The Oracle Paths

Chapter 1241: The Oasis That Couldn’t Move

North of the Duskwight Lands, far from the trade routes and the strongholds of the great tribes, stretched a region the natives called the Desert of Souls.

For the people living on this side of the Lumyst River—where the landscape was little more than cracked gray earth—to label a place a barren desert where nothing could grow, it had to be something beyond merely inhospitable.

The Underworld Barbarians might inhabit harsh, barely fertile lands, but they were still nourished by the Lumyst River. On this side, the river contained no Life Lumyst, but the Spirit Lumyst flowing within it was genuine. After millions of years, humans, beasts, and even plants had adapted their very morphology to draw from that energy, imperfect though it was.

Growing anything here remained difficult, but the meager harvests were enough to keep them alive. Barely.

This place was different.

It was one of the rare regions the Lumyst River did not reach. Worse still, whatever faint traces of Spirit Lumyst drifted toward it seemed to be siphoned away by some unknown phenomenon.

The earth lay cracked like skin deprived of water for centuries, pale veins running through it where barely a whisper of vitality flowed. Ghostly silhouettes occasionally wandered between the blunted ridges before quickly retreating, as if even the dead found the place unwelcoming.

The air hung heavy, as though the world had been rinsed of color and promise alike. Nothing truly grew. Nothing thrived. The few twisted shrubs that survived did so out of sheer stubbornness.

To complete the picture, the sky remained perpetually smothered beneath black clouds that hid both sun and moon. The climate was erratic, prone to cataclysmic tornadoes that periodically erased any attempt to establish a lasting refuge.

A Spirit Lumyst cultivator who lingered here too long would see their path end in stagnation, unable to advance. As for the wandering souls that roamed this half of the continent, the scarcity of energy could cause them to deteriorate—and eventually dissipate entirely.

Hence the name.

Despite these horrific conditions, nomadic tribes, criminals, refugees, and recluses were not uncommon. It was the one place no one bothered to search. There was nothing to take, nothing to steal—and merely crossing the region was enough to repel all but the truly desperate.

Then, a few weeks ago, something changed.

No omen. No crack splitting the sky. No tremor.

A tree appeared.

A white tree.

Its smooth, pale trunk rose like an ivory pillar amid the dead lands, and its broad, majestic leaves shimmered with a deep auburn hue—almost surreal in such a drained landscape. The moment it took root, the earth around it began to transform. Grass pierced through the gray crust. Plants sprouted. Shrubs followed. Then fruit-bearing trees.

Within days, an oasis had emerged in the heart of the Duskwight Lands.

A miracle.

Melkree.

Once a naive Dryad leading a small faction in an insignificant Oracle Shelter, she had long since abandoned responsibility and rediscovered her carefree nature as nothing more than a tree planted at the heart of Jake’s Floating Island. Over the past four years, no matter the conflicts, Digestor invasions, or even Pyrrakles’ betrayal, the island of the Myrtharian Nerds’ leader had remained untouched.

The Fyekrant Tree Dryad had enjoyed a long, peaceful reprieve.

Until the Fifth Ordeal began.

The moment she appeared here, nearby tribes gathered almost immediately. Wandering Barbarians, Soulmancers exiled for unspeakable crimes or fleeing retaliation, simple refugees escaping conscription and war… all wanted control of the area.

All wanted to understand the origin of the phenomenon.

Some saw it as a sign from the spirits. Others as a blessing fallen from the heavens. A few, more perceptive, suspected a curse in disguise.

At the center of it all, Melkree did not move. She chose stillness.

From the instant she materialized at the start of the Ordeal—surrounded by wary soldiers and suspicious natives—she withdrew into her vegetal form. Dormant. Passive. Harmless in appearance. She allowed eyes to scrutinize her, blades to brush her bark, Soulmancers to probe her internal structure.

She waited.

It did not take long for the tribes to realize the tree was neither hostile nor corrupted. More than that—its bark held rare medicinal properties. Its sap could be refined into healing salves. Its dense, flexible wood made exceptional bows. Under its influence, crops flourished where nothing had grown before.

So terms were set.

Protection against monsters. A steady supply of water. Respect for her trunk and root core.

In exchange, she offered life.

Melkree found the arrangement agreeable. After all, it closely mirrored her role on Jake’s island.

Gradually, equilibrium formed. The tribes guarded her like treasure. Some worshiped her as a sacred entity. Others regarded her as a strategic asset. Melkree herself never sought dominion. She simply did what she did best: grow, nourish, sustain.

Her main Ordeal mission had been completed long ago. Several side quests as well.

From a System standpoint, everything was… fine.

But the truth was darker.

The Duskwight Lands did not suit her. Not at all!

The soil was poor. Nutrients scarce. Vitality nearly nonexistent. Each day she had to extend her roots farther for diminishing returns. She weakened slowly—even while enriching the environment around her.

Fortunately, she was not alone.

Like every member of Jake’s faction, she benefited from the Faction Passive. It strengthened her resilience and, over time, allowed her to adapt to nearly any environment imaginable. After days of exhausting effort spreading her roots in all directions, she located a tributary of the Lumyst River.

The first immersion—her first Lumyst baptism—nearly killed her. But like any tree, she was stubborn.

After losing tons of sap and layers of bark, she managed to adapt to the water—at least where her roots drew from it.

The next challenge was far worse: extracting sustenance from water devoid of vitality, rich instead in a spiritual nature fundamentally incompatible with a plant-based existence like hers.

Yet with the Faction Passive and her strong lifeforce, her body and soul endured. She adapted.

Her roots mutated. Her absorption refined. Her metabolism optimized. And she grew.

Exponentially.

Her trunk thickened. Her canopy spread wide. Her auburn crown soon dominated the surrounding landscape—like a lesser Anthace.

Impressive to the natives. Insignificant… at the scale of the continent.

Then the apocalypse began.

Buds burst open everywhere. Ancient warriors of the Lustra Plains rose from death. Hideous abominations saturated with Black Lumyst flooded cities and tribes by the millions in an unbroken tide.

A tragedy Melkree barely had the capacity to process. Because for her, hell had begun much earlier—without her worshippers suspecting a thing.

In her desperate effort to survive, she had extended her roots farther and farther—

Until she touched something else.

Something colossal. Ancient roots. Dense. Omnipresent.

At first, she believed she had finally discovered an inexhaustible source of nourishment. Rich sap. Abyssal vitality.

She drew from it.

And in the very next instant—

Something drew from her.

Anthace had marked her for death—and it was her own careless hunger for expansion that had provoked him.

Since then, her quiet Ordeal had curdled into a nightmare. On the surface, the white tree still looked as imposing and radiant as ever, but beneath it, a vicious tug-of-war was underway.

Her roots had tangled with Anthace’s. Each tried to drain the other. But the gap in power was absurd. While she fought, vainly, just to stay alive, the Titan Tree calmly tightened the noose, strangling her without even breaking a sweat.

Soon, the natives noticed her leaves were wilting. Her trunk—once a brilliant white—had dulled to a lifeless gray. Cracks spiderwebbed across her bark. Entire branches started drying out.

The tribes who benefited from her presence grew frightened. They poured their Lumyst into her, offered gifts, performed rituals. They fortified the oasis. They prayed.

But they only saw half the truth.

Underground, a titan was devouring her.

If only they’d realized sooner, maybe they could’ve read the warning signs—maybe they could’ve anticipated the fate waiting for them. Powerless, with all her focus already consumed, Melkree could only watch as the people who worshipped her and fussed over her were slaughtered and eaten alive.

These natives weren’t great warriors. They were even less brave—otherwise they never would’ve chosen to settle here. The tribes gathered around her didn’t last long.

The few decent fighters guarding her trunk were shredded, dismembered, crushed. Soulmancers with depleted Lumyst tried to raise spiritual barriers—only for them to implode under the pressure. Screams rose—short, jagged—then cut off.

Her oasis became a scene of pure horror.

And in that instant, the Dryad felt something vast and heavy settle in her core.

Sadness.

The grass she’d coaxed from dead earth was trampled, soaked in blood.The fruit trees were torn out by the roots.The huts were set ablaze.Bodies were impaled against her own trunk.

The contrast was brutal.

Moments ago, she’d been fighting in silence beneath the soil. And now the surface was on fire.

Underground, she was being drained.Aboveground, she was under siege.

And the worst part…

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t run.

She was just a tree.

Melkree wasn’t quick. Not instinctive. She experienced emotions and events with a tree’s natural slowness. Even fear, for her, felt less like a spike and more like sap rising—steady, heavy, inevitable.

So when her trunk cracked, when her leaves burned, when her roots were siphoned with renewed brutality… she didn’t react.

Not at first.

It was only when she felt the last trace of her vitality about to be ripped away—her consciousness on the verge of being swept off with it—that a crucial memory sparked, sharp enough to reignite her will.

The bracelet!

She wasn’t alone.

She’d almost forgotten how to use it, but she fumbled her way into contacting the Myrtharian Nerds… and then she waited.

An emergency call.

Less than three seconds later, a figure she never thought she’d see again tore through the black tide of monsters, his massive frame chewing up the ground as he charged.

“Albert!”

One of her rare former subordinates. Truthfully, she’d assumed he was dead. She hadn’t even known he’d survived and joined the Myrtharian Nerds alongside her.

Or maybe… she’d simply forgotten.

The Saint Bernard-like Lycan hadn’t.

The moment he saw her distress signal, he’d activated his Space Link without even checking the cost and teleported straight to her.

“As long as they don’t get past my corpse, nothing’s happening to you,” her former lieutenant vowed solemnly—pulling a rare tear from the Dryad.

Determined, the beastman planted himself between her white trunk and the monsters, roaring, biting, taking hit after hit. He held. Even with corrupted blades carving into him, even with black blood matting his fur.

But it was obvious he wouldn’t last much longer.

Anthace had Melkree in his sights—and no ordinary Player, even a Myrtharian Nerd, could withstand dozens of resurrected Saints and an endless horde.

When Albert hit his limit—pinned to the ground by a knot of monsters, a white-wood glaive raised above his throat by a Saint— the sky exploded.

A bluish bolt of lightning, wide as a skyscraper, slammed down, vaporizing everything for miles around. A man with a god-carved physique appeared in the heart of the crater, his body wrapped in snapping arcs of electricity.

Azeus.

A former Lost Divinities prospect turned Jake’s faction member—and a Rank 15. His level was worlds apart from a “small timer” like Albert.

“No one touches a Myrtharian Nerd,” he said calmly.

And the massacre began again. Or rather—it resumed.

The monsters kept coming. More numerous. More powerful. The pressure turned constant. Even Azeus eventually slowed, sensing something was off. Even in Dusken—where he’d been fighting before coming here—the battle hadn’t been this relentless.

The thunder demi-god finally stopped holding back.

His body transmuted into blue lightning… then blue-night… darker, blacker—until he was so fast, so blinding, he seemed to be everywhere at once, erasing anything in his path.

Keeping an eye on Melkree’s condition, the former Lost Divinities candidate finally understood why the assault never stopped.

Without hesitation, he redirected his lightning into the ground, striking with surgical precision at the roots strangling the Dryad.

SHHHHHRRRRRIIIIII!

A clean hit.

Then—

Everything stopped. The monsters froze. The roots withdrew. But instead of relief, a cold shiver slid down Azeus’s spine like ice water.

Something terrible was about to step onto the stage.

His gaze snapped to a root that had emerged silently just a few meters away. He hadn’t noticed it.

The first thing he registered was how colossal it was. The second… was how beautiful. As if it were announcing the arrival of a supreme entity.

A massive bud was already forming at its tip—dark green veined with gold, pulsing like a heart. Then came the moment of blooming.

And a figure emerged.

Humanoid. Tall. Lean.

Its skin had the texture of polished white wood. Its hair—made of braided roots and light—fell in a dark cascade. Its eyes were ancient. The density of Life Lumyst orbiting its body was beyond comprehension, warping space through sheer accumulation.

Azeus recognized what he was looking at instantly. And Melkree finally identified her tormentor from the past few days.

Anthace’s avatar. His true Dryad form.

The silence turned crushing.

Albert couldn’t feel the difference, but the demi-god knew the truth: in front of this unnameable abomination, he was an insect.

Deep down, he understood in a single instant—

They were done. He wouldn’t make it out of this. And yet… he felt no fear.

Neither did Albert.

Unfazed, Azeus triggered his Space Link—then froze as his expression snapped hard.

“You’re counting on that strange magic that lets you teleport to your allies, aren’t you?” Anthace spoke in an almost casual tone, the simple observation turning their blood to ice. “Sorry to disappoint, but it won’t work. I sealed the space around us.”

And just when everyone would have sworn Melkree was incapable of quick thinking—or provocation—her Dryad form manifested for the first time since the Ordeal began.

She stuck out her tongue.

“And our comms?” she teased, voice light as a breeze through leaves. “Jake’s on his way~”

Ugh, these 2300-word chapters are such a pain. They’re too long to feel like a clean chapter, but too short to split into two proper parts.

After those hiatuses, I kinda lost my rhythm. I used to hit that 1400–1600 word cliffhanger almost effortlessly.

Hopefully it’ll come back with time.