Chapter 66 - The Boy Who Dreamed of Roots

“You already planted one.”

The boy’s fear was not theatrical.

He did not stare at Etzel’s spear.

He did not stare at DK.

He stared at the waist-high sapling.

One black-veined leaf had opened among the green.

Etzel moved between him and it.

“Start with your name.”

The boy hesitated.

Renn’s voice came from three Authority speakers at once.

“Do not move.”

The boy lifted both hands.

“I’m not armed.”

Sivenne would have said everyone was armed after awakening.

This boy had not awakened.

Yet.

The Ancient Tree had already accepted his spiritual maturity.

Etzel repeated:

“Name.”

“Edgar.”

Etzel blinked.

The boy frowned.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

At least it was a normal name.

“Edgar what?”

“Voss.”

Halven checked the Registry.

“No Hunter record.”

“I told you.”

“No civilian record in this district either.”

Edgar’s jaw tightened.

“I came from Merrow.”

“Two hundred kilometers away,” Halven said.

“Yes.”

“And you walked here?”

“Mostly.”

Etzel looked at his shoes.

Mud.

Split leather.

Blood at one heel.

Not a lie, or at least not an easy one.

The Ancient Tree pulsed.

Edgar looked toward it.

His face changed.

Longing.

Not greed.

Recognition.

Etzel knew that expression.

He remembered his own Tree.

The impossible sense that something had been waiting without knowing his name.

Renn ordered:

“Contain him.”

Authority personnel approached.

Edgar backed one step.

The Tree reacted.

Everyone stopped.

Etzel stared at the message.

“That’s new.”

Halven whispered:

“Trees do not normally intervene in approach conditions.”

“Normally they aren’t infected.”

“Was infected.”

Etzel looked at the scar.

Ninety-eight percent integrity.

The black corruption had transferred into his sapling.

Mostly.

The Tree was functioning.

But altered.

Or alert.

Edgar lowered his hands slightly.

“I need to touch it.”

“No,” Renn said.

Etzel said nothing.

Edgar looked at him.

“You did.”

“Years ago.”

“And it changed you.”

“Yes.”

“Then you know.”

“I know wanting an awakening and understanding what you’re walking into are different things.”

Edgar’s eyes moved to the sapling again.

“You don’t understand what you planted.”

“Then explain.”

The boy swallowed.

“The Gardener grows false roots.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t know.”

Etzel’s patience thinned.

“You knew enough to warn me.”

“I know what I dream.”

That stopped him.

Edgar tapped his temple.

“Three nights. Same place. Same Tree. Black roots under it. Something below the ground counting.”

“Counting what?”

“Doors.”

Mireth stepped forward.

Authority rifles shifted toward it.

Mireth stopped immediately.

“What did the voice sound like?” it asked.

Edgar stared at Mireth.

“What are you?”

“Mireth.”

“That doesn’t answer—”

“It answers the question I accept.”

Etzel almost smiled.

This text was taken from NovelPhoenix. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Edgar looked at him.

“You made that?”

“No.”

Mireth said:

“I made this body.”

Edgar stared another second, then returned to the question.

“The voice wasn’t a voice.”

Etzel and Mireth exchanged a look.

Soul facility.

System-layer messages.

Non-auditory communication.

Edgar continued.

“It was pressure. Like knowing a word before someone says it.”

“What word?”

“Ready.”

The sapling pulsed.

Edgar recoiled.

“There.”

Etzel turned.

The black-veined leaf trembled.

No wind.

The seed-grown tree was responding to him.

Or to his dream.

System text appeared only to Etzel.

“Compatible perception.”

Halven looked over.

“You have a message?”

Etzel read it aloud.

Edgar went pale.

“I’m not compatible with that.”

“Apparently something disagrees.”

The Ancient Tree pulsed again.

Etzel looked at Renn.

“If we keep him from the Tree, what happens?”

“We preserve an uncontaminated site until we understand him.”

“Tree disagrees.”

“The Tree is not Authority.”

Mireth said:

“That statement may age badly.”

Renn ignored it.

Etzel looked at Edgar.

“Why did you come?”

“I told you.”

“You dreamed.”

“Yes.”

“People dream about falling. They don’t travel two hundred kilometers looking for cliffs.”

Edgar’s mouth tightened.

Then he reached into his shirt.

Authority weapons rose.

“Slowly,” Etzel said.

Edgar pulled out a cord.

A piece of bark hung from it.

Black.

Not glass.

Burned wood.

DK moved.

Fast.

He stopped one step from Edgar.

The boy froze.

DK stared at the bark.

Etzel felt the change.

“Orsik?”

The name escaped before he could stop it.

DK’s head turned slightly.

Then back.

“I know this.”

Edgar whispered:

“You’ve seen it?”

DK touched nothing.

“Where did you get it?”

“My brother.”

“Where?”

“He died with it.”

Silence.

Etzel stepped closer.

“When?”

“Four years ago.”

Before Etzel awakened.

After Ancient Trees had begun appearing.

“How?”

Edgar looked at the Tree.

“He found one.”

Etzel’s stomach tightened.

“An Ancient Tree?”

“Yes.”

“Did he awaken?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Edgar’s voice dropped.

“Because when he touched it, something touched back.”

The valley seemed to shrink.

Halven’s scanner moved toward the bark.

“May I?”

Edgar hesitated.

Then removed the cord and handed it over.

Halven scanned.

His face changed.

“Tree-layer resonance.”

Renn asked:

“Same as the black glass?”

“Related. Not identical.”

Etzel looked at Edgar.

“What happened to your brother?”

“He came home.”

“That sounds promising.”

“He didn’t sleep.”

Less promising.

“He said roots were moving when he closed his eyes. He stopped eating. Started drawing trees.”

Edgar swallowed.

“Then one morning he asked my mother why she only had one face.”

Mireth became very still.

Etzel asked:

“And then?”

“He walked into the forest.”

“Did you find him?”

“No.”

“Only the bark?”

“On his bed.”

Etzel looked at the charred piece.

“Why keep it?”

“Because everyone told us he had gone mad.”

Edgar’s voice sharpened.

“He didn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know I started dreaming the same dreams three nights ago.”

Fair.

Terrible.

But fair.

The sapling’s black leaf opened wider.

Etzel’s System flickered.

Then a new line.

Etzel’s hand went to the sapling.

Stopped before touching.

“No.”

The signal repeated.

Mireth read Etzel’s face.

“Do not accept.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“You often plan after touching.”

“That happened once.”

DK looked at him.

“More than once.”

Etzel sighed.

“Hostile workplace.”

Edgar stared.

“You can see it?”

“See what?”

“The invitation.”

Etzel’s humor vanished.

“You’ve seen that message?”

“Not words.”

Edgar touched his chest.

“I feel it.”

The Tree pulsed.

Two invitations.

One from the Tree.

One from the foreign pattern inside Etzel’s sapling.

Both reacting to Edgar.

Etzel finally understood why the boy had been called here.

Not by one thing.

By two.

The Tree wanted to awaken him.

The Gardener—or its architecture—wanted the moment that happened.

A live observation of soul becoming ability.

The exact bridge Mireth had identified.

Etzel looked at Renn.

“We cannot let him touch the Tree while the foreign signal is watching.”

Edgar’s face fell.

“You said—”

“I said while it’s watching.”

“How do you stop it?”

Etzel looked at his sapling.

The black leaf.

Contained corruption.

His Level 15 reward had not destroyed the pattern.

It had protected and contained it.

Which meant the Gardener might have a line to it.

Etzel opened the sapling interface.

He focused.

“Can I close external contact?”

No response.

“Can you?”

The sapling moved.

One green leaf folded over the black one.

The handshake message vanished.

Etzel blinked.

Mireth stepped closer.

“It understood.”

“Apparently.”

“Did you command it?”

“No.”

The unnamed soul stirred inside him.

The tiny protected fragment inside the sapling answered.

Not words.

A preference.

Shelter.

The sapling had grown from refusals.

Maybe its first function was exactly that.

Not attack.

Not consume.

Protect boundaries.

System text formed.

Etzel stared.

His heartbeat changed.

Not immunity.

Resistance.

But real.

Earned from the things he had refused to sacrifice.

Saeva touched the trunk.

Etzel nearly stopped her.

Then did not.

The sapling’s green leaves brightened.

No warning.

Saeva smiled.

“Safe.”

Etzel looked at Edgar.

“Maybe.”

Renn’s voice hardened.

“No experiments on an unawakened civilian.”

“I agree.”

Edgar looked between them.

“You’re discussing me like I’m not here.”

Etzel nodded.

“Good correction.”

He faced him.

“Your choice.”

Renn started:

“Etzel—”

“His awakening. His choice.”

Edgar looked at the Ancient Tree.

Then the black scar.

Then the bark from his brother.

“If I leave?”

“The Tree may remain.”

“May?”

“No promises.”

“And the dreams?”

“No promises.”

Edgar breathed.

“If I touch it?”

“You could awaken normally.”

“Could.”

“Yes.”

“Or?”

“Whatever followed your brother may try to observe or interfere.”

Edgar looked at the sapling.

“And that?”

“May resist it.”

“May.”

“Yes.”

Edgar laughed once.

Not because anything was funny.

“You say ‘may’ a lot.”

“I’ve survived long enough to respect the word.”

The boy stood silently.

Then:

“I’m touching the Tree.”

Renn swore.

Etzel nodded.

“Okay.”

“You’re not stopping me?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I just spent several days arguing that identity and choice matter. It would be embarrassing to become a hypocrite before lunch.”

Edgar almost smiled.

Authority established every safeguard it could.

Halven monitored.

Renn complained.

DK stood close enough to cut anything physical.

Mireth stayed outside the Tree’s direct radius.

Saeva remained beside the sapling.

Etzel activated nothing.

Edgar walked.

Each step looked heavier.

At the Tree, he stopped.

Placed his palm against the bark.

The world went silent.

System light erupted.

Not Etzel’s.

Edgar’s.

He gasped.

The Ancient Tree’s leaves lifted.

Etzel could not see Edgar’s private choices.

He watched his face.

Confusion.

Shock.

Then fear.

Edgar whispered:

“There are eight.”

Etzel’s blood chilled.

Seven.

The world’s known set of rare original/hybrid abilities relevant to their line had always been seven.

Edgar saw eight choices.

“Don’t choose yet.”

Naturally.

Etzel looked at Halven.

“Can you see interference?”

“No.”

Mireth shouted from outside the radius:

“The black scar is changing!”

Etzel turned.

A hair-thin black line emerged from the scar.

Not toward Edgar.

Toward the Tree’s interior.

The Gardener was inside the selection.

Edgar’s eyes widened.

“One of them is looking at me.”

The mess in front of them had not moved just because they had named part of it. Etzel kept his attention on the immediate mess instead of the enormous theory trying to form behind it. Ancient Trees, other worlds, broken selection rules—every pattern wanted to become ten questions. He refused. One question at a time. One fact they could touch. One consequence they could survive. Orsik approved of the method, which Etzel found mildly insulting because it meant he was beginning to think like the knight on purpose. Etzel filed the moment under 'The Boy Who Dreamed of Roots' only because every disaster eventually needed a name.

They took a minute to check what the revelation had actually moved. No one had become better prepared. No enemy had politely explained itself. The ground was still hard beneath Etzel's boots, his shoulder still ached when he turned too quickly, and the people beside him were still mortal. He found the ordinariness reassuring. 'Good,' he said. Orsik glanced at him. 'What is good?' 'Reality is still being rude in familiar ways.' Saeva made a tiny approving sound. Etzel filed the moment under 'The Boy Who Dreamed of Roots' only because every disaster eventually needed a name.

Etzel wrote the new fact down before memory could polish it into something cleaner than it was. He had learned to distrust elegant explanations. Elegant explanations were how Hunters walked into bad dungeons convinced they understood the rules. He left blanks where blanks belonged. If the truth wanted those spaces filled, it could earn them. Etzel filed the moment under 'The Boy Who Dreamed of Roots' only because every disaster eventually needed a name.

Etzel kept his attention on the immediate mess instead of the enormous theory trying to form behind it. Ancient Trees, other worlds, broken selection rules—every pattern wanted to become ten questions. He refused. One question at a time. One fact they could touch. One consequence they could survive. Orsik approved of the method, which Etzel found mildly insulting because it meant he was beginning to think like the knight on purpose. Etzel filed the moment under 'The Boy Who Dreamed of Roots' only because every disaster eventually needed a name.

Etzel gripped his spear.

“Which one?”

Edgar read something only he could see.

His lips parted.

Then he said the name.

“The Open Door.”

The sapling behind Etzel convulsed.

Every black vein lit.

And somewhere impossibly far away—

something noticed them back.