My world-tree system-Chapter 101 - 100: The end of the dwarf king

The pale afternoon light bathed Vollua in an almost supernatural calm. At the top of a woven-wood terrace, under the silent gaze of the branches of the Mother Tree, Foster, Lïanna and Köflik had seated themselves opposite King Thorgrim. A tray of natural roots served as a table, and the fruit on it had yet to be touched.

Thorgrim held his mug of fermented sap between his calloused fingers, but did not drink. His gaze was hard, devoid of hope, as if telling his story was tantamount to opening a wound that was still festering.

Foster stared at him intently, elbows resting on his knees.

- Tell us how you escaped, Thorgrim.

The old king drew a long breath, his gaze lost in the leaves.

- After I got there, they chained me to the stone and tortured the other dwarves in front of my eyes, laughing merrily, after decimating the majority of my people. I saw brothers fall... their guts spilling out, their eyes still fixed on me.

He gritted his teeth.

- They didn’t take everyone. Only those they deemed... useful. They locked them up. The rest? Massacred. Slowly. To make an example of me.

Lïanna lowered her eyes, her fingers tightening on her tunic.

Thorgrim continued, his voice even deeper.

- And then, after a few days... they came to see me. Two of them. Dark elves. One crazy, the other as cold as a rock. They told me I was no longer useful. Unless... I bring Foster back to them.

Köflik twitched. His gaze hardened, but he remained silent.

Foster didn’t look away.

- And then they let you go?

- They knew I’d come. They knew you’d welcome me. I was their message. And their threat.

There was a long silence. Then Foster nodded slowly.

- You belong here. You’re still king of your people. Rest now. We’ll find a solution.

Thorgrim looked up. He was playing his part to perfection.

- Thank you, Foster... from the bottom of my heart.

Later that evening, Foster offered him a small dwelling dug into the trunk of an ancient sanctuary tree, not far from the central clearing. There, he found the last five dwarf guards of his people. Loyal men who welcomed him with tears and hugs.

- By the ancestors, you’re alive!" exclaimed Grondhal, one of the eldest.

- They couldn’t knock you down, could they, old rock?" sneered another.

Thorgrim smiled. The words were sincere. But the pain was feigned.

For deep inside him, his real voice was still screaming...

Night fell on Vollua. A light wind stirred the foliage. The roots quivered as if they were dreaming.

In the darkness of the little dwelling, King Thorgrim slept peacefully on a layer of moss.

And suddenly... his eyes opened.

Net.

Cold.

Empty.

The king didn’t move.

But the mark awoke.

Something twisted in the back of his neck, an invisible filament, like a black magic worm crawling under the skin. The parasite reactivated its instructions. The orders were simple. Clear. Approach the Mother Tree. Once in range... transmit the destructive wave.

Thorgrim stood up without a word, like a puppet. His steps were slow. Measured. His face impassive, devoid of emotion.

He crossed the streets of Vollua, unseen. The sentries, confident, didn’t question him. He was the king. He was supposed to be there.

But that night...

He wasn’t the king.

He arrived at the large clearing. The majestic Mother Tree towered under the stars, peaceful and immense.

And Thorgrim stopped.

Perfect silence.

Then, as if something inside him stirred... his right hand trembled.

No.

NO.

Thorgrim’s real consciousness was struggling. He could feel the dark magic activating. The hum of the wave forming in his chest. The arcane device, placed inside himself like a living magic bomb, vibrated softly, waiting.

He screamed inwardly.

But his feet still moved forward.

The night breeze gently brushed Vollua’s foliage, weaving a hushed melody through the ancient branches. The air was soft, peaceful. Deceptive.

Lïanna, in her elven form, stood on one of the natural balconies woven into the Mother Tree, gazing up at the stars with the serenity only she could maintain. And yet, her gaze suddenly hardened. Her pupils shrank, her senses strained.

Something... was wrong.

She closed her eyes for a moment, then reopened them with increased clarity. She felt a presence, heavy, out of place, imbued with a distorted magical echo. A subterranean wave, subtle but scratching against the very fibers of the Mother Tree.

Her gaze slowly descended to the base of the trunk.

And then she saw him.

King Thorgrim.

Walking alone. Slowly approaching the tree, as if drawn by an invisible force.

Lianna descended in a breath, gliding gracefully along the spiral roots that formed the sacred walkways. She landed noiselessly, her long dress of bark quivering in the night air.

- Thorgrim?" she asked softly, her voice like a leaf on water. What are you doing here at this time of night?

The king approached again.

Without answering.

- Thorgrim?" she repeated, this time more firmly.

He reached the foot of the Mother Tree.

And placed his calloused hand on one of the main roots. The ancestral bark vibrated faintly under his touch.

It was then that Lïanna saw his eyes.

Dark.

Not dark.

Inky black.

No reflection, no light danced in them. Abysses, chasms of nothingness. She took a step back, breathless.

- What have you done...?

Thorgrim turned his head slowly towards her. His face expressed nothing. But his mouth opened, and in a distorted voice heavy with menace and mechanical coldness, he murmured:

- Glory to the Lords of the Apocalypse.

And then everything stopped.

A deafening bang broke Vollua’s silence, followed by a burst of blood-red light. The explosion was brutal, dry and hellish.

A cosmic cry of pain seemed to escape from the roots themselves.

The shock lifted the ground.

Waves of earth, ash and tainted magic hurtled through the air. Fragments of sacred bark were hurled in all directions. A black, corrupted light tore through the peaceful clarity of the night, enveloping the entire clearing for a moment in a cursed veil.

The surrounding trees howled. The forest itself seemed to sway.

Foster came running into the clearing, his heart pounding, closely followed by Köflik, Orëlas, Giovanni, Yähnn and the few survivors left in Vollua. They were immediately struck by a vision of horror.

A crater, gaping, smoking, where a sacred root once stood.

The Mother Tree, in agony, its sap oozing like thick blood, its low branches trembling with fatigue. And at the foot of this vision of death, the petrified faces of their own people.

- Lïanna..." Foster murmured, frozen.

- By the gods... the barrier... she’s fallen," said Giovanni, his voice strangled.

- She’s not breathing... she’s not fucking breathing!" shouted an elf, falling to his knees.

But Foster was already looking up.

And his blood ran cold.

On the other side of the barrier, where an invisible, impenetrable protection had once stood, a spectacle of hell stretched as far as the eye could see.

A legion.

Thousands of Obscurus, lined up with macabre precision, filled the plain. Their indistinct shapes swarmed like a black tide of hatred, their red eyes burning with a single desire: to destroy Vollua.

And before them, in formation, eight massive figures.

Generals of Hell, each different, each bearing the imprint of a unique power, a sinister aura. Their weapons were brandished, their intentions clear.

But above them...

Floating in the air like a king on his invisible throne...

Seven figures.

Seven Lords of the Apocalypse.

Their capes billowed in the unholy breeze. Their faces were partly concealed by masks or shadows, but their presence was enough to compress the air. One of them stepped forward.

Joker.

His smile.

His crazy eyes.

His torn hat floating like a mocking spectre.

- OH, WHAT A WELCOME!" he shouted, stretching out his arms. Vollua without her tusks! Lïanna injured! And Foster... my little favorite. Now we can play. At last!

Foster froze.

Around him, the elves picked up their weapons. Köflik spat on the ground, teeth clenched.

Foster, his eyes shining with contained rage, murmured:

-Orëlas, crash course in war and combat, I hope you’re happy.

Then, in a firm, high, authoritative voice:

- ALL HANDS TO STATIONS!

The wind had risen, laden with ash and tension, as if the forest itself were holding its breath. The skies above Vollua darkened, and every leaf quivered as if in anticipation of a cataclysm.

Foster, facing the Lords of the Apocalypse, clenched his fists.

- I’ve got no choice...

He brought two fingers to his lips and blew a high-pitched whistle, brief and full of power.

Silence.

Then a roar.

Not a cry of rage.

A war chant.

In the distance, at the other end of Vollua, the trees parted as if frightened. Emerald lightning split the sky. His dragon’s massive wings streaked the canopy, the heat of its emerald flames licking the air in a crash of raw energy.

- He’s coming..." murmured Köflik, his eyes wide.

The ground vibrated with every beat of his wings.

Then, like a meteor, he landed a few feet from Foster, sending leaves and dust flying in a blinding gust. It reared up proudly, its silhouette as imposing as a temple, its iridescent green scales glinting in the moonlight. The flames danced around him without burning him.

His eyes met Foster’s.

- We’re ready," his voice echoed in his bonded mind. You and me. Together.

Foster nodded slowly, a grave, resolute expression carved into his face.

- Then let’s go. For Lïanna. For Orëlas. For Vollua.

In a single movement, he leapt onto his dragon’s back.

Immediately, his golden tattoos lit up in incandescent filaments, running up and down his arms, torso and neck. They pulsed to the rhythm of his heart, resonating with the magic of the World Tree.

His grimoire opened of its own accord at his side, its pages levitating in the air, strewn with moving, living writing. Roots of light emanated from its pages, merging with Foster’s aura and that of the dragon.

- Köflik!" he shouted over the din of the wind.

The elf raised his head, already armed and ready to die if necessary.

- Command is yours! Defend Vollua! Guard the Mother Tree at all costs!

- Count me in, brother!" shouted Köflik, his eyes burning with unwavering loyalty.

Foster inhaled, deeply, connecting with his dragon’s breathing, its rhythm, its warmth.

And in an explosion of emerald fire, they took flight.

With a flap of their wings, they pierced the sky, tracing a furrow of green light above the trees. The elves below looked up in amazement. Some cried out in hope, others prayed in silence.

Foster’s silhouette, haloed in flames and light, stood out in the night like that of an angry god.

They flew at breakneck speed. The trees scrolled below like fleeing shadows. Each wingbeat was a promise of war. A symphony of pure power.

And there, in front of them...

Joker.

Still levitating, a distorted smile on his face, watching their arrival with palpable delight.

- Aaaah... the hero is coming! At last! I was getting bored.