Demon King After the End-Chapter 19: Tree of Death [1]

For a moment, there was only silence.

The sapling stood motionless in the hollow of dry earth—its frail, blackened roots barely touching the soil. Its thin, brittle branches drooped like the dying breath of something ancient.

Then... the wind shifted.

A sudden gust swept across the wasteland, hurling dust into the air. The sapling trembled—just once—before a subtle pulse rippled outward from its base.

It wasn't light.

It was stillness.

Like the world had paused—held its breath in reverence or fear.

Leon narrowed his eyes. "Wait for it."

From beneath the sapling, dark tendrils of energy began to snake through the earth, spreading in every direction like veins of ink through water. The dead, cracked ground shuddered—crumbled—then melted into something new.

It wasn't green.

It wasn't lush.

But it was alive.

The soil turned charcoal-black, flecked with faintly glowing motes—embers of death, yet rich with dormant power. A still beauty. A solemn promise.

Elvera dropped to her knees again. This time not in despair... but disbelief.

"It's changing the land..." she whispered. "It's really changing it..."

Her voice was barely audible.

"This is... Nethersoil..."

Leon glanced at her. "That what you call it?"

She nodded slowly, reverently.

"Soil touched by death. We can't grow normal crops here... but death-aligned flora? For us, it's sacred. It's a second chance."

Her hand reached forward, trembling, until her fingers grazed one of the newly sprouting leaves at the sapling's base.

A breath hitched in her throat.

The touch triggered something—a surge of ancient energy. Not magic, but memory.

Whispers filled her ears—faint songs sung beneath black moons, lullabies in a forgotten tongue, roars of battle, tears shed by mothers and warriors long gone.

A people not extinct, but waiting.

Waiting for this.

Elvera's shoulders shook. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks—but this time, they weren't grief.

They were hope.

Real. Raw. Living hope.

"This is..." she choked. "This is our mother. She's... she's growing again."

The sapling pulsed once more—then began to grow.

Not in an explosion of magic, but with slow, powerful certainty. The trunk thickened, bark gnarled and twisted like coiled bone. Dark-purple leaves unfurled, each glowing softly, like they drank moonlight. Black mist coiled around its roots—silent and steady—guardians of the sacred.

And still it grew.

The Tree of Death was alive.

And it was claiming the land.

A radius of several dozen meters had already shifted—turned from dry, lifeless dirt to rich, blackened Nethersoil. It crept outward with quiet authority, a slow but unstoppable tide of death-touched life.

No spells.

No fanfare.

Just nature doing what it was always meant to do.

Elvera dropped to her knees once more, but not from grief.

This was reverence.

She bowed deeply before the sapling—before her goddess reborn.

"Thank you," she whispered. Her voice was thick with emotion. "For bringing her back. For giving us... a future."

She lifted her head and turned toward Leon—her crimson eyes no longer filled with suspicion or guarded distance. Now, they blazed with certainty.

"I, Elvera De'Choron, Queen of the Dark Elves," she said, voice echoing like a vow across the quiet wind, "swear upon my origin... I pledge my loyalty to you, Leon Vaelgrim."

Leon blinked. "Wait a second... didn't you already swear loyalty to me?"

Elvera smiled faintly, but there was a gravity in her eyes. "That oath was not to you, but to the throne."

He frowned. "What's the difference? I'm the one sitting on it."

"No," she said, rising to her feet slowly, voice calm but resolute. "Back then, I would have followed your commands because you were king. If your actions ever endangered the throne... I would have raised my blade against you."

Leon's expression shifted.

"...And now?"

Elvera stepped closer. The wind tugged at her cloak as she looked him straight in the eyes. "Now, my loyalty is to you, Leon Vaelgrim. Not the title. Not the throne. You."

Leon stared at her for a beat... then scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Well... thank you. I guess."

******

A few kilometers from where Leon and Elvera stood, nestled in a forgotten corner of a ruined demon outpost, twelve dark elves lived in quiet exile.

Their homes were no more than half-buried huts and cracked stone shelters. A place of survival, not living.

Suddenly, without warning—a surge of energy flowed through them.

It wasn't violent. It was like an old melody being heard again after centuries.

A young dark elf stumbled, clutching her chest.

"What... is this feeling?"

The elders stirred from their slumber. Eyes that had been dull with age snapped wide open.

"Mother..." one of the oldest muttered, his voice breaking.

"Am I hallucinating?" another whispered, trembling.

"No," said a third, his eyes glistening, "I feel her. I feel the Mother's call. And she's near..."

They pushed open the brittle doors of their huts and staggered out into the light.

They looked to the horizon.

In the clear daylight, where the sun scorched the barren plains, a blot of darkness hung in the distance. A patch of storm clouds, gathering above a lone, eerie silhouette.

A tree.

Twisted and regal, it clawed toward the heavens with spiraling black branches tipped with dark-purple leaves, each one pulsing with a faint glow. A black mist coiled at its roots like smoke that refused to rise. It wasn't massive—yet—but it was alive.

The Tree of Death had returned.

One of the younglings stepped forward, trembling. "That's... not possible."

And then they ran.

Without hesitation, without thought.

Tears streamed from some eyes. Laughter broke from others. But they all moved, limbs burning, hearts racing—toward the miracle.

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*****

Ruins of Velkarn — The Fallen Temple of Death

In the far north, buried under ice and forgotten ruins, lay the Temple of the Death, once the holiest site of the Dark Elves before it was destroyed by the human crusades.

A lone priest remained. Old beyond reckoning. Blind. Covered in frost and rags.

He sat in silence in the shattered hall.

Then he wept.

Not because of pain, but because of sound—a heartbeat. Slow. Steady. Deep within the ground. Faint, but unmistakable.

The heartbeat of the Tree.

He fell forward onto the cracked stone, whispering prayers no one had uttered in a hundred years.

"She stirs... the Mother stirs again..."

*****

In a hidden black market where demons, beastkin, and dark elves traded in whispers, two cloaked dark elves stood at a stall selling dried roots and herbs.

Suddenly, one of them dropped the bundle in her hand.

"...Did you feel that?" she whispered.

The other's eyes widened. "The pulse. You felt it too?"

Both turned, staring to the east.

They didn't say another word.

They threw down their trade goods, left their post, and walked into the night without hesitation—drawn like moths to the dark flame they thought lost forever.

*****

On the windblown highlands, a dark elf wanderer had lived among beastkin nomads for years, hiding her identity.

She stood alone at the edge of the cliff as a strange storm brewed to the east.

Her body trembled.

"...Home."

A beastkin shaman approached, sensing something wrong. "What do you see, stranger?"

She didn't answer. She removed her necklace, revealing the old sigil of the Tree of Death carved into stone.

"I must go," she said. "My people are calling."

The shaman gave a solemn nod. "Then go. With our blessing."

Similar scenarios were happening in different parts of the world.