spill.

"Ha! So Holy Descendant blood is the exact same color as a commoner's!" a woman in the crowd hollered.

"Traitor! Scourge of the elves!" a man spat.

Refugees from the forest's edge pointed at Lamanor, sobbing: "Ahh, it was him! He lured my brother away—my brother got turned into a human stake..."

Rock after rock pelted Lamanor. When the rocks ran out, people started taking out their rage with fists and teeth. He clutched his head, scrabbling on the ground like a whipped dog, trying to shield himself from the blows. But soon, hands grabbed him and hauled him toward the Sacred Tree.

Lamanor's feet kicked uselessly. His fancy robes ripped apart, leaving a long smear of blood in his wake. That blood mingled with the blood of the slain monsters until you couldn't tell them apart.

The dragging came to a halt.

Lamanor pried his eyes open, trembling. The first thing he saw was a pair of boots crusted with mud and blood. He looked up and found the owner was an elven woman with wild hair and rags for clothes. For some reason, everyone bowed to her in awe.

It took Lamanor a second to realize this woman he'd almost taken for a beggar was Sylvira.

"You! This is all your fault! You're cursed—you brought ruin on the elves!" He jabbed a finger at Sylvira, screeching.

"Shut up!" Erowen strode up and booted Lamanor over. Judging by his face, he'd been itching to do that for ages.

"You set up the Lady Saint just to grab power! You sold out our homeland to the Heretic Cult, you let your own people die in your stead, you bartered the elves' future for your own riches and glory! You're the real curse on the elves!"

Lyman glided over to Sylvira and asked, "Should I kill him?"

Those words hit like a rock in a still pond, sending ripples through the crowd.

Some were incensed: "Killing him's too good for him! Scum like that deserves to be chopped into a thousand pieces!"

Others were worried: "But we elves can't kill our own kin—that'd bring a curse down on us. I don't want to catch a curse over this trash."

Someone nearby said, "We can get an outsider to do it!"

With that, they shot a glance at Lyman. They had no clue who this mysterious figure in black was, but he was chatting easily with the Saint, so he was clearly an outsider friend of hers.

But Sylvira shook her head: "The Holy Councilors once hired outsiders to murder our kin. How can we stoop to the level of the ones we hate most?"

The elves shut their mouths, not daring to say a word.

Lyman asked, "What does elven law do to criminals?"

"Fines, jail time, hard labor—the worst punishment is exile," Sylvira said. "Permanent banishment from the great forest. For elves who call the forest home, that is the most severe and terrifying punishment."

Lyman frowned. A traitor like Councilor Lanmano only got exile at most? That was too lenient...

But such was elven law, and as an outsider, he had no place to criticize.

Sylvira pointed at Lamanor and declared loudly, "I will treat the sinner with mercy and tolerance. Choose for yourself, Lamanor! Either be stripped of your rank and serve a lifetime of hard labor, using your hands to repair the home you destroyed, or be expelled immediately, exiled forever, never to return to your homeland in your lifetime!"

Lamanor opened his mouth. Labor like a commoner? Absolutely impossible! The thought of others mocking him was worse than death! He would never bear such humiliation!

"I choose... exile," he said quietly.

"Very well. You are ordered to leave the Verdant Court and the great forest immediately. Whether in life or in death, no part of your body or soul shall ever set foot in the great forest again."

Sylvira waved her hand as if shooing away an annoying fly. "Disappear from my sight at once! Do not waste what little mercy I have left!"

Lamanor immediately sprang to his feet. Clutching his wound, he backed away slowly. The onlookers recoiled in disgust as he approached, afraid of being tainted by whatever ill fortune clung to him.

Lamanor looked at Sylvira, then at Erowen and the others. Seeing no sign of them changing their minds, he quickened his pace.

He staggered off in the opposite direction from Sylvira. He didn't know where to go—he didn't even have time to pack—but it didn't matter. He was alive, and that was what counted.

Sylvira was indeed a weak-willed Saint! Elves had long lifespans; as long as he lived, there would come a day when he could make a comeback and take his revenge!

As he ran, a smug smile crept across Lamanor's lips, as if he were already fantasizing about the day he would return to the Verdant Court.

Lost in his joy, he didn't see the arrow flying toward him from directly behind.

Whoosh—

The arrow struck Lamanor's throat dead center. The bloodied tip pierced out from below his Adam's apple, the fletching still quivering.

Lamanor's eyes bulged wide. His lifeless body stumbled forward a few more steps before crashing to the ground with a thud.

Behind him, Sylvira lowered her silver bow.

The crowd held their breath, staring at the Saint in shock and horror. She had just shot a Holy Councilor dead? The Lady Saint had killed one of her own kin with her own hands?!

She had said she would exile Lamanor—why the sudden change of heart?

As if reading their thoughts, Sylvira said softly, "I said I would treat him with mercy and tolerance. In his final moment, he was surely very happy."

"But doesn't killing one's own kin bring a curse?" Lyman asked worriedly, scanning Sylvira for any sign of tentacles sprouting or extra eyeballs appearing.

Sylvira turned and walked toward the other Councilors.

"I've been cursed since birth," she said calmly. "One more curse won't make a difference."

With Lamanor as a cautionary example, the remaining Councilors all chose hard labor. The elven guards stripped them of their lavish robes and jewelry. Now they stood as bare as newborns, indistinguishable from commoners.

When a Holy Councilor was stripped of rank, according to ancient elven tradition, their family would also lose the "Holy Descendant" title, and the remaining Councilors and the Saint would select a new Holy Descendant family.

But now all twelve Councilors had been stripped of rank, leaving only the Saint. Whichever family she chose would rise to prominence overnight, becoming the most honored in the Verdant Court. But...

The elves couldn't help but gaze at the Primordial Sacred Tree.

Standing on ground piled with flesh and blood, the Sacred Tree had withered and twisted. Though it no longer rained blood, every branch had turned charred black, as if scorched by fire.

Could such a Sacred Tree still bear fruit? If not, then the highest branches could no longer produce Saints and Holy Descendants, and the lower branches could no longer bear children of commoners. Was there still a difference between Holy Descendants and commoners?

"Lady Saint, is the Sacred Tree... still savable?" an elderly elf asked, trembling.

Sylvira walked toward the Sacred Tree. She stepped over the corpses, moved past the shattered statues, and climbed onto the gnarled roots, pressing a hand against the crack-covered trunk.

A spiritual connection existed between the Saint and the Sacred Tree. Whenever she touched it, she could feel the pulse of the earth, as if she and the tree were one, both part of this vast, boundless world.

But now, she felt nothing. The bark was hollow, leaving nothing but a broken shell. Not just the Primordial Sacred Tree, but the smaller sacred trees of other settlements gave no response either. All sacred trees were connected, so when one suffered, they all suffered.

"Should we try my relic that controls plants?" Lyman said, producing the "Lament of the Earth" and handing it to Sylvira. "As long as it absorbs blood, it can spur and control plant growth. Maybe it'll work on the Sacred Tree."

The Elven Saint studied the crystal carefully, then pressed it against the tree's bark.

A stream of blood snaked from her feet and was absorbed by the roots. On the branch nearest to Sylvira, a blood-red flower suddenly bloomed, as if it had drunk the blood.

It withered quickly, dropped from the branch, and hit the soil like a decapitated head.

"No use." Sylvira shook her head. "The Sacred Tree isn't purely a plant, so this relic can barely affect it. Besides, it's not just the tree—this whole land seems cursed. How can sacred flowers grow from cursed earth?"

"The world is vast; you could find a new home," Lyman said.

His thoughts drifted south. That was a land full of opportunity. If Tove could lead the natives to the Golden City, why couldn't Sylvira find her people a new home?

"Humans can move to other lands and thrive, but we elves depend on the Sacred Tree," Sylvira said. "With the tree dead, it can no longer produce Sacred Seeds."

"So are the elves doomed to extinction?" a young elf murmured.

"I remember there are still Sacred Seeds in the treasury, right? If we plant them, new Sacred Trees can grow. It'll take a long time, but we can wait," another elf said.

Many eyes turned to an elderly female elf—the treasurer in charge of the vault. She shook her head. "All the Sacred Seeds have already been planted, since many settlements were destroyed by raiders recently. Even so, the seeds weren't enough, which is why Lady Saint had to keep holding the birth ceremonies..."

At these words, everyone's heart sank into a deep well of despair.

There were no more Sacred Seeds. Once this generation died off, the elven race would vanish from the world entirely.

Low, muffled sobs rose from the crowd. People gazed at the withered Sacred Tree, holding each other up—the only thing they could do for their people.

Sylvira gazed sorrowfully at the treetop.

Suddenly, as if remembering something, she took a small wooden box from her bosom.

"What's this?" Lyman asked curiously.

"A secret treasure left behind by the former Holy Son, Lord Feralion. He said that when the elves faced crisis, this might prove useful. But I can't open the box."

Sylvira was about to mention that Mr. Shadow seemed to know the dwarves and wondered if a dwarven craftsman could unlock it, when she heard Mr. Shadow let out a soft chuckle.

"No need to worry. I have a way."

He handed Sylvira his crimson dagger.

—One day, you'll meet someone who can open the box for you.

After hearing Mr. Shadow explain how to use the dagger for the "opening" ritual, Sylvira suddenly remembered that line from the Holy Son's journal.

Could Lord Feralion really have foreseen everything, even Mr. Shadow's existence?

She placed the box solemnly at the base of the Sacred Tree, slashed her palm with the Blade of Revelation, and imagined the box opening.

Click.

A crisp sound came from inside the wooden box.

Trembling, Sylvira opened the lid with her blood-stained hand.

Inside lay a radiant, golden seed.

***

Days later, aboard a sailing ship gliding across calm seas, Dorian Calest, the troupe leader, lounged comfortably in an armchair in the first-class cabin.

He claimed to be working on his writing and ordered all troupe members and sailors to leave him alone. Now that the Kalest Theatre Troupe was renowned, no one dared defy the leader.

He stroked the Apostle Card, which only he could see. It was growing warm—a summons from Xiaoqi for a "Divine Council."

Suddenly, six translucent figures appeared in the cabin. Since this was just a projection, two of them were embedded in the wall, looking quite bizarre.

Wait, six figures?

Dorian's gaze swept over Xiaoqi, Mr. Shadow, Mr. Moontongue, Miss Tove, and young Sylen before settling on the sixth figure.

A knowing smile spread over his face. So, Xiaoqi had finally succeeded in spreading the faith. Excellent—they'd gained another sister in the fold, and the order's strength had grown once more!

The others also noticed the newcomer.

Xiaoqi cleared its throat and announced, "Ahem, I've gathered you all today mainly to introduce a new member. This is Sylvira, the Saint of the elves."

The golden-haired, green-eyed elf woman nodded to everyone. "It's a pleasure to meet you all."

The Saint of the elves had become a follower of the Shadow Mentor! Tove suppressed her excitement. Had the entire elven race pledged itself to Him? This was huge! The Shadow Mentor wielded such immense power—was He really starting to shake the world?

Sylen, meanwhile, quietly studied Sylvira, comparing her to Feralion.

Elves seemed to favor golden hair, much like merfolk favored blue, he thought. Did Feralion know this elven Saint? If he was a native of the new continent, then probably not...

Did the elves of the new continent have their own Saint? If they met her, would they have to obey her? Hmm, he'd ask Feralion about that later.

Xiaoqi then introduced the others to Sylvira. When it came to Mr. Shadow and Dorian, it just said, "You already know him," and skipped over both.

"Oh, you know each other?" Tove couldn't help but ask.

"Ah, yes! We could say we were comrades who fought side by side!"

Dorian recounted the events of Tree Orchard Village in excruciating detail. He rambled on so long that Xiaoqi had to interrupt and summarize the whole thing.

"Then Mr. Shadow went with Sylvira to the Verdant Court..."

Dorian listened, completely captivated. To think that after they parted, Sylvira and Mr. Shadow had gone on such thrilling adventures. Man, how he wished he could have witnessed history with them! This could be material for his writing!

"So what will the elves do now?" Dorian asked.

"We'll keep living in the great forest for a while. But for my people, I want to find pure, uncursed land," Sylvira said.

"You guys could come to the southern continent!" Tove said. "Near the Lost Mountains, there's plenty of land that isn't claimed by any nation. It's a bit barren, I admit, but I've heard you elves are masters at improving soil and growing plants..."

"Indeed. Tens of thousands of years ago, our ancestors used their wisdom to turn wastelands into forests," Sylvira said.

"And I'm searching for the Golden City," Tove said enthusiastically. "If we actually find it—I mean, if it's livable—we'll definitely need a lot of labor, and we welcome immigrants!"

Sylvira, as if seeing hope, gave Tove a grateful look.

The cult of the Lord of the Abyss not only has combat powerhouses like Mr. Shadow, but also men of letters like Captain Dorian, and people like Miss Tove, who are busy with exploration and construction... This cult truly went beyond anything she had imagined.

"By the way, Tove," Xiaoqi said, "can you crack Relf Stone Spear's life-energy extraction technique?"

"You mean, to rescue those elves who were turned into human stakes?" Tove tilted her head thoughtfully. "Relf Stone Spear is a master, and an apprentice like me probably can't follow his line of thinking. However, we've got plenty of people now, and quite a few of them are skilled in spell formations or transmutation arts. Once we get settled, we'll form a research group. If we all put our heads together, there's definitely hope!"

"Miss Tove, have you entered the Lost Mountains yet?" Sylen was eager to know if the relic he'd given her had come in handy.

"Yeah! We entered the mountain area yesterday, but it'll take another day to reach the heart of the Lost Mountains—the zone where thick fog rolls in and you lose all sense of direction. That's where the Golden Compass comes in."

They chatted a bit more about how things were going.

Sylen had already returned to Silvermist Fort. Some of the people rescued from the arena joined the transport station, while others just wanted to live normal lives. Feralion said he'd help them figure things out.

Dorian, meanwhile, had led the troupe aboard a merchant ship bound for Moltalia. Word was they'd dock at Starfall Harbor in about a week.

And Mr. Shadow had arrived at Crow's Rest, getting ready to head north to the Holy City.

Everyone could sense, through their exchange, that the world was slowly being pushed toward an unpredictable future.

***

Sylen blinked. The six apparitions faded from view, and the Apostle Card went cold and lifeless again. The Divine Council had ended.

He let out a breath, shifted into Fergus's form, and walked out of the study.

From downstairs came the laughter of Pearl and Feralion. After returning to Silvermist Fort, that elf had made himself right at home in the manor, calling it "R&R." Before he knew it, Feralion had wormed his way into the transport station, accepted by Pearl, Mare, and the others as one of their own.

Man, that guy's way too familiar!

Sylen walked downstairs. Pearl and Feralion, mid-tea party, paused their conversation and turned to look at him in unison.

"Oh, Syl—I mean, Lord Fergus," Pearl said animatedly, "we were just talking about brewing poison from belladonna. Want to hear? There are so many plants in the garden that can be used for medicine—I had no idea!"

To avoid exposing his identity, even within the manor, they addressed Sylen by his alias.

Sylen sighed and turned to Feralion. "There's something I'd like to ask you."

"At your service, Lord Fergus." Feralion gave an exaggerated bow.

"Hmm, your elf race has a holy maiden or holy son, right? Who is your current holy maiden or holy son? Do you still have a Sacred Tree in your forest? I'd like to know more about your elf race."

Feralion looked at the merman youth in surprise, a glimmer of green light flickering in his eyes. Soon, he nodded with a hint of understanding.

"Ah, so that's how it is. Well then, I'd be happy to share... the story of our elf race with a friend from another race." He spoke softly with an enigmatic smile.

***

"Tove, the fog is rising," Harald said in a low voice.

The dwarven girl sat up straight and slowed her lizard mount.

The group had been deep in the Lost Mountains for two days. This nearly primeval, wild mountain region had no roads, forcing them to pick their way painfully through jagged rocks.

Before they knew it, thick fog had risen around them. The towering peaks became dark silhouettes in the mist, seeming to stretch into the endless heights of the sky. Both ahead and behind, the fog swallowed everything, leaving only vague human shapes—their companions in the column.

In such dense fog, losing one's way was almost inevitable. That was how the Lost Mountains got their name.

According to the natives, this fog was not natural but a "magic" cast by the Golden City a thousand years ago to protect itself. Only residents of the Golden City, or invited guests, could pass through the fog safely.

Others would have their sense of direction disrupted by the fog, circling back to where they started like a ghost trap, forever unable to find the Golden City's gates. Worse, some would become lost in the mist and vanish from the world entirely.

Pachak rode up beside Tove.

"Miss Tove, should we send out some scouts to find the way?" he asked.

Tove shook her head, signaling him to be patient, then pulled a Golden Compass from her pack.

She wiped the glass cover clean with her sleeve. Pachak and Harald both leaned in and saw the compass needle spinning wildly, as if someone were waving a magnet around it.

But soon, the needle's spinning slowed. It wavered back and forth before finally settling steadily on the northwest.

Tove looked up, gazing into the thick fog. There, the mist churned, a sea of grayish white.

"It's over there," she said with certainty. "Let's go!"

Author's note:

Earlier, a reader asked why Sylvira's title is "Witch." It's because she's cursed, so she's a witch. She herself has come to accept that and made peace with it.