God's Tree-Chapter 173: The End of the Lands

Kaelred stared ahead at the horizon, where the road dissolved into fog. "You sure about this?"

Argolaith nodded once. "That's where the rune leads. That's where the fourth tree is."

Kaelred scoffed lightly. "Great. Just making sure we're all in agreement about heading into a place literally named after permanent disappearance."

Malakar added, "They say even the beasts of the Forsaken Forest won't cross the boundary. And no birds ever fly beyond it."

Kaelred glanced at him. "Thank you, endless optimism as always."

Argolaith didn't speak. He simply stepped forward. Each movement was precise, steady.

Behind him, the town was silent. The villagers watched from behind shuttered windows and half-opened doors. No one spoke. No one called out. They knew where he was going.

And they knew what that meant.

By midday, the familiar terrain had given way to new lands—lands where trees grew twisted and sparse, where the soil turned black beneath their boots, and the wind whispered in broken tongues.

A ridge of jagged stone marked the unofficial line—the last landmark before the terrain grew unstable. From here forward, the ground cracked in strange spirals, and the air shimmered faintly with residual magic, like heat rising from invisible fires.

"This is it," Thae'Zirak said, perching on a rock, his voice low. "The old name for this place was Vaelrun. In the old tongue, it meant the land that unravels."

Kaelred looked around. "Why would the tree be here?"

Argolaith stepped forward, his eyes steady. "Because the world forgot it."

The rune on his arm pulsed again, brighter now, the light visible even through his sleeve.

By nightfall, they had traveled miles beyond the ridge. The sun did not set normally here—it simply faded, as if the sky had grown tired. Stars blinked into view slowly, flickering in strange patterns, like they'd forgotten where they belonged.

They made camp near a ruined stone arch, half-buried in overgrowth. Argolaith recognized none of the symbols carved into its frame, but Malakar crouched near them, brushing away moss.

"These weren't built by any known race. Not Elven, not Dwarven. Possibly…" he hesitated, then stood, "Forerunner."

Kaelred let out a low breath. "That's just what we need. Another dead civilization watching us."

Argolaith sat near the fire, staring at the horizon.

The rune was pulling harder now. He could feel it in his bones, like a thread wound tight beneath his skin, pointing him toward a place that didn't want to be found.

And yet…

It was calling him.

Inviting him.

As the fire crackled and the others prepared to rest, Argolaith removed his glove and stared at the glowing rune.

A faint wind stirred the fire.

And a voice—low, cold, ancient—whispered not aloud, but within:

"Come to where the world ends."

"Come to where the trees first broke free of the gods."

"Come alone… if you wish to leave whole."

Argolaith closed his fist slowly.

Then looked toward the darkness beyond the hills.

It was time.

The further they traveled, the quieter the world became.

Wind no longer rustled the twisted trees that dotted the lifeless soil. Birds had stopped singing miles ago. The sky—though open—hung heavy overhead, as though pressing down on the earth with invisible weight.

They were deep into the End of the Lands now. The terrain rolled in jagged mounds of cracked black stone, the ground broken in places by veins of silver-gray crystal that pulsed faintly in the dark.

The rune on Argolaith's forearm guided them steadily southwest, glowing stronger with each mile.

But every step forward pressed deeper into a place that did not feel like it belonged to the world anymore.

They came upon the battlefield just before dusk.

At first, it looked like a forest of gray pillars in the distance—tall and thin, jagged shapes stretching from the earth like shattered spires.

But as they approached, the truth came into focus.

They weren't pillars.

They were people.

Hundreds—maybe thousands—of petrified corpses stood across the field, frozen in mid-motion. Some wielded weapons. Some screamed silently, mouths wide open. Others had their hands raised, shielding from something no longer visible.

Kaelred stepped forward cautiously, his voice low. "These… aren't statues."

"No," Malakar said. "They were warriors."

Argolaith crouched beside one of the figures—an armored man with a jagged spear, mid-charge, his eyes wide with terror even in stone.

"Mid-battle," Argolaith murmured.

Malakar nodded. "Turned to stone in an instant. The entire battlefield."

Kaelred stood still, tension rising in his voice. "What kind of magic can do this?"

Malakar was silent for a moment.

Then Kaelred asked the question that had been forming since they crossed the ridge:

"What do you think really happened here? Why does no one ever return?"

Malakar did not answer right away.

But then, with a cold certainty, he said:

"It has long been believed… that beings stronger than guardian Saint Beasts roam this land."

Kaelred blinked. "Stronger than the creatures that guard ancient trees? Those things are walking natural disasters."

"Yes," Malakar said. "And if that belief is true, they don't guard this land."

He turned slowly, eyes glowing violet.

"They own it."

Thae'Zirak growled softly, his wings twitching on Argolaith's shoulder. "This place should not exist," he muttered. "It reeks of something older than the gods. Something forgotten on purpose."

Naruul had remained hidden in Malakar's shadow since crossing the ridge, but even from within the void realm, Argolaith could feel the Saint Beast's unease.

The air here was thin.

Not from lack of oxygen, but from the weight of presence—a pressure that pushed on the lungs and whispered into the bones.

Argolaith placed a hand on one of the petrified warriors.

It crumbled the moment he touched it—turning to dust as if centuries had passed in a heartbeat.

Kaelred stepped back. "Let's not touch anything else."

The rune on Argolaith's arm pulsed once.

Then again.

The pull was growing urgent.

They didn't sleep that night.

Not truly.

They made camp at the far edge of the battlefield, away from the reach of frozen eyes and shattered blades. The fire flickered, barely holding its shape against the strange wind.

Argolaith sat near the flame, his eyes on the dark beyond.

Kaelred eventually broke the silence.

"You think they were looking for the tree too?"

Argolaith nodded. "Some of them. Maybe all of them."

"And the ones who didn't die fighting?"

"They never came back either."

Kaelred leaned back against a rock. "Wonderful. Love that for us."

Argolaith's fingers brushed the rune on his arm.

"We're not them."

Kaelred grinned faintly. "You're damn right we're not."

Visit ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com for the 𝑏est n𝘰vel reading experience.