Technically, Pinaka could manipulate Nunaka’s body while maintaining physical contact—though only its structure. Controlling him like a puppet would require far more precision, knowledge, and experience than he currently possessed.

Still, he held back.

Because the moment he actively altered another living body, he would lose his authority over Wood.

To retain both abilities, he needed to harness his control over Wood and physical bodies simultaneously.

If his instincts were right, he had to reach Level 2 for that to happen. That was his conjecture, built upon the heightened awareness he had developed in the desperate grip of survival. Near death had only sharpened his senses further.

Whether or not his theory held true—he would find out tonight.

A piece of the World Tree Fruit would decide his fate.

If his guess was correct, he would evolve. If not, he would simply consume it to heal himself and move to Plan B.

And if there was no Plan B?

He would think of one.

‘I’ve lived my entire life struggling.’

This place terrified him. The thought of spending another day here was enough to choke him with despair. But none of that mattered.

Because what truly scared him…

‘To never see my family again.’

—Thump!

“Gah!”

Nunaka gasped for breath as he finally collapsed, their destination in sight. Pinaka’s farmland stretched before them, tiny seedlings barely sprouting from the soil.

Spent and trembling, Nunaka reached out, his hands shaking Pinaka’s unmoving form sprawled over the fragile crops.

“G-Get up…” he croaked, his voice raw. Nothing. “Get up, you damn bastard! Get up!”

Desperation twisted his face, turning his expression almost inhuman. His nails dug into Pinaka’s skin.

“I can’t… I won’t die in this dump…” His voice cracked.

“Get up! Please, get up!”

A slow breath. A calm voice.

“You’re noisy, dude.”

Pinaka’s eyes flickered open, meeting Nunaka’s stunned gaze.

“…You—you’re awake!” Nunaka’s relief exploded into messy sobs. Tears streaked his dirty face, snot dribbling faintly from his nose, but he didn’t care.

He clutched at Pinaka’s shoulders, shaking him lightly.

“Thank goodness… I won’t be dying soon.”

His relief was short-lived. Panic replaced it.

He leaned in close, frantic.

“Please don’t make a mess. Just work.”

His breath hitched.

“Work, damn it! If you don’t work, I’ll be punished! Please… I beg you!”

Pinaka didn’t react. Instead, his hand shot out, gripping Nunaka’s arm.

Nunaka flinched.

“What…?” His voice quivered.

Pinaka’s gaze sharpened. “How long have you been here?”

Nunaka stiffened. “How long I’ve been here? What does it matter?”

He turned away. “I— I have to get back to work…”

Pinaka’s voice stopped him.

“Were you a farmer on Earth?”

Nunaka flinched mid-step. His shoulders tensed.

“You’ve got nothing to gain from that.” He huffed, shaking off the unease and taking another step—Only to stumble. His feet refused to move. Pinaka had latched onto them.

“Let… go!” He jerked his leg, trying to shake him off.

Pinaka tightened his grip. “Just answer my question, and I will.”

Nunaka gritted his teeth, his frustration boiling over. He raised a fist. Before he could swing, Pinaka spoke quickly, his voice urgent. “If you hit me, I’ll faint.”

Nunaka paused. Pinaka knew to strike while the iron was hot.

“And I don’t think I’ll wake up before your time limit runs out.”

‘Damn it.’

Nunaka exhaled sharply. “Tch!” His voice was tense, uncertain. “I was a game developer.”

Pinaka’s grip didn’t loosen. “Oh? What kind of game?”

Nunaka’s eye twitched.

“Fucking let me go.” His voice was strained, but he didn’t move. “Stop fishing for information—it’s useless.”

Pinaka didn’t respond.

Nunaka scowled. “It was just a traditional fantasy RPG. Elves, Dwarves, Dragons, the usual crap.”

“…Were the Elves in your game like us?”

“By appearance? Yeah.” He grunted, struggling against his grip. “But that’s where the similarities end. The Elves there used magic, but the stuff here? It’s different.”

“Have you ever thought why the World Tree reincarnated you here?” Pinaka’s voice was rough, barely holding together. “Just answer this, and I’ll let go.”

Nunaka ripped his leg free, stumbling back. With his ragged breath, he glared at Pinaka.

“We all know what a fantasy world is,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Elves, the World Tree, Dwarves—basic stuff. Anyone who’s played a damn RPG knows that.”

He took a shaky step back, then another, before finally turning away.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“…I don’t care what you’re trying to do.” His voice was flat, distant. “Leave me out of it.”

And then, he ran.

Nunaka hurried away, heart pounding, afraid of missing his farming quota. But as he reached the tunnel leading to his farmland, something nagged at him.

‘Wait…’

A cold realization crept in.

‘How did he know?’

How the hell did Pinaka know about the one-hour time limit… if he was unconscious the whole time? Nunaka's stomach twisted.

‘Unless…’

His hands clenched.

‘He was awake through all that pain?’

A shudder ran through him.

‘What kind of bastard…?’

Nunaka shook his head, forcing the thought away.

‘Doesn’t matter. Just survive.’

That’s all that mattered.

He hurried back to his farm, trying to push the unease out of his mind.

‘It’s been days since Rachad last whipped me.’

Maybe… just maybe… Things were finally looking better.

⊱⨷⟐⨳⩥⚔⩤⨳⟐⨷⊰

Pinaka watched Nunaka scoot away and then slumped back on the soil.

“Another broken man.”

His thoughts drifted.

‘There’s a clear conflict between our mentalities from Earth and what we are now as Elves. It’s messing with our heads. Or rather, most of us barely have a personality at all.’

Fight. Fright. Flight.

Every Elf here had latched onto one of the three, moving like a machine. No real thought, no real choice—just an instinctual response to survive.

Pinaka exhaled, feeling the soft seedlings against his back. For a second, his mind cleared. But the moment he relaxed, blackness pressed in.

‘Damn. If I fall asleep now, I’m screwed.’

—Thump! Thump!

He focused on himself and with careful effort, he nudged his own body, imposing his will to keep the adrenaline flowing. ‘Good, I can exercise this level of control without any issues.’

As long as he didn’t force a physical transformation, he could keep his authority over Wood. That was the line. He wouldn’t cross it. Not yet.

Pinaka sighed. “At least this much works in my favor.”

A warm trickle ran down his back. His own blood.

The scorched skin had torn open, soaking into the soil. The seedlings beneath him absorbed it, drinking the nutrients. A single sprout shivered, then grew. Its stem stretched forward, thin and fragile, until it touched his wound.

A leaf unfurled. Soft. Gentle. It pressed against his back like makeshift gauze. Then, a faint itch spread through his skin—a sign of healing.

Pinaka lay still, barely breathing. He let the saplings grow, guiding them with just enough control to close his wounds—but not fully.

Too much healing, and Rachad would take notice.

Too little, and he’d bleed out.

It was a compromise.

Just a few more days. Then, he could start planning his escape for real.

—Tap! Tap! Tap!

The rhythmic tap of boots echoed through the farmland as Rachad exited the tunnel. His gaze landed on Pinaka, who sat hunched over, tears streaking his face, his body trembling as he worked. He grunted through the pain, coaxing seedlings into saplings, his hands shaking with effort.

Rachad’s eyes flickered toward the bloody mess on Pinaka’s back. A slow grin curled on his lips before he turned and disappeared back into the tunnel.

Pinaka kept up the act a little longer, making sure the soldiers stationed along the wall saw him struggle. Only when their attention wavered did he wipe his tears away.

As his fingers pressed into the soil, coaxing seedlings to grow, his foot brushed against a young sapling.

It reacted instantly, wrapping around his leg, shifting, reshaping itself. Within seconds, it had molded into a shoe, soft but sturdy, cushioning his feet.

He took a cautious step, testing the sensation. Less pain. That was good.

He continued across his field, moving slowly, naturally—not too fast, not too direct. Every step brought him closer to the far edge of his farmland, near the wall.

He subtly eyed the soldiers on the wall, ‘Good, they’re looking elsewhere.’

It was lunchtime. The Human soldiers were distracted, their focus no longer on the farms. Timing had been crucial for him, and so far, everything was lining up.

Pinaka exhaled quietly, “Slowly.”

He lifted his right foot, pressing it against the mortar wall. The sapling wrapped around his foot had already shifted, its roots reshaping to form a grip. The moment his foot touched the surface, the roots extended and dug in, anchoring themselves several centimeters deep.

Plants did this all the time—breaking through concrete, creeping through asphalt. He had seen it happen countless times on Earth. Now, he was relying on that same resilience to carry out his plan.

He took another breath, steadying himself, and repeated the process on his right hand. The roots hanging from the glove latched onto the stone, burrowing in like tiny claws.

Then the left hand. Then the left foot.

His Control Authority only let him manipulate one object at a time. That meant he had to trust that the other shoe and gloves were strong enough to hold his weight.

He hesitated—just for a second.

Then he pushed forward.

Carefully, he released his right glove from the wall, moving it forward, planting it again. The roots dug in. Next, his left glove.

Then the right shoe.

Finally, the left.

Bit by bit, Pinaka began to climb.

Pinaka had climbed a little over four meters before he felt the strain. A good portion of the roots had torn off during the ascent, leaving him tense. ‘It’s not enough to reach the top.’

Slowly, he climbed back down, landing lightly on the ground. His eyes fell to his makeshift shoes and gloves, their surfaces showing clear signs of wear and tear.

“Not bad for a test run.”

The sapling’s size had clear limitations—it simply wasn’t strong enough to handle his full weight. The shoots and roots had torn during the climb, unable to keep up with the strain.

Stepping closer to the wall, he noticed tiny root tendrils still lodged in the cracks.

They had broken off when he climbed.

His control wasn’t refined enough yet. Some roots had remained stuck in the wall, wasted.

‘I need to get better at this. Every piece lost is a weakness.’

The traces were faint—only noticeable from up close. Pinaka ran a hand over the wall, gathering dust, then rubbed it over the exposed roots. The texture blended in, leaving no sign of his attempt.

Satisfied, he stepped away.

As he walked, the sapling shoes shifted, morphing back into their original plant form, roots sinking into the soil once more.

The moment his foot touched the next seedling, it transformed—turning into a shoe around his foot. A few seconds later, it reverted to its sapling state and rooted itself back in place.

Step after step, he repeated the process.

Each time, the transition became smoother, faster, more precise.

‘This is how I’ll train.’

His work continued as usual, but with every step, he refined his control—shortening the time it took to transform, learning to manipulate the process with greater efficiency. Steady progress. That was all that mattered.

⊱⨷⟐⨳⩥⚔⩤⨳⟐⨷⊰

“You… need to eat,” Mahnaka said the moment evening arrived.

He crouched beside Pinaka, carefully examining his wounds before applying a salve over them. His touch was gentle but firm, his voice laced with guilt.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you this morning. I wasn’t able to leave my farm.”

Pinaka watched him silently.

‘Yeah, you were stealthily working on Zetaka’s farm too.’

He had seen it—when he climbed the mortar wall that afternoon. But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he met Mahnaka’s gaze and simply said, “Thank you for your help. I appreciate it.”

Mahnaka nodded, saying nothing more.

A smaller stone wall, four meters high, divided each hectare of farmland. Near the tunnel entrance leading into the hexagon, an open space served as the meeting point before the Elves were sent back. That was where Mahnaka met Pinaka before their return.

Now, as evening settled, Pinaka, Mahnaka, Zetaka, and three other Elves from their hexagon stood in line to return to the prison.

They froze.

Officer Rachad stood waiting, right before the pillar. A team of thirty soldiers flanked him on either side.

In Rachad’s hand, he held a scroll, its edges decorated with Elven skulls.

Mahnaka’s face was drained of color. His steps slowed.

‘Someone’s dying today.’

Mahnaka and Zetaka locked eyes. Zetaka’s stare was sharp. Unreadable.

Mahnaka took a deep breath. Then, his expression shifted—a mix of resignation and quiet determination.

“Now!”

Officer Rachad’s voice boomed across the space. All the Elves had gathered. Slowly, he unrolled the scroll.

A drawing of a face stared back at them. Rachad lifted it high.

“The one whose face is painted here—step forward.”

A heavy silence fell.

Rachad’s lips curled.

“You’re graduating from slavery today.”

image [https://i.imgur.com/zua031a.png]