Chapter 3:

The World Tree

> Mount Kisai, the great aether-volcano, erupts not with fire and death, but with life—its bounty spilling forth to drape the southern tip of the First Branch in endless green. Here, creatures thrive, and growth knows no bounds. Yet too much life turns cancerous, and even the greenest trees may hide dark roots beneath.

>

> — Histories of the First Branch, Carlin Litwillow

As Jericho’s consciousness began to fade, his spiritual sight flared to life. With the distractions of pain and the dazzling beauty of the new world stripped away, he could finally see more clearly what was happening within him.

What he saw shocked him.

The statue’s final attack had ravaged his body. His spiritual sight laid it bare: his internal organs were shredded, his bowels ruptured, his kidneys bisected, and even his heart bore a deep, dangerous gash. Bones were fractured, muscles torn—by all rights, he should have been dead.

Yet, his hands were whole.

His right hand, the one that had birthed the first blade from his cut, was smooth and unblemished, as if the battle had never happened. His left hand, which had been mangled by the statue’s strike, was now perfectly normal, the skin unscarred.

Then he saw it—the strange dance between life and death aether within him. The death aether, cold and steady, had fastened his soul to his body, preventing his spirit from slipping away. He could tell that this process was draining his deep reservoir of death aether rapidly. Meanwhile, a faint trickle of life aether coursed through him, sluggish but persistent, suffusing the damaged parts of his body with energy.

With a newfound clarity, Jericho directed his willpower toward the aether. He had no technique to guide him, no training to rely on—only the sheer determination of a man who refused to let go of life. His awareness prodded the aether, willing it to flow toward the most grievously wounded parts of his torso, pushing the life aether to where it was needed most.

The aether responded to Jericho’s desperate will, flowing sluggishly at first, but then with increasing urgency, like water released from a cracked dam. He could feel it, see it, with his spiritual sight—the life aether clinging to his shattered organs, enveloping the torn tissue with a faint glow. It wove itself into the damaged areas, mending the ruptured bowels, knitting together the bisected kidneys, and sealing the deep gash in his heart.

The death aether, cold and methodical, held his soul firmly tethered to his body, preventing it from slipping away as the life aether worked its way through him. The two forces—opposites in nature—were intertwined, sustaining him in a delicate balance.

Jericho’s focus never wavered as the life aether coursed through his veins, clinging to every frayed muscle, binding the torn ligaments and fractured bones. Slowly but surely, his organs were restored, the deep internal damage beginning to fade as the aether did its work. His heart, once on the verge of collapse, beat steadily once more, its surface unmarked by the grievous gash.

But as the aether worked, he could feel it waning. The death aether, which had held him steady, began to fade, its cold embrace loosening. At the same time, the life aether thinned to a trickle, then to nothing. His core, once so rich with energy, was drained completely. No more aether remained within him.

With his spiritual sight, Jericho could see the results of the struggle—his organs, thankfully, were whole. His bones, which had been cracked and fractured, were now restored. There were still wounds on his body—gashes across his skin, bruises that throbbed—but none that would kill him. Not any time soon, at least.

Jericho let go of his spiritual sight, returning to the confines of his physical body. The transition was slow, the ethereal awareness slipping away as he regained the sensation of flesh and blood. His eyes fluttered open, greeted not by the searing agony he had expected, but by a far more bearable ache. The pain was still there, a dull throb coursing through his muscles, but it was no longer the overwhelming, crushing force that had threatened to consume him.

He shifted slightly, wincing as his body protested the movement, but it was nothing like before. His organs, once shredded and torn, were intact. His heart beat steadily in his chest, no longer on the verge of collapse. The deep gashes on his body still ached, but none of them were mortal. He was alive—against all odds.

As Jericho slowly sat up, his head spinning slightly from the effort, he noticed something strange: Legion was not there. The familiar presence of the hound, always lingering in the back of his mind, was absent. It left an eerie stillness in its wake, a silence he hadn’t felt in what seemed like an eternity.

But it made sense. His core was completely empty, drained of every last drop of aether. Without the energy that sustained Legion’s form, the spirit was gone. Jericho glanced down at his hands—whole again—and flexed his fingers.

Jericho pushed himself up, standing in the alcove he had carved from the unyielding metal. His legs trembled beneath him, but he forced them steady, gripping the rough stone edge as he stared out through the hole he had created. Once again, the beauty of the world beyond hit him with an overwhelming force.

The brilliant sky stretched wide, a sea of blue unlike anything he had ever seen. Vast trees with thick brown trunks and branches adorned with vibrant green leaves swayed gently in the warm sunlight. The sight was almost unreal—like something out of a dream, impossibly vivid and filled with life.

For a moment, Jericho stood there in silence, letting the light and color wash over him. It was nothing like the dark, oppressive depths of the Underroots. Here, the air was warm, full of life, full of possibility.

Slowly, he turned his head and looked back into the massive cavern behind him. The ruined fountain lay in pieces, the fragments of the stone guardian scattered like broken memories. The darkness of the cavern seemed even deeper now in contrast to the light outside, a grim reminder of the world he had come from. A world where his people, the Stone, had lived without the touch of aether. Without sunlight. Without hope.

Jericho’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at the wreckage of the statue, at the massive cavern that stretched behind him—a place that still held his people in the dark. The hole he had made was small, a glimpse of the world beyond, but not yet an escape. It was a start, but it wasn’t finished. The way wasn’t fully open.

He clenched his fist, feeling the weight of the vow settle into his bones. He wasn’t done. He couldn’t be done.

"I’ll return," he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse but resolute. "I’ll come back, and I’ll open the rest of the way."

With that vow burning in his chest, Jericho turned back to the light, his eyes tracing the colors and warmth of the world that waited for him.

Jericho pulled himself up, his hands gripping the edges of the hole he had carved. His muscles protested with every movement, his body still battered and worn, but he forced himself onward. He climbed out of the dark alcove and into the light, dragging his legs over the ledge with the last of his strength.

And then, for the first time in his life, he felt it.

Soft earth.

His feet sank into the ground, and he froze, the sensation alien and overwhelming. This wasn’t the hard rock of the Underroots, nor the coarse moss or slimy lichen that had coated the dark world he had known. The earth here was soft, alive with warmth, cradling his weary form. As he steadied himself, the texture of it shifted underfoot, giving way to patches of grass—real grass, soft and green, delicate to the touch. It tickled his legs as he stood, the blades brushing against his skin in a way he had never experienced.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

For a long moment, Jericho just stood there, stunned, letting the strange sensations sink in. His breath came in slow, controlled bursts, but his heart raced with a new kind of exhilaration. He bent down and ran his fingers through the earth, feeling the richness of it, the way it yielded to his touch. It was warm, vibrant, unlike anything that had ever existed in the cold, barren depths of his former home.

He straightened, his eyes darting around him, taking in the world beyond the Seal. The landscape was alive with verdant plants—great trees with outstretched branches covered in thick, emerald leaves, bushes teeming with growth, flowers in colors he had no words for. They swayed gently in the breeze, as though the world itself was breathing around him.

And the sounds.

The soft rustling of leaves, the distant song of birds, the hum of insects flitting through the air—sounds that were entirely foreign to him. It wasn’t the oppressive silence of the Underroots or the echo of dripping water in forgotten caverns. This was life, buzzing and moving, filling the air with an energy he had never known.

Jericho turned slowly, drinking in every detail, feeling the soft earth beneath him, the grass brushing against his legs, the warmth of the sunlight on his face. For the first time in his life, he was standing on solid ground that wasn’t stone. This world, this place, was so different from everything he had known, it was almost overwhelming.

Shaking off the awe that gripped him, Jericho gathered his thoughts and oriented himself. Behind him, the massive wall of metal—the Seal—stretched endlessly in both directions, vanishing into the horizon. It was cut into the cliffside, its surface towering above him, so high that it blurred as it reached the peak of the rock face that loomed overhead. The cliff extended even higher beyond the Seal’s top, disappearing into the distance until it started to fade from view altogether. Raw, dark rock surrounded the Seal, the only constant from the world he had left behind.

Turning from the towering Seal, Jericho glanced around at the vibrant, living world before him. Tall plants with thick green crowns—trees, he now knew—rose high around him, their leaves rustling softly in the warm breeze. He stood in a wide field of grass, a sea of soft green blades, with little other vegetation in sight. The earth beneath his feet, still strange and wondrous to him, felt alive with every step.

Jericho began to walk, the grass parting gently underfoot as he moved. The warmth of the sunlight followed him, but there was a strange, disquieting sensation growing in his chest as he approached the edge of the verdant strip. The land was a thin band of life, and as he drew closer to the edge, his steps slowed. He stopped at the precipice and looked down.

Far below, stretching out in every direction, was a vast, gray expanse. The land was barren, a wasteland that extended as far as his eyes could see. It was so far below him—thousands of his own height—that the ground seemed a distant, unreachable world of desolation. The sheer drop was dizzying, the sight of it enough to make him sway, though his feet held firm.

Jericho swallowed hard and turned his gaze upward, seeking some sense of orientation, some reassurance in the enormity of the landscape.

For the first time, Jericho truly beheld Avalon.

His breath caught in his throat. There, towering above him and stretching into the heavens, was the Tree—an unfathomable, awe-inspiring sight cloaked in mist. It rose so high, so vast, that it defied comprehension. It was a world unto itself, its massive trunk vanishing into the distance as if it were the spine of the universe. Rings of rock and water swirled around its middle, and strange orbiting planetoids drifted lazily among the upper reaches, almost like moons. The sheer scale of it rendered everything else meaningless.

Above him, nestled high in the mist-shrouded heights of Avalon, Jericho could see the fabled Branches. Each one was an entire world, suspended in the sky, some barely visible, others sprawling wide. Each Branch grew higher than the one below it, reaching ever closer to the Crown of the Tree far above, where the purest, most powerful aether trickled down from the heights. The air shimmered with energy the higher one looked, as if the very atmosphere was alive with power.

For a long moment, Jericho couldn’t move. The sheer majesty of what he saw left him breathless. This was Avalon. This was the world he had fought to reach.

This was what he was tasked to destroy.

Jericho could almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. Destroy this? A tree that seemed to span the world, its mist-covered rings and floating stones twisting around it like some kind of celestial spiral. The task was so impossible, so beyond comprehension, that the thought of it was laughable. But he didn’t laugh. He simply smirked and shook his head. The strip of land the Seal had opened into stretched to the left and right, and he chose a direction at random—left—setting off without much thought.

Above him, creatures with wings flitted between the towering, green-crowned stalks. They moved quickly, darting through the air and letting out strange, rhythmic cries. Jericho had no idea what they were—beings of this new world, he assumed, like the great towering plants that stretched far into the sky. He had never seen anything like them, their leafy canopies swaying gently in the breeze that brushed against his face. Everything here seemed to move with the wind, as though the world itself was alive and breathing.

As he walked, he found himself losing track of time, lulled by the steady rhythm of his steps and the strange, unfamiliar beauty around him. The tall plants with their green crowns became denser as he traveled, and the ground beneath his feet grew softer, the rough surface giving way to gentle patches of loam. Jericho noticed the landscape beginning to narrow, the wide field shrinking into a thin trail that twisted upward.

XXX

Jericho sat perched on a gnarled jut of ancient wood, surrounded by a wilderness thrumming with life as he contemplated his own.

Life.

It seeped from the soil, rich and loamy, almost too abundant; every breath seemed steeped in it. He could feel it pouring down from the native flora, their green crowns like ocean waves in a vast sea of canopy, each leaf brimming with an energy so potent it was almost tactile. Creatures crawled, trudged, and flitted in a constant rhythm, each a small vessel for this life he felt around him.

The Underroots, too, held life—but it was a twisted, sickly imitation, he now understood; a mockery of what he now witnessed. Down there, every surface was slick with decay, every scrap of food gnawed by rot before it could be consumed. People moved like shadows, each man, woman, and child consumed at by the feverish hunger of survival. Cut off from a fundamental process of the world–aether.

As he sat, Jericho felt a familiar pang of guilt for the life he’d led, for the perverted birthright that had driven him into this quest. The Graven, his clan, was a remnant—sickened elders and broken survivors spared only because they could contribute no meaningful life force to the sacrificial pyre that had birthed his core. They had died not long after his birth, one by one fading into the shadowed memory of the Underroots, leaving him as the sole witness. It was Legion, the amalgam of those souls, who had chosen to remain, spending his precious aether to manifest and raise him, deeming it a worthwhile expense. A child born from such sacrifice had to be guided, kept from the madness of isolation, or the lives were spent in vain.

And yet, despite Legion’s presence, Jericho had often felt alone. When he was old enough to understand, Legion had explained the truth in their blunt, unflinching way: every person Jericho had known, every lesson he had received as a child in his tribe, had come from Legion itself, woven from the countless souls of the Graven Empire. Legion had crafted each figure in Jericho's life with meticulous care—whether a hardened combat instructor, a pragmatic survivalist, or a healer with quiet wisdom—summoning whichever part of their collective once held the knowledge or skill needed for each lesson. Each “person” Jericho encountered was an echo of those who had sacrificed themselves for him, pulled from the depths of Legion’s vast memory.

But in those shadows of people long gone, there had never been a real, living face. Each figure, though detailed and wise, lacked the warmth, spontaneity, and depth of those truly alive. And when he had finally come face-to-face with the guards of the Clan of the Seal, he felt unsteady, unnerved; their presence was raw, unpredictable, nothing like the figures he had known. Legion had drilled him well in conversation, preparing him to hold his own in the world above, but real people—with their laughter, their spontaneity, their unspoken rules—had a life to them that left him wary, uncertain.

For the first time, Jericho felt a pang of disconnection, a chasm between himself and the very people for whom he undertook this quest. They were shades in his memory, a chorus of voices without faces, forever bound to him by Legion's design. The Underroots had forged him, but seeing this vibrant world—alive in ways his childhood had never been—stirred something unexpected in him. It was not just awe or longing; it was a bone-deep sense of betrayal.

What had been stolen from him, from his people, was now clearer than ever, laid bare in the beauty around him. This world held a life he had never known, yet one that belonged to him and the Graven just as much as to those who walked freely in the sun. His upbringing had robbed him of this, confined him to darkness, and stripped away the life he could have known.

The spirits he carried within him—the millions bound to his own soul—were owed more than memory. They deserved to be heard, their cries etched into the bones of this world, and he would be their voice. For every breath they had lost in the shadows, Jericho would take one back in the light.

He stood, his resolve hardening into iron. He knew what he must do. How to do it remained unclear, but he knew he needed one thing.

Fire.