Chapter 1344: Plant Beings Clash with Plant Beings

In a small garden blanketed with countless white blossoms, an invisible breeze circled twice around the round table at the garden’s center. But this was no mere environmental simulation generated by a neural network—this space was carved out by the vast neural nodes of the towering Thorin tree itself. It existed as an independent visitor zone, tethered within the network, and the wind sweeping through the flower sea was, in essence, the Thorin tree’s own “thought.”

After a few seconds, the breeze gradually died down. Beltira ended her remote limb’s information exchange and, stirring the steaming tea in her hand, looked up at Gawain. “Yes, I can clearly sense Bertram’s signal response. He’s moving near the front lines with a group of grotesque mutants, and they’re constantly operating around my distal root system…”

She paused, narrowing her eyes as if to sharpen her perception of the distant signals. Then she continued, “I can feel… he’s digging into the peripheral roots I haven’t fully grown yet, injecting targeted toxins and inhibitors into the underground water, and directing the dark root networks within the wasteland to counter my spread. By now, he’s probably become the main commander of the wasteland’s immune barrier. His intervention… is quite effective.”

Beltira’s eyes narrowed further. She disliked praising her enemies, but facing Bertram’s resistance, she had no choice but to admit his effectiveness with those three words.

“I thought after such a failure, he wouldn’t return to the front. But not only has he come back, he’s been entrusted with a major responsibility,” Gawain frowned as he listened. “Looks like that so-called ‘Dark Archprelate’ Bolken isn’t as harsh and unforgiving as you said—at least he knows how to make use of a capable failure.”

“Or maybe he simply can’t afford to waste capable followers,” Beltira replied calmly. “Either way, Bertram’s return was a surprise. I never expected he still had this ability… It seems that last defeat gave him enough motivation to desperately redeem himself. And…”

Her expression twisted oddly, a twitch at the corner of her mouth. “He’s also learned well from that lesson—I once tried to psychically parasitize his mind to extract intelligence about the wasteland. That attack actually established a reverse connection. Now, when he leads his team to intercept my distal roots, their precision and efficiency far surpass other dark clerics.”

“…So the prey has overcome its instinctual fear and turned its ‘predator phobia’ into a tool to actively hunt the predator’s location,” Gawain mused. “Sounds like a real talent. How do you plan to deal with this resurgent opponent?”

“Deal with him? For a predator, ‘dealing with’ food is unnecessary,” Beltira said with undisguised contempt. Yet she clearly wasn’t dismissing him so lightly as to forgo any plan. “Rest assured, I’ve prepared the best traps for him and his monstrous minions. Since he’s so interested in those secrets buried deep underground, let him come.”

The sovereign consciousness of the Thorin tree smiled, like a seasoned predator plotting its next feast. Then, with elegant grace, she lifted the steaming teacup above her head and poured the hot tea over herself.

Gawain stared, utterly baffled, unable to process what had just happened. Then, the green-dressed woman suddenly tossed the cup aside and sprang up from her chair, frantically clawing at her hair while exclaiming, “Hot! Hot! Hot!”

Only then did Gawain realize—several beats too late—he reminded her, “You’re inside the neural network… we usually drink the tea here.”

“I’m just used to watering plants…” Beltira muttered, shaking her dripping hair as she stood amid the flower field. Her form quickly faded as she shot a glance at Gawain. “I’m going back to continue the advancement plan!”

In the next instant, she vanished completely, leaving only the empty white flower field and the round table behind. Gawain stood by the table, staring blankly in the direction she disappeared. Slowly, fragments of memory surfaced from the depths of his mind. After a long moment, he smiled wryly and shook his head. “That’s a look I haven’t seen in seven hundred years…”

With that, his figure too faded into the flower field, and the special “tethered” space formed by the Thorin tree’s neural nodes plunged into darkness within the network.

…

Deep within the Thorin tree’s canopy, inside the “main consciousness chamber” woven from countless wooden structures, vines, and leaves, a specialized immersion pod quietly operated near the central platform. Its hatch remained open, the interior empty. Thin, vine-like neural fibers crept from the “floor” and “walls,” winding their way into the pod and attaching their suction-cup tips to metal contact points on the seat’s backrest.

Suddenly, the fibers twitched, then swiftly detached from the contacts and retreated into the shadows of the wooden framework. On the central platform, a mass of flowering vines writhed and parted, revealing Beltira’s avatar. The simulated form blinked, adjusting to the sensory shift from virtual to real. After a few seconds, she fully regained awareness.

She raised a hand to touch the dry, rough “hair” atop her head. Her expressionless face betrayed a hint of frustration as she muttered, “So stupid. I was so stupid…”

Moments later, her frustrated muttering turned cold and resolute. “Bertram will pay for this embarrassment…”

…

Bertram shuddered suddenly. Though no cold wind swept the wasteland, and his mutated body had long lost sensitivity to temperature, he distinctly felt a chill seep into his mind like icy water flooding his senses. The cold snapped him instantly to full alert.

This was no illusion. After days operating on the wasteland’s edge, he had learned to recognize this soul-deep chill. It was the lingering effect of a psychic attack—and the very reason he could return here and be entrusted again despite a string of terrible mistakes. It was the mental link between predator and prey.

Unfortunately, he was the prey. Whenever this chill came, it meant the terrifying, utterly alien “predator” was nearby, radiating intense hostility. It meant razor-sharp claws lurked dangerously close.

Bertram was used to it by now. That mad “saintess” had been sending him this hostile “appetite” for days. Operating under this threat was his main task.

“I’ve detected it,” Bertram said, calming quickly as his branches trembled in the winter wasteland. Many leaves pointed toward the same direction. “A large neural cluster, a strong thought pulse… due east. The signal just appeared. There must be an undeveloped root system there. Move out immediately!”

Behind him, a squad of twisted treants and a horde of mutants responded swiftly. Under the dark archprelate’s command, they began a rapid advance across vast plains and toxic valleys toward a zone near the frontline. Shortly after the movement began, a dark cleric with gray-black bark and a swirling, twisted canopy approached their leader. “Archprelate, can we capture the ‘organ’ emitting the thought pulse this time?”

“I don’t know. But I’m confident… we’re closing in on it.”

As Bertram spoke rapidly, he silently issued a series of commands to the nearby root network: instructing the underground offensive vines to weave strangling encirclements; ordering secretory organs between roots to produce counteracting pheromones; transforming some “young vines” to mimic the neural signals of the living forest, allowing them to approach the enemy undetected and release disruptive toxins into the soil before being identified and crushed.

These were tactics he had honed during his ongoing battle with Beltira—many learned from her own methods. Though bizarre, he had to admit that the mad “saintess,” now truly a plant being, had devised many strategies only a plant could conceive—and they were effective.

Fortunately, they shared a common origin. What Beltira could do, the deep wasteland root network could replicate. As long as a clever mind learned from that madwoman, countermeasures would naturally follow.

Bertram considered himself such a “clever mind”—the one thing he could take pride in these days.

It even somewhat eased the shame and anger he’d accumulated from his last defeat.

At the same time, deep within the dark, corrupted wasteland, an intense clash invisible to ordinary eyes erupted and escalated rapidly under Bertram’s orders.

The Thorin tree’s distal roots spreading southward met fierce resistance. Some newly sprouted roots, not yet battle-ready, were strangled and died in large patches between soil and underground rivers. The dark root network from the wasteland launched a swift “mop-up” operation. Horrifying sounds of friction and writhing echoed through subterranean caves and tunnels. Living vines burrowed through the darkness, weaving encirclements while releasing toxins and tiny “biological soldiers.” Some fine vines disguised as Thorin roots crept northward, growing stealthily.

The Thorin root system’s counterattack came swiftly, unleashing a barrage of tactics matching their foes. The dark clerics’ root networks began widespread necrosis along the border.

Yet before dying, these decaying roots transmitted ample intelligence back to Bertram.

“The counterattack is incredibly swift… concentrated and continuous thought pulses… neural signals converging toward the eastern region…”

On the cold, barren plain, Bertram led his team as they quickly moved toward their target, carefully attuned to the information flowing from below. Suddenly, a surge of joy welled up inside him.

Along with that joy came an increasingly clear and intense “predator’s aura.” It stirred a near-instinctual fear within him—two completely opposite emotions crashing against his already fragile mind. Yet, in the chaotic tug-of-war tearing at his consciousness, Bertram found himself growing more exhilarated. A strange, almost unnatural excitement made him shout loudly to his followers, “We’ve got the big one! Brothers, we’ve caught it!”

“Exarch, you mean…” a low-ranking dark priest hesitated for a moment before quickly catching on. “You mean this time we’ve caught the ‘thinking organ’?”

“That’s right. I’m sensing those powerful thought pulses, the neural signals all converging on this spot. We’ve got it,” Bertram growled through clenched teeth—though by now he had no teeth left. “That madwoman can extend her consciousness so far, and single-handedly control such a massive body… the truth behind her cognitive auxiliary organ—we’ve finally caught it!”

As he spoke, he realized they had reached the vicinity of their target. He immediately ordered his followers to halt, wary of falling into a trap.

Despite his excitement, Bertram maintained a basic level of judgment and calm. He knew all too well how cunning this so-called ancient saint, Beltira, was. And he understood that in this world, luck without reason simply didn’t exist—well, maybe it did, but he certainly didn’t expect it to land on him.

The target lay just ahead, but he dared not rush in blindly to start digging. Who knew what that madwoman had prepared? Maybe the ground would split open the moment he stepped forward, revealing a stomach-like cavity filled with razor-sharp teeth and digestive acids.

“Exarch, how do we get through?” the low-ranking dark priest asked beside him.

Bertram said nothing. Instead, he silently connected with the root network underground, which was fiercely battling the enemy. Moments later, a deep rumbling sounded nearby. Thick earth and rock were torn apart by subterranean forces, revealing a sloping passageway leading underground—supported and surrounded by countless living vines and roots.

“I suspect that madwoman set a trap for us,” Bertram said grimly. “But it’s fine—we’ll push through slowly under the cover of the root network. Whatever she’s prepared down there, we’ll tear it apart piece by piece.”

(End of chapter)