The bonfire crackled, casting mottled light on Zhang Song’s bloodless face.
He looked up at Shen Mu’s blurry silhouette on horseback, his breathing ragged like an old bellows, each inhale bringing a sharp pain from deep within his chest.
When Shen Mu’s low voice once again rang out amidst the scent of death—
“Why did he stab you? That’s truly laughable; I always thought your relationship was very good.”
Shen Mu looked at Zhang Song with a playful expression.
Zhang Song seemed to be pulled back into the abyss of time by that question.
He stared blankly at the dim night sky, stained by thick smoke, his voice faint yet unusually clear, as he began a long, fragmented whisper.
“My Lord… *cough*… perhaps feels that listening to the past of a traitor, a defeated general… is meaningless?”
He tugged at the corner of his mouth, a metallic sweetness rising in his throat: “But as a man on the verge of death… please allow someone like me, whose name from childhood was like a weed… to say a few more words…”
“West of Long City… near the old train station… that area of dilapidated buildings that always seemed to be dripping water… that was my ‘home’.”
His gaze drifted: “That winter, when I was ten, it was truly cold… A construction site dump truck swallowed my parents… not even a complete piece of them was found… Creditors seized my house, relatives took my furniture, neighbors called me a ‘jinx’ who brought misfortune to my parents… With nowhere to go, I curled up in the hallway of a neighbor’s house… like a dirty dog about to freeze…”
“That… was the first time Yang Di saw me.”
A strange warmth actually flickered across Zhang Song’s face: “That day… was it perhaps the first clear day after a snowfall? He was with a convoy doing some ‘charitable donations’ in the shantytown… I was huddled in the shadow of a wall… just wanting to hide myself… so as not to offend the eyes of the important people… But he… he stopped…”
Zhang Song paused, seemingly recalling that life-changing gaze: “He was very tall… impeccably dressed… among those ruined rubble… he was like someone from another world… His gaze… wasn’t pity… wasn’t disdain… it was… he saw the hatred in my eyes… hatred for the whole world…”
“He asked my name… Someone nearby muttered about my ‘unlucky’ background… He only frowned… And then… he made a decision that made everyone drop their jaws—he said: ‘Come with me. Studying, living in a dormitory, it’s better than rotting here.’ ”
Tears silently mixed with bloodstains, sliding from the corners of Zhang Song’s eyes:
“That was the first time I… slept in a heated room… the first time I ate so much hot food… in the cafeteria… no longer having to rummage through trash cans… no longer being chased and beaten by those older kids, called a ‘bastard’… Yang Di… he paid my tuition… junior high… high school… even university…”
But very quickly, Zhang Song’s eyes dimmed: “You know… in those years… in the mud of the city village… even just being given a full meal was a huge kindness… And he… he gave me a home… a future… an identity I could stand tall with… When Green Leaf Group was first established… I was just a small clerk doing data entry… It was he… who personally promoted me… letting me join the negotiation team… get involved in core affairs… He patted my shoulder and said: ‘Zhang Song, you’re like my younger brother, and even more, my confidant. Green Leaf’s future has a place for you!’ ”
At this, he coughed up a mouthful of bloody phlegm, his voice growing even hoarser:
“This kindness… was too heavy… so heavy that for all these years… I willingly became his darkest blade… How many… troubles that couldn’t see the light did I handle for him? I can’t remember… I only know… the path of Green Leaf Group was paved with my conscience and blood… I thought… even if I die… I must repay this kindness… only then can I be worthy of that little beggar… who was brought back to humanity by him in the cold wind…”
“Later…”
He trembled violently, the last flicker of light in his eyes completely extinguished, leaving only cold despair and self-mockery: “…it ended up like this… being personally… pushed into hell… by the very hand… that pulled me out of hell back then…”
Shen Mu’s stern gaze still looked down upon him: “So, he acted because the bond was broken?”
Zhang Song grinned, revealing a smile uglier than a cry, blood clinging to his teeth.
He looked at the terrible wound at the base of his leg, hastily bandaged by the Kujit, yet still seeping dark moisture—it was left by Yang Di’s personal short dagger.
“…Perhaps… I misjudged him…”
He used his last strength to utter this sentence, every word imbued with bone-chilling coldness:
“It turns out… no matter how deep the kindness… no matter how rich the memories… it’s no match for… a scapegoat… in a losing battle… no match for… a heartless… withered tree…”
He closed his eyes, no longer looking at Shen Mu on horseback.
Nor did he look at this burning apocalyptic world, as if all vitality and unwillingness had been consumed in this brief and desperate conclusion.
The pillar of belief that had supported his life for decades completely collapsed, leaving only an endless bloody desert amidst the ruins.
“Alright, have someone bring a stretcher to carry him down,” Shen Mu raised his hand at this point and instructed the soldiers behind him, “Treat him.”
“Understood.”
As a few Holy Tree Knights went to relay the message, Swadian Light Infantry soon arrived with a stretcher.
They placed Zhang Song on the stretcher, preparing to leave.
Lying on the makeshift stretcher, the intense pain made every breath Zhang Song took feel like a knife, but Shen Mu’s words poured like ice water into his chaotic thoughts.
He was at a loss, his mind completely blank.
He had originally thought he would die.
But instead, he received aid.
And they were going to treat him.
“Why?”
As the soldiers lifted the stretcher, Zhang Song weakly turned his head, his gaze fixed on Shen Mu’s face, half-lit and half-darkened by the firelight.
“Why what? You are a captive. Is it not allowed to treat captives well?” Shen Mu, on horseback, seemed somewhat amused by Zhang Song’s confusion and shock.
And at this, Zhang Song’s heart pounded even more.
It was as if an invisible hand tightly gripped his heart, causing tears to completely cover his cheeks.
This was an emotion composed of countless feelings, like a mix of sour, sweet, bitter, spicy, and salty.
And as he was being carried away, Zhang Song suddenly spoke to Shen Mu: “Sorry, I still want to ask, did Zhang Bo betray us after all?… Or rather, betray… Yang Di?”
“No,” Shen Mu didn’t even turn his head at this point, looking at the large trees in the distance, and said indifferently, “He always thought he was hiding very well, but from the first glance, I knew he wasn’t sincerely defecting to me, nor was he a Prophecy-type Mage defecting from Diesel Company to me, but rather a spy from your Green Leaf Group planted in Diesel Company, who then came to my Deherim.”
As he spoke, Shen Mu truly let out a scoff: “I knew from the beginning that Zhang Bo was a foolishly naive spy from Green Leaf Group.”
“…”
Shock and sorrow churned in Zhang Song’s chest.
It turned out that Zhang Bo had never betrayed, yet he was used as a pawn by Shen Mu, moving back and forth in Deherim’s game.
Zhang Song wanted to say something, but only coughed up bloody foam, finally closing his eyes weakly.
His heart was cold; half a lifetime of loyalty to Yang Di had ultimately earned him a knife; and Zhang Bo’s foolish enthusiasm, in turn, earned Shen Mu’s contemptuous mockery.
He was like a withered blade of grass, casually broken by the torrent of the times.
The soldiers carried Zhang Song back to the medical tent in the rear, while Shen Mu withdrew his gaze, the smile on his face instantly freezing, returning to his usual cold, disdainful expression.
He turned to Fatis, who had been standing by his side, and said, “This Zhang Song is tenacious. Keep him alive; perhaps we can still extract residual intelligence about Green Leaf Group.”
Fatis nodded silently, a flicker of imperceptible complexity in his eyes—Shen Mu’s “preferential treatment of captives” was merely based on pragmatism; that noble rhetoric of “everyone is a Blue Star Human” seemed particularly ironic on the scorched earth of Eight Mile River.
But this was precisely Shen Mu’s style.
In victory, he would bestow a little human kindness, solely to strengthen his rule.
Suddenly, a dull roar came from the center of the village, from the direction of the Great Treehouse.
A Khergit Mounted Archer rode over, his heavy armor gleaming dark red in the firelight, and he reported gruffly: “My Lord! Yang Di, that madman, has burrowed into the treehouse and is using Wood Elf secret arts to tamper with that ancient tree, saying he wants to awaken the Plane’s power! Our men can’t get in—that old building is trembling, and the tree roots are writhing as if alive!”
Shen Mu’s eyebrows slightly arched as he looked towards the huge tree-trunk structure resembling an apartment building in the distance. Green light burst from the crevices, accompanied by Yang Di’s frenzied shouts, faintly piercing through the sounds of battle.
The Khergit Mounted Archer added: “According to scout intelligence, the last few Wood Elf Sword Dancers Yang Di brought are desperately guarding the entrance, and the ancient tree is shaking, seemingly about to stand up! They clearly intend to use special means to turn the tide!”
A sneer curled Shen Mu’s lips: “Turn the tide? Playing this trick in front of me is truly childish.”
He waved his hand: “Notify Bandak to use the siege heavy crossbows! Also notify Bestour, rocket coverage! That tree is nothing more than a large pile of firewood.”
Soon, soldiers went to deliver the message.
Very soon.
Bandak arrived with his infantry unit from the rear, and the Swadian Light Infantry also pushed over ballistas mounted on carriages.
These were the ballistas Bandak had prepared on carriages earlier, intended to serve as siege weapons at critical moments!
Now, they were indeed put to use!
Ten menacing ballistas now arrived beside Shen Mu, aiming at the treehouse.
At the same time, the Khergit Mounted Archers lit their arrows, uniformly drawing their bows, like fiery meteors flying across the night sky.
Shen Mu murmured, as if to himself and as if pronouncing judgment on Yang Di: “From the first day of negotiations, Yang Di has been digging his own grave, pulling in Zhang Song, pushing Zhang Bo, trusting those rotten trees—every step a blunder.”
At this moment, it had reached the final step.
Solving the Great Treehouse.
Solving Yang Di.
Everything.
Would come to an end.
…
The raging flames, like greedy venomous snakes, voraciously gnawed at the base of the massive treehouse.
The thick, century-old tree roots crackled under the high temperature, and dense smoke mixed with sparks billowed from the cracks in the bark, engulfing the interior in a scorching hell.
The air was filled with the smell of burning wood, the pungent odor of burning resin, and… a strong, nauseating smell of blood—
That was the proof of the few Wood Elf Sword Dancers who remained in the treehouse, fighting for his last moments, rapidly perishing under the heavy crossbows and fire attacks.
Yang Di was curled up in the innermost corner of the treehouse, closest to the thick main trunk.
The air here was scalding, the smoke slightly thinner, allowing him to clearly see the half-piece of Wood Elf runestone he clutched tightly in his hand, carved with intricate vine patterns—this was the final key to activate the Plane’s core passage and summon the Plane’s will to descend.
It had once been warm and smooth like jade, glowing with a soft green light, symbolizing vitality and a connection to a higher existence.
Now, it was cold and lifeless, like a discarded stone.
“Answer me!!”
Yang Di’s hoarse roar echoed in the burning treehouse, filled with the cracking sound of despair and unwillingness.
One of his legs had been grazed by a Khergit Mounted Archer’s arrow earlier, and blood stained half his trousers, yet he seemed to feel no pain at all, only using all his strength to prostrate himself in the most humble posture, his forehead pressed tightly against the scorched, scalding wooden floor, as if he wanted to merge into it.
“Wood Elf Plane! Great Elder! I beg you! Send down your power! Send down your wrath! This is the last call of your loyal believer!!”
He screamed until his voice was hoarse, choked by the thick smoke, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the unresponsive runestone: “Green Leaf Group is your fulcrum! It cannot be destroyed like this! Shen Mu… that thief! He desecrates your glory! He destroys your altars! Destroy him! As long as he can be destroyed! I am willing to offer everything I have! My soul! My flesh!”
There was no response.
The Plane’s whispers, once clearly audible and lingering in his heart, the subtle yet soul-soothing natural pulsations, had completely vanished.
It was as if he was not facing a bridge of communication, but a cold, absolute, and merciless barrier that shut him out.
This forest, once managed by him, the Wood Elf bloodline he protected, along with that distant Plane’s will, had cruelly abandoned him.
He suddenly lifted his head, his face, covered in sweat and ash, distorted with a near-breakdown madness.
He frantically pounded the ancient main trunk in front of him, his fingernails tearing and bleeding on the rough bark.
The bark was pounded until fragments flaked off, stained with his blood, but besides the vibration bringing more dust and burning sparks drifting in from outside, there was no response, nothing at all.
“No… impossible… Why is it like this… You can’t do this to me!!!”
His last roar dissolved into a broken sob.
Yang Di collapsed to the ground, his strength seemingly completely drained in an instant.
He was like a wild beast with a broken spine, curled up on the scalding floor, his body convulsing violently from extreme pain and despair.
Countless images flashed through his mind.
Yang Di had truly entered the most desperate moment, completely abandoned and given up on, with no one left to call for help. (End of Chapter)
