The pain was unlike anything Lin Moyan had ever experienced.
As the silver seed melted into his palm, it felt like his blood had been set aflame. White-hot tendrils of energy raced up his arm, spreading through his chest like liquid lightning. His vision went white, then black, then exploded into colors he had no name for.
The heat spread to his bones, making them glow faintly beneath his skin. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the blood from his split lip. His muscles locked rigid, tendons standing out like cables along his neck as the transformation took hold.
Memories that were not his own tore through his mind.
He saw Nyxara standing beneath a sky full of dying stars. Not the twisted figure from the visions, but a woman whole and unbroken. Her hair floated around her like she was underwater, strands woven with flecks of starlight. The dagger in her hands pulsed with a warm, golden glow.
Around her, the world lay broken. Great chunks of land floated in a void, their edges crumbling like burnt paper. The air shimmered with the last remnants of magic, fading like embers after a fire. She stood at the center of it all, her bare feet planted firmly on the only remaining patch of solid ground.
"You misunderstand," she whispered to the darkness surrounding her. Her voice carried the weight of centuries. "This was never your prison. It was our cradle."
With steady hands, she turned the blade and plunged it into her own chest.
Blood bloomed across her tunic, but it wasn't red—it was liquid gold, spilling over her fingers in glowing rivulets. Where it struck the ground, roots sprouted, weaving themselves into a lattice that spread outward in all directions. The floating fragments of the world shuddered, then began drifting back together, drawn by the growing web of roots.
Moyan gasped as the vision shattered, his body convulsing on the wooden platform. The cosmic darkness within Nyxara's statue pulsed hungrily, drawn to the seed's power now fused with his very being.
Around them, the void trembled. The platform's edges began dissolving into motes of light, floating upward like reverse snowfall. The remaining roots glowed brighter in response, their pulses coming faster, harder—a frantic heartbeat against the coming storm.
Across the void, Kainan lifted his head with obvious effort. His lips moved, the words barely audible over the growing roar of the unraveling world around them.
"It was never the Serpent we sealed away," he rasped, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "It was the part of us that feared it."
His body was coming apart. Flakes of skin peeled away, revealing the same golden light that now coursed through Moyan's veins. His left arm had fully transformed, the fingers elongated into root-like tendrils that twitched with a life of their own. Yet his eyes remained clear, focused on Moyan with an intensity that burned through the chaos.
The platform beneath them trembled violently. Hairline cracks spread through the ancient wood, glowing with the same golden light now coursing through Moyan's veins. Through the cracks, he could see the black water rising beneath them—except it wasn't water anymore. Shapes moved within its depths. Faces. Countless Wardens from countless cycles, their mouths open in silent screams of warning or perhaps welcome.
Their eyes followed Moyan as the cracks widened. Some looked hopeful. Others terrified. A few reached upward with translucent hands, their fingers brushing against the underside of the platform as if testing its solidity. The air filled with whispers, overlapping voices speaking in languages both familiar and alien.
Haiyu's strong grip on his shoulder brought him back to the present. Her fingers moved rapidly, shaping words against his skin.
The seed is a key. It remembers the way home.
Her touch grounded him. The heat in his veins receded just enough for him to think clearly again. He could feel the seed's power settling into his bones, weaving itself into the fabric of his being. It wasn't just a tool anymore—it was part of him, just as the Rootheart had become.
Before Moyan could respond, a roar shook the very fabric of the void around them. The Serpent's voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once, vibrating through their bones.
YOU WOULD UNMAKE THE WORLD?
The words weren't spoken—they were etched directly into Moyan's mind, each syllable leaving a searing brand across his thoughts. The platform bucked beneath them, nearly throwing them all into the rising darkness below. The roots holding Nyxara's statue groaned in protest, their ancient fibers straining under the assault.
Jian Luo's answering shout came from somewhere above them, his voice raw with defiance. "No. Just your fucking story!"
A streak of black and silver shot through the void—Jian Luo diving headfirst toward the platform, his corrupted dagger blazing with unnatural light. He struck the largest root holding Nyxara's statue, the blade sinking deep into the pulsing wood. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then—
The explosion of sound and light that followed tore through the darkness like a blade through parchment. The ancient roots holding Nyxara's statue snapped with sounds like breaking bones. The cosmic darkness within pulsed once, twice, then began to spill forth.
Moyan threw up an arm to shield his eyes as shards of light and shadow rained down around them. The platform listed dangerously to one side, its edges dissolving faster now. The faces in the water below surged upward, their mouths open in silent screams as the waves consumed them.
Kainan moved with surprising speed for a man half-disintegrated. He shoved Moyan toward the collapsing statue with what little strength remained in his crumbling body.
"The roots need a new anchor!"
His voice was barely human now, the words distorted as his throat reformed itself into something else. His eyes locked onto Moyan's one last time—an unspoken plea passing between them—before his body finally gave way. Golden light erupted from his disintegrating form, swirling around Moyan like a protective cocoon.
Understanding crashed over Moyan with the force of a tidal wave. The Wardens had never been jailers—they were gardeners. And every garden needed fresh soil to grow anew.
Steeling himself, he reached into the gaping wound where Nyxara's heart had been.
The moment his fingers touched the darkness, the world went silent. Time stopped. The chaos around him froze in place, giving him one perfect, terrible moment of clarity. He could feel the Abyss waiting—not just the physical place, but the living idea of it, the collective memory of every cycle that had come before.
Then he made his choice.
The Verdant Abyss screamed.
Light erupted in a blinding supernova, painting the void in colors no human eye was meant to witness. The force of it threw Moyan backward, his body skidding across what remained of the platform.
When his vision cleared, the pain was gone. The seed's power had settled into a quiet hum beneath his skin, its energy now perfectly balanced with his own. He flexed his fingers, watching as golden light traced the paths of his veins before fading back to normal. The roots that had wound around his arm pulsed gently, their glow dimming to a soft ember-like radiance.
When the light finally faded, three undeniable truths remained:
The Serpent's voice was gone.
Kainan had vanished.
And the roots—now glowing with golden light—had wound themselves around Moyan's right arm like living tattoos.
On the far edge of the platform, Haiyu knelt, cradling something small and silver in her palms. A new seed, barely formed, pulsing with fragile light.
It was smaller than the first, no larger than a pebble, but the power radiating from it made the air shimmer. Tiny roots sprouted from its surface, questing blindly toward Haiyu's injured wrist. Where they touched her blood, they flared bright red before settling back to silver.
Above them, the inky water began to clear, its darkness dissipating like mist under morning sun.
The silence that followed was heavier than any that had come before.
Moyan tried to stand, but his legs refused to cooperate. The weight of what had just happened—what he had just become—pressed down on him like a physical force.
His body ached in ways he couldn't describe. Not pain exactly, but the deep, bone-weary exhaustion that comes after surviving something impossible. The roots on his arm twitched in response to his fatigue, their glow pulsing slower, as if they too needed rest.
Haiyu moved to his side, her expression unreadable. She held out the new seed, her hands steady despite the blood still dripping from her broken wrist.
Moyan reached for it, then hesitated. The roots coiled around his arm pulsed in time with his heartbeat, warm against his skin.
Somewhere in the clearing waters above them, something stirred. A shadow moved against the fading darkness—too large to be Jian Luo, too purposeful to be debris. The roots on Moyan's arm tightened instinctively, their glow brightening in warning.
The new seed in Haiyu's palm pulsed once, twice, then fell still. Waiting.