My Scumbag System-Chapter 393: Fuck You Is a Valid Battle Cry

His arms extended, branches growing longer and splitting into dozens of smaller tendrils that whipped toward me like a hydra made of wood. I activated Protection from Arrows. The world slowed fractionally as my Tori Sense kicked in, showing me the trajectory of each attack.

I weaved through the first wave. Ducked under the second. But the third caught me across the chest, slamming me into the tree trunk with enough force to crack stone.

My vision whited out. My ribs, already damaged from the Necropolis, gave a concerning crunch.

Cool. Great. Fantastic.

The Arborist loomed over me, his flower-face opening wider.

"You fight well. But you are wounded. Exhausted. Your companion can barely stand." His voice carried genuine curiosity now, that same detached fascination a scientist might have watching a rat solve a maze for the hundredth time. "Why do you persist in this suffering? Why not accept the peace I offer?"

I spat blood at his feet. The crimson droplet hit the moss and was absorbed instantly, feeding the Garden.

"Because fuck you, that’s why."

Not my most eloquent moment. Not even close. But sometimes the simple answers were the truest ones. And right now, with broken ribs and a thousand cuts screaming across my body, philosophical debates weren’t high on my priority list.

The Arborist’s laughter filled the chamber like falling rain, each droplet a note of genuine amusement.

"Defiance. Yes. This is precisely what I sought to witness." His form began shifting again, bark creaking and wood groaning with the sound of ancient forests bending in a storm. "Let us see if you maintain such admirable spirit through the Second Form."

His body compressed, condensing inward with the sound of a thousand branches snapping in reverse. He folded down and down until he stood only human height again, maybe six feet tall at most.

But everything about him changed in those moments of transformation. The sweeping branches became curved blades, elegant and lethal. His bark turned black as obsidian, gleaming with an oily sheen that caught the bioluminescent light.

His eyes multiplied, dozens of them opening across his form like stars being born in an accelerated cosmos—each one fixed on me with predatory intent.

"The Reaper," he said simply, as if introducing himself at a dinner party.

Then he moved.

Fast. Faster than anything that size had any right to move, especially something made of wood and plant matter.

I barely got the bat up in time to block the first strike. His blade-arm hit the metal with enough force to send violent vibrations racing up through my hands, my wrists, all the way to my shoulder socket.

My bones rattled. The second strike came from the left before I’d even processed the first. I parried desperately with the knife, the steel screaming as obsidian wood scraped across its edge.

The third came low, cutting upward in a disemboweling arc, and I had nothing left to block with.

It sliced across my thigh. Deep.

Blood sprayed in a pressurized arc. Pain followed a beat later, white-hot and nauseating.

I staggered backward, putting weight on my injured leg and immediately regretting it. The Arborist pressed forward, his obsidian form flowing between attack angles with the grace of someone who’d been practicing murder for millennia.

Ice spears materialized from the ceiling.

Cel. Still fighting despite looking like death warmed over.

The spears rained down on the Arborist, forcing him to divert attention. His blade-arms became shields, deflecting the ice with precise movements. Frost spread across his black bark, slowing him fractionally.

I used the opening.

Spatial Cleave through his midsection. The invisible force carved a canyon through his torso, splitting him nearly in half. Golden sap sprayed across the chamber floor.

The Arborist looked down at the wound. Looked back at me.

And smiled.

The two halves began pulling back together. Roots wove between the separated pieces, stitching him whole. Within five seconds he stood intact, completely healed.

"Physical damage is meaningless," he said, his voice resonating from multiple mouths simultaneously, creating a discordant harmony that made my teeth ache. "I am the Garden. The Garden is me. So long as the Great Root lives, so too shall I endure. You cannot kill what is already eternal."

Well.

Shit.

Fuck.

Behind me, I heard Cel’s breathing hitch. Then stop. Then a wet, heavy thud as she collapsed onto the chamber floor. Hard. Too hard. The kind of fall that happens when someone’s body just... gives out.

The Arborist’s constellation of eyes swiveled, tracking the movement with predatory interest. His obsidian face split into something approximating satisfaction.

"Your companion has reached her limit," he observed, almost gentle now. Clinical. Like a doctor delivering terminal news. "The freezing sickness spreads through her veins. Soon you will follow. Your struggles will cease. And then, at last, you will both join my collection. Perfectly preserved. Forever beautiful in your final moments of defiance."

I gripped the knife tighter, ignoring the fresh wave of blood running down my thigh. The blade pulsed against my palm, warmth spreading through the handle. More insistent this time. Almost urgent.

The First Tree had given me this weapon for a specific reason. It could kill the Arborist—I was certain of that now. The ancient voice had been clear in its hatred, in its need for vengeance. I just needed to figure out how the fuck to use it properly.

My Protection from Arrows ability tingled at the base of my skull. But it wasn’t the familiar warning sensation that preceded incoming attacks.

This was different.

It felt like... guidance. Direction. Like invisible hands trying to turn my head toward something I’d missed.

I looked down at the knife in my hand. At the silver swirls embedded in the dark blade. At the way they seemed to shift and move beneath the surface like living things, like veins carrying luminous blood through obsidian flesh.

Understanding hit me like a sledgehammer to the temple.

The knife wasn’t a weapon.

Not in the traditional sense.

It was a key.

"Cel," I called out, not taking my eyes off the Arborist. My voice came out rough, strained. "The Great Root. Where the fuck is it? Where’s it located?"

She raised her head from the floor, confusion crossing her face. Then clarity.

"Beneath the tree. The roots spread from the base."

The Arborist’s expression shifted. For the first time, I saw something that might’ve been concern.

"You will not reach it. I will not allow it."

"Yeah," I said, already limping toward the massive tree. "We’ll see about that."

His obsidian form blurred.

I didn’t see the attack coming. Just felt the impact across my back that sent me flying forward. I hit the ground and rolled, somehow keeping grip on both weapons.

The Arborist stood between me and the tree now, his form shifting again.

Growing.

Changing.

"Third Form," he said, his voice dropping into registers that made my bones vibrate. "The God."

And the real fight began.