Chapter 712: The Plant

Exiting the chamber filled with mysterious runes and housing the Eversleepers’ magical apparatus, two paths lay ahead.

One led back the way Bard had come—a sloping ramp connecting the upper and middle levels. The other stretched forward, deeper into the dark, chaotic lower and middle layers.

Standing before the corridor that plunged further into the depths, High Elf Highborne Gawain focused briefly, sensing the distribution of magical energy around him.

That subtle, pervasive energy field enveloping the entire Solinfort region was still present here. Vitality flowed endlessly from the roots of the colossal tree, as if someone were casting an unceasing healing spell. Every living organism within range was affected by this life force; even Gawain felt a faint uplift in his spirit.

Beyond this energy field, however, he detected no other threatening presence.

The squad that had descended with him gathered behind. Their commander quickly issued orders: “Groups of five, arranged in a 1-2-2 exploration formation. Proceed cautiously.”

Fully armed magi-warriors sprang into action, forming several teams each composed of a vanguard shieldbearer, two scouts, and two fire support. They advanced down the long, shadowed corridor. Thanks to their tactical visors, which revealed magical currents clearly, and the glowing runes on their gear, their nerves were steadied despite the tension.

Only the steady, orderly sound of footsteps echoed through the dungeon.

Amber walked beside Gawain, eyes wide with curiosity. The dimness of the dungeon was no obstacle for her—born in the Shadow Realm, she saw as clearly as in daylight. Still, she activated her enhanced shadow vision, because what she sought wasn’t just visible to the naked eye, but only through this spectral sight.

Her eyes glowed faintly golden, a thin mist of shadow rising around her. The effect resembled her “Shadow Faerie” form from her home realm, though she controlled it carefully to remain anchored in the material world while maximizing her affinity with shadow.

Gawain noticed this “half-elf’s” behavior and quietly asked, “What do you see?”

“Nothing visible,” Amber replied, “but it looks more professional this way…”

Gawain: “…”

“Just kidding,” she said, noticing the walls were made of hard stone that would be impossible to chip away, so she quickly dropped the joke. “There are… things here. Shadow dwellers. They’re everywhere, more than in any other place.”

“Shadow dwellers?” Gawain frowned, instinctively scanning the surroundings—though with his human eyes, he couldn’t see those creatures hiding in the shadowy crevices. “What are they doing? Are they a threat?”

“Probably not,” Amber blinked. “They stick to the shadow side and don’t seem to care about us visitors from the material world. They wander this corridor, apparently very interested in this dungeon, but they don’t do much else.”

As she spoke, she kept her gaze on the “landscape” only she could perceive.

In the deep, dark corridor, the world faded to black and white. Groups of humanoid shadows wrapped in rune-inscribed cloth drifted silently past Gawain and his team, ignoring the material visitors entirely. Only when passing Amber did some shadow dwellers pause briefly, nodding or muttering a faint greeting.

Amber shrank her neck, suddenly feeling a chill from these creatures who had once been quite friendly to her.

She reined in some of her shadow power, pulling herself back from the Shadow Realm and anchoring herself more firmly in the real world.

She belonged here. She didn’t want to return to that other world.

Meanwhile, the team had traversed the long corridor and passed through a collapsed, cracked door. Gawain found himself in a vast hall.

The hall was spacious with a high ceiling. Stone—or some stone-like artificial material—lined the walls and floor, etched with runes now extinguished, and cooled magic-conducting metal. This had once been a solemn, important place, but now it was a ruin. The long tables for gatherings lay shattered, chairs toppled and twisted. Thick roots burst through the ceiling and floor, weaving a tangled jungle that dominated the space.

In fact, if not for these roots wrapping and binding nearly the entire dungeon, this massive underground ruin would have collapsed long ago. The artificial god’s emergence had severely damaged the strata beneath Solinfort, and then a plant larger than the castle itself had grown here. The only thing keeping this subterranean palace stable was the roots.

Plant roots really do hold the soil together—no joke (thick fog).

Gawain scanned the hall, recognizing some features, then realized he had “seen” this place before.

This was the “Council Hall” from Bard’s dream. But while Bard had seen it intact, Gawain now saw it in ruin.

“Looks like I’m only truly entering the Council Hall now…” Bard murmured, eyes sweeping over the wreckage and the jungle of roots.

No High Priests were holding council here, no bright magical crystal lamps lit the room. Only chaos reigned, and faint sounds of friction deep within the roots.

Faint friction?

Both Gawain and Bard heard the strange noise. Gawain immediately looked up, alert, toward a dark corner of the hall.

The soldiers reacted too, weapons raised and safeties off, the soft clicks of arming filling the air.

“Stay alert—don’t fire unless necessary,” Gawain whispered, drawing his Pathfinder longsword and moving cautiously forward.

In the scattered beams of their personal lights, a tangled mass of roots and vines in the corner began to writhe slowly. Gawain motioned for the soldiers to hold fire, watching silently as the vines twisted and shifted. A faint green glow emerged, and a female figure gradually materialized from the plants.

Bertilla Augustus—in the real world.

Her eyes were closed, her face still familiar to Gawain, but her body seemed fused with the plant. She wore a strange “dress” of plant cuticle and leaves, with roots and flowering vines growing from her back, legs, and neck, connecting her to the vast root network in the hall. Rather than her being connected to the roots, it was more like…

Her body was part of the giant tree itself. The tree had taken on Bertilla’s form—or perhaps she had become the Solin Tree.

Gawain couldn’t tell which was true. All he knew was that this “Bertilla” was unconscious.

Her eyes remained closed, unresponsive to the intruders or the flickering lights. She clutched a heavy, strange tome—apparently the thing she had fought to protect before losing consciousness. Nearby, Gawain sensed a strong magical aura.

Healing magic.

She was continuously releasing healing spells outward, and under her influence, the Solin Tree communicated with the natural magic around it, generating an unbroken life field. This was what had caused the entire Solin region to revive and rebuild over the past few days.

“Seems like she’s not responding…” Amber observed cautiously. She knew Bertilla had once been a dark, cunning fallen druid, but now she resembled a dangerous magical creature. “Is she really casting healing spells? Healing in her sleep, saving lives in a dream?”

Gawain frowned, studying the strange scene and pondering the cause of Bertilla’s condition. He glanced up at the tangled roots and began to form a theory.

“There’s something behind this,” he said suddenly. “Clear away the roots.”

Soldiers moved forward to cut through the thick, intertwined roots. Gawain looked back at the still-sleeping Bertilla, expressionless as ever.

This dark High Priestess had truly become a plant—and plants have no blood, no tears.

The roots were tougher than expected. After a long effort, the soldiers finally cleared a gap. One peeked inside and shouted, “There’s something back here! A secret chamber!”

Behind the root-covered entrance was a hidden room.

Inside, heaps of black, humanoid-shaped objects lay piled up—so distorted that only vague human outlines remained.

The sight was chilling: hundreds of humanoid forms stacked together, countless vines twisting and crawling over them, connecting to their flesh and to the roots on the walls. Their life was clearly gone, but the vines growing on them thrived. Outside, Bertilla…

Continued to cast healing spells over these dead followers of the End of All Things cult.

Her healing magic wasn’t pointless. She forcibly maintained these lifeless forms in a state between life and death, imprisoning their last lingering spirits within the massive plant.

Now Gawain finally understood the origin of Bard’s nightmare.

Amber peeked into the chamber, shivering at the eerie sight. The half-elf quickly withdrew, whispering beside Gawain, “This thing is seriously creepy… I don’t like those cultists, but turning into this? That’s terrifying.”

“Madmen meet madness in the end,” Gawain sighed softly, withdrawing his gaze. “Judging by the timeline of the Crystal Legion’s collapse, the artificial god spent about two weeks trapped underground before bursting out. During that time, this dungeon was sealed, and the last cultists and their horrific creations were locked in the darkness below… Madness twisted into mutation, and this giant tree covering half the Solin region is their final fate.”

He was beginning to piece together how the tree had come to be.

“What do we do now?” Amber asked. “Let them stay like this? Or burn it all down?”

“Though they’re dead… no one knows if this will cause unexpected changes,” Gawain shook his head. “As for burning it… maybe it’s unnecessary.”

He spoke as he approached the plant-formed Bertilla.

Plants truly have no blood and no tears.

But dreaming—that’s not something plants do.

“Stop it. They’re all already dead,” Gawain said to Beltira.

Beltira’s eyes remained half-closed, completely unresponsive to the outside world.

Gawain raised an eyebrow. “Pretending to sleep won’t solve anything. Or do you want me to teach you the meaning of being human all over again—in the real world this time?”

After a few seconds of silence, Amber and the others were surprised to see Beltira’s healing magic actually cease.

The “life force field” still lingered in the surrounding space—this seemed to be some inherent trait of the great Thorin tree, something that couldn’t easily dissipate. But the healing spell Beltira maintained in this underground chamber had truly stopped.

She finally opened her eyes slowly, her voice carrying a strange, slow, and low tone as she looked at Gawain and said, “So… it really is you…”

Gawain knew she was referring to that “dream encounter” back at the border of the Gondor wastelands. Back then, he had fooled her by disguising himself as the founding emperor Augustus. But now, it was clear Beltira had finally seen through the truth.

Though at this point, even understanding everything no longer mattered.

Gawain felt a sudden wave of melancholy.

He never imagined he’d see Beltira again under such circumstances, nor witness the final fate of these dark druids.

These fanatics—mad, paranoid, and extreme—had ultimately destroyed themselves with their own twisted sorcery.

They had become the graveyard grass of their own dark cult… the very embodiment of a graveyard weed.

Though, admittedly, this particular graveyard weed had grown to an impressive size.

(End of chapter)