Year 19—36th Day of the 8th Moon!
Early in the morning, a metal carriage sped through the dense expanse of T’Hara Forest. Inside, Pronto and his team of soldiers sat tense and alert. One of the periscopes at the top peeked out, and a soldier’s voice rang through the vehicle.
"I see the World Tree!"
“Good,” Pronto uttered, his voice steady despite the sharp pulses of pain from his left arm. The bruises stretched like ink stains beneath his skin, and the faint scent of charred flesh lingered from where he had burned the muscles to stop the poison’s spread. His fingers flexed, assessing movement. ‘Still usable. That’s enough.’
Exactly forty kilometers from the World Tree, the metal carriage came to a halt in a region where the forest had been completely cleared. The ground was coated in ash, forming a loose, unstable topsoil. The vehicle struggled to move forward, as if attempting to traverse a desert—terrain it was ill-equipped to handle.
"It's hot!" a soldier grumbled as he hurriedly jumped out. His eyes widened as he took in the sight before him—a colossal gate towering over the landscape.
Standing at forty meters tall and stretching two hundred meters wide, the gate was framed by an arch of solid mortar. Behind it loomed a small fortress, built to accommodate a thousand men. Atop the walls, a row of metal ballistae stood, their design unmistakably the work of the Dwarven Race—wielding authority over Metal.
Each ballista was designed to launch two-meter-long javelins, powerful enough to bring down an Ogre in a single strike. Forty of them lined the fortress wall, each manned by a team of four.
Yet, despite the fortress’s imposing defenses, the gate itself was nothing more than thick wooden panels, divided into five-meter-wide sections. From a strategic standpoint, it made little sense—any determined force could breach it with ease. But that was precisely the intention. If an enemy army approached, the gate would be burned to ashes, denying them the ability to use it as cover.
The land surrounding the gate had been scorched clean, leaving behind a barren stretch two kilometers wide. It provided an unobstructed view of any incoming force—a deliberate measure taken by those watching over the gate.
This was the Ogre Gate!
The World Tree stood at the heart of T’Hara Forest. In recent years, the land surrounding it had been transformed into the Elven Prison. Fifteen entry points granted access to this heavily guarded region, each secured by a gate.
These gates bore the names of the territories their ash roads led to, marking the domains of the various Races.
“State your identity!”
A soldier atop the gate bellowed, his voice amplified by a conical device as he spotted the approaching metal carriage.
“I am Pronto, ordained as the 48th Prince by His Majesty, The Emperor!”
Pronto stepped out of the carriage, flanked by his team of soldiers. He raised a hand in salute. “Our transport was wrecked on our way back from a mission into the Land of the Ogres. We seek refuge and repairs.”
The soldier on the wall studied them for a moment before disappearing to relay the information. Moments later, a middle-aged man emerged, flanked by twenty soldiers. His burly frame was accentuated by a thick reddish-white mustache, and he moved with the confidence of someone accustomed to authority.
He wore armor crafted from the hide of a Level 2 Ogre—tough, resistant to physical attacks, and nearly impervious to blades. The Humans had only needed to capture one such beast. The secret to repeatedly harvesting its skin?
Healing Potion.
A concoction created from the blood of an Elf—extracted through the Vampire Race’s Relic—after it had consumed a World Tree Potion. Upon consumption, it could heal virtually any wound, allowing the same Ogre’s hide to be regrown and harvested indefinitely.
Due to the potion’s cost, only noble-born Humans who had reached Level 2 were granted armor made from Ogre leather.
The burly man’s belt was lined with essential supplies: two Healing Potions, a grappling hook, a rolled fishing net, an emergency ration, and a small canteen of water—always prepared to charge into battle at a moment’s notice.
Pronto took in the sight of the burly man, masking the brief wave of relief behind a sharp nod. “Sir Nancho, good. That simplifies things.” His stance remained firm, his injured arm tucked at his side as if it were of no consequence.
Nancho’s sharp gaze landed on him. “Prince Pronto?” Recognition flashed across his face before he saluted. “An honor to welcome you, Your Highness!”
His eyes flicked toward the metal carriage. “The fact that you’re here…” He trailed off, his expression turning expectant.
Pronto gave a slight nod. “Yes, we succeeded.”
“And?”
“We’ve come here to seek refuge and repairs.” Pronto’s voice dropped slightly. “There’s probably an army of Ogres trailing us, so…”
Nancho stiffened at that. “Your Highness.” He saluted once more before turning to his men. “Open the gates!”
As the doors groaned open, he blew into a whistle. A soldier hurried over, quill and parchment in hand. Nancho quickly scrawled a message, signed it, then pressed his personal seal onto the paper. He handed it over.
“Deliver this to the Warden. Immediately.”
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The soldier sprinted into the fortress and returned moments later, pushing a vehicle that resembled a bike. It had two wheels, a sleek metal body, and a seat carved from stone. A series of metal pipes stretched along the back, forming exhaust-like vents.
At the heart of the machine, positioned just before the seat, was a fist-sized pearl. The air around it seemed slightly darker than the rest of the environment.
Fire Relic—Sun Stone.
It absorbed sunlight, storing energy for propulsion. As the soldier climbed onto the bike, he placed his hand on the Sun Stone. Instantly, fire coursed through the pipes, turning them red-hot. A powerful thrust of flame erupted from the vents, propelling the bike forward.
With a fiery trail in its wake, the soldier sped off toward the Elven Prison.
After their crushing defeat, the Elves faced total annihilation at the hands of the Humans. But the World Tree, in a desperate bid for survival, reached beyond this world—pulling the souls of dead humans from Earth and reincarnating them as Elves.
Some of these reincarnated Elves, desperate to escape captivity, tried to bargain for their freedom, offering their knowledge in exchange. But the Humans had no intention of honoring such deals. They extracted, analyzed, and implemented everything of value—twisting foreign concepts into their own power system.
The metal carriage and bike were direct results of this knowledge.
Of course, Relics were far too valuable to be used recklessly. They were only deployed in secure territories, where the risk of theft or destruction was minimal.
"Please follow me," Nancho instructed as his subordinates pushed the metal carriage through the gate.
Every inch of it was inspected—except for a section safeguarded in the center. Only once the soldiers confirmed there were no security risks was it allowed entry.
The carriage was first taken to a sealed chamber within the fortress. Inside, Nancho turned to Pronto and saluted.
“Now, please allow me to verify your claims.”
“Of course,” Pronto said smoothly, stepping forward without hesitation. His eyes flicked across the chamber, tracing the nail-wide grooves along the walls. Oil flowed through them. A fire-based defense—efficient but ruthless. ‘Nancho is thorough’, he noted, storing the information. Even in a supposed place of safety, he never stopped assessing.
Nancho remained cordial, but as a Gate Officer, he was always prepared for the worst. As a Level 2 Human, he didn’t need oil, but his subordinates relied on it. If danger arose, all it would take was a single spark. The fire would engulf the gates, turning the entrance into an inferno that only Humans trained in fire control could navigate.
The wooden gates weren’t a weakness. They were a trap.
—Bang!
The metal door groaned as Nancho pushed it open. His gaze remained fixed for a moment, taking in the object before him.
It was a stone—a pyramid-shaped relic with rough, chiseled edges. Moss clung to its coarse surface.
Despite being a solid block of rock, it hovered effortlessly in the air, restrained only by thick metal chains bolted to the floor. The chains creaked under tension, barely managing to keep the stone in place.
Stone Relic of Ogres—Sky Boulder.
Breaking free from his reverie, Nancho quickly slammed the door shut. Only he and Pronto were present—ensuring no word of the Relic would leak, even among the common citizens of the Human race.
Nancho exhaled sharply, then bowed. "I've confirmed the Ogre Race's Relic."
Lifting his head, he smiled. "Congratulations, Your Highness!"
His voice carried genuine admiration. "You've accomplished something scholars once deemed impossible without first defeating the Ogre Race."
Pronto let out a short breath. "It wasn’t easy." Then, with a smirk, he added, "But ‘impossible’ isn’t in my dictionary."
Nancho chuckled. "I’ve heard of your past feats, Your Highness." He nodded. "That’s why I recognized you, despite living in this fortress for over a decade."
"You flatter me, Sir Nancho." Pronto grinned.
Escorted outside the chamber, he stepped beyond the fortress walls—only to freeze in place.
His eyes widened in shock.
Before him stretched a landscape of fire.
"What in the horrors happened to this place?"
Stretching a kilometer wide, a searing lavascape sprawled before Pronto. Though much of it had solidified, leaving cracked, drought-like terrain, rivers of molten lava still coursed through the deep gaps in the hardened surface. The sheer heat radiating from the ground gave the entire landscape a dull, orange glow.
As Pronto stared in disbelief, a truck rumbled up on the other side of the lava. Soldiers hopped off, unloading stacks of firewood and tossing them into the lavascape.
The moment the wood caught fire, the heat surged. Solidified sections of rock melted, allowing the lava to flow freely once more.
The lava moat encircled the entire area—spanning forty kilometers around the World Tree like an unbreakable ring of fire.
Pronto’s brows furrowed. “You must be feeding it constantly to keep it from solidifying.”
“We keep it alive.” Nancho replied, his tone matter-of-fact. “Many personnel stationed in the Elven Prison exist solely to ferry firewood into the moat.”
He gestured towards the lavascape. “Look there.”
Floating at its midsection was a head-sized pearl, hovering just above the lava’s surface.
“That thing regulates the heat, ensuring the lava never cools.”
Nancho extended a hand. A controlled stream of fire left his palm, flowing into the Sun Stone. The moment it absorbed the energy, the stone flashed red-hot. A wave of heat pulsed outward, and in response, the lava brightened—shifting from dull orange to searing yellow.
Dozens of Sun Stones were strategically positioned along the Lava Moat. They absorbed sunlight and discharged the excess heat into their surroundings, which maintained the Lava Moat. If the temperature dropped—whether from cool winds or heavy rain—a Level 2 Human would recharge the Sun Stones with fire, rekindling the moat’s intensity.
And when an immediate boost was needed, large volumes of firewood were dumped in at once, igniting an inferno.
“An impressive display,” Pronto remarked, though his gaze sharpened as he studied the searing expanse. “But isn’t this excessive? None of our enemies should be foolish enough to challenge the Elven Prison—not with HIM present.” The way he said it wasn’t hesitation, but a test, watching Nancho’s response closely.
Nancho nodded. “You’re right.” His expression darkened. “But we cannot take chances. None of the Elves can ever escape this place. And no one—not a single outsider—must ever make contact with them. We can’t allow them even a sliver of hope.”
His gaze shifted toward the World Tree, the heart of it all.
“We need them to remain our slaves.” His voice was cold. “Because that tree… is far too important to our future.”
He turned back to Pronto, then lifted a hand, pointing skyward.
Directly above the lava moat, the air shimmered, bathed in a reddish glow.
“The heat rising from the moat creates an invisible wall.” He smirked. “Even a Wyvern’s wings would burn to ash before crossing it.”
His voice carried finality. “No one can breach this moat—not by land, not by sky.”
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Gangnea Daily Article #16:
A race’s strength is directly tied to the number of Relics it possesses. The World Tree produces more Relics than any other known source. However, unlike standard Relics, the World Tree Fruit is a consumable, making its power temporary rather than permanent.