God's Tree-Chapter 178: Memory of the Unknown Flame & The Forerunner Echo

"Get behind me. This creature preys on instability."

Kaelred darted to the left, circling the thing, blades flicking in and out of his hands.

Thae'Zirak growled from the sky, his wings kicking up a shield of dust and stone to obscure their movements.

The creature turned toward Kaelred.

And struck.

A tendril of dust and bone lashed out with impossible speed.

Kaelred twisted, barely dodging—his cloak shredded in an instant as the edge of the blow seared across his side. He hissed in pain but rolled into a crouch, flicking two blades into the creature's mass.

They passed through—but not harmlessly.

The creature recoiled.

Its shards shimmered, light fracturing into dozens of tiny visions—echoes of other lives. A battlefield. A throne room. A single tree growing in a sky of stars.

Malakar chanted in a language older than the canyon walls, and tendrils of pure darkness struck the creature's core.

It screamed again—louder, deeper.

And Argolaith fell.

He didn't hit the ground.

Not really.

Instead, he was standing in a place between moments.

This content is taken from fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm.

The battlefield froze. The wind silenced. The creature halted mid-motion.

He was somewhere else now.

A vast field of crimson grass, beneath a sky of turning wheels and violet flame.

At the center stood a tree, unlike any of the Five. Its trunk was silver, its roots carved from glass, and its branches held no leaves—only stars.

And before it stood the woman.

The same one from the visions. Her hair like flowing starlight. Her eyes molten gold. And her voice—

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "You were never meant to carry this."

Argolaith opened his mouth.

But no words came.

The world shimmered—pulled apart—and then:

Back.

The beast shrieked one final time.

And Argolaith moved.

His blade surged with the light of the rune, no longer burning blue—but silver, like the tree in his vision.

He dashed through the creature's center, slicing through its core.

No blood spilled.

No body fell.

It simply collapsed—its shards dissolving into motes of dust that scattered across the Bending Wastes.

Malakar lowered his hand. "That was… new."

Kaelred wiped blood from his cheek. "What the hell was that thing?"

Argolaith didn't answer immediately.

He stared at the rune on his arm—now still. Dimming. But not fading.

"I saw something," he said quietly. "A tree. A woman. She knew me."

Malakar's jaw tightened. "Your fourth tree?"

"No," Argolaith said. "Something else."

Kaelred raised a brow. "That supposed to make me feel better?"

Argolaith sheathed his sword. "No."

He looked toward the distant horizon, where the land shimmered and bent.

"But I think she's the reason I'm alive."

The Bending Wastes were behind them.

Almost.

The last of the shimmering, dust-blown plains gave way to hard stone and rising hills, the land no longer shifting beneath their feet. The wind dulled to a whisper. The horizon, though still warped and hazy, now held a subtle rhythm—like the land itself was finally breathing again.

Argolaith stood at the edge of a cliff, his eyes scanning the terrain below.

The rune on his arm had gone quiet, but his instincts remained sharp.

"We're not done with this place yet," he said softly.

Kaelred dropped down onto a flat rock behind him, chewing a strip of dried meat. "Good. I was worried we were overdue for another life-threatening mystery."

Malakar said nothing.

He was staring at the object below.

Buried into the side of a hill was a colossal, fractured structure—part ruin, part monument. A half-submerged tower jutted from the earth, leaning at an unnatural angle. Its surface was made of seamless black stone etched with glowing silver lines that pulsed like a heartbeat. It did not belong to this age. It may not have belonged to this world.

And even from this distance, the structure sang.

Not in sound—but in thought.

Argolaith felt a pressure behind his eyes, like knowledge pressing in.

Trying to be known.

Trying to be remembered.

They descended cautiously.

As they approached the ruin, the wind died entirely. The grass stopped moving. Even Thae'Zirak, perched silently on a jagged outcrop, said nothing.

The moment they stepped within a hundred feet of the structure, Malakar spoke.

"Don't touch anything."

Kaelred narrowed his eyes. "That confident, huh?"

Malakar's voice was lower than usual. "This was built by the Forerunners."

Kaelred blinked. "You're sure?"

The lich nodded. "I've only seen one other fragment of their design. And it was sealed beneath a city buried in obsidian. We couldn't even approach it without the divine barriers collapsing."

Argolaith stepped forward slowly.

The rune on his arm pulsed again—one soft throb.

But this time, it wasn't reacting to the tree.

It was reacting to the ruin.

"I think it recognizes me," he murmured.

Malakar's skull turned slowly to him. "That is… not necessarily good."

The base of the tower had no entrance.

No archway. No broken door. No visible seams.

Only a smooth surface covered in those same glowing sigils, arranged in geometric precision—some circular, others spiraling like unfolding time. In the center of the wall, one symbol burned slightly brighter.

Argolaith approached it.

The symbol responded—its glow flickering like breath caught in a throat.

Kaelred stepped forward, blades ready. "I've got a bad feeling…"

Suddenly—

The symbol moved.

It rotated in place, splitting open into four smaller pieces, then reassembling with a low click. The stone around it groaned, and a pulse of silver light shot out across the surface.

Argolaith froze.

The rune on his arm flared in tandem.

The tower had accepted him.

No door opened.

No passage revealed.

Instead, light poured from the sigils and traced into the air—forming an image. A projection.

A vast tree—far larger than any they had seen—glowing with silver leaves and surrounded by rings of orbiting stars. Floating beside it was a symbol nearly identical to the rune on Argolaith's forearm.

Then a second image: a figure.

Not quite human. Taller. Wreathed in robes made of shimmering light, its face hidden. The figure raised a hand, and from its palm, five seeds emerged.

Then the image vanished.

Argolaith stood silently.

"That was…"

"Not the fourth tree," Malakar finished for him.

"No," Argolaith agreed. "That was something older."

He turned from the ruin slowly.

"But it knows what I am."

Kaelred looked up at the dark, ancient tower. "And I don't think it's the only one."