The Tree of Knowledge seemed to gather itself, a quiet strength resonating through its roots and branches, as if drawing upon the memories of its distant past.

“Our world was a place of vast, untamed beauty,” it began, a hint of nostalgia weaving through its voice. “Mountains brushed the heavens, rivers carved their way across lands of lush green, and the skies were painted with colors no one has seen since. In the heart of this world, I was planted, a mere seed entrusted to the care of my first Guardian—a being of wisdom and boundless curiosity. My roots stretched deep, drawing from the earth’s energy, and from the beginning, my purpose was clear: to hold the stories of my world.”

The tree’s glow softened as it continued, each word like a fragment of a song long forgotten. “In time, the Library was built around me, brick by brick, root by root. It was a haven for knowledge, with wings that housed scrolls of ancient tales, spells for the most skilled of mages, and histories that spanned millennia. Scholars, sages, and Guardians came from every corner of the world to study within its walls, each leaving behind their mark, their knowledge and dreams etched into the ink of my roots.”

Noah listened, captivated by the vision of this once-living world, where knowledge thrived, protected and celebrated. The Library had been a sanctuary, a place where minds could meet across the ages.

“My Guardian,” the tree continued, a note of reverence coloring its tone, “was a keeper of the balance, one who would seek out lost fragments of wisdom and restore them here, for all who wished to learn. They watched over me, guided my growth, and together, we saw countless generations come and go, each carrying their own stories to add to the Library’s shelves. In this world, knowledge was not only cherished; it was life itself, woven into every part of existence. We believed, perhaps foolishly, that it would last forever.”

The tree’s light dimmed, its voice dropping lower, a wistful sadness threading through its words. “But as time passed, whispers of a dark force began to seep into our world. A corruption, a void that devoured not only life but memory itself. My Guardian sought answers, embarking on a quest to save our world, searching for a cure… yet even their efforts were not enough.”

A pause lingered, filled with a sorrow that seemed to echo through the roots, as if reliving a pain that had never truly faded.

“When the end came,” the tree whispered, “it was swift and unforgiving. Darkness swept across the land, erasing everything in its path. My Guardian fought, as did many others, but the corruption spread, feeding on the very magic and life we held dear. As the world unraveled, the Library, my Guardian, and I… we were pulled from our roots, cast adrift in the void.”

Noah could almost see it—the Library uprooted, suspended in the nothingness, a sanctuary torn from its homeland.

“But rather than surrender to the darkness, we chose a different path,” the tree said, a faint glow rekindling within its roots. “We became something new. The Library became a bridge, a realm of knowledge beyond time and space, surviving so that others could one day find it, learn from it, and perhaps, avoid the fate we could not escape.”

Noah felt a deep, quiet respect for this being that had endured so much, that had chosen to survive, carrying forward the legacy of a lost world.

“Now, I am bound to this Library,” the tree finished, a soft pride mingling with sorrow. “I am its heart, the keeper of our world’s memory. And though I cannot walk among the realms, those who come here—Guardians like you—are my legacy. Through you, our story lives on, a faint echo that one day may resonate through the worlds once more.”

The tree’s glow softened, its roots seeming to coil and tighten as though bracing itself for the weight of Noah’s question.

“The corruption… it is a force older than even I know of, I studied everything possible and could find much about it,” the tree began, its voice heavy with sorrow. “It is not merely darkness but an entity, a hunger that devours life, memory, and magic itself. Long ago, it roamed freely across realms, leaving ruin in its wake. Only when the first World Tree took root did it begin to push it back.”

The tree paused, its energy shifting like a breath held in deep contemplation. “World Trees are not merely trees, you see. They are anchors to the very fabric of existence, connecting realms, and weaving life into the universe itself. Each World Tree guards not only its own realm but sustains the balance that keeps all realms in harmony. The corruption… it seeks that power, seeks to unravel the threads that the World Trees hold together.”

Noah listened, feeling the weight of this knowledge settle within him, a cold knot of dread forming in his chest.

“The corruption is drawn to World Trees because we are its only true opposition,” the tree continued. “Each tree it consumes weakens the balance across the realms, loosening the boundaries between worlds, until all could collapse into chaos. The corruption aims to feed on our roots, our magic, to grow stronger until there is nothing left to resist it.”

A pulse of light travelled through the roots around Noah, a flicker of defiance within the ancient sorrow. “This is why Guardians exist, why you were chosen,” the tree said with quiet intensity. “To protect the spark of life that World Trees carry, to fight against this force that would see all realms lost to emptiness. It is a burden, and yet, you hold within you the power to preserve what many before you could not.”

Noah’s resolve strengthened, understanding now the vastness of what he was up against—but also the importance of his role.

The tree’s glow softened once more, a quiet warmth filling the space. “Young Guardian, know that you are not alone in this fight. Though the path may be dark, the legacy of those who came before you stands beside you, their stories lighting the way. Guard your World Tree well, for through it, hope remains.”

Noah took a steadying breath, glancing down at his hands, where he imagined the weight of the ancient spark and the empty World Seed he carried. “What… what should I do with them?” he asked, his voice quiet yet determined. “I have the spark from the withered tree, and an empty World Seed. How do I protect them, or… help them grow?”

The Tree of Knowledge’s glow pulsed with a gentle rhythm, as if contemplating his question deeply. “The spark you carry is a fragment of a fallen world, a final breath of life that carries memories and essence, waiting for purpose. And the empty World Seed… that is a rare gift indeed. These two have come to you, Guardian, because you hold the potential to renew what was lost.”

A quiet sense of awe filled Noah as he realized the depth of this task.

“The spark must be entrusted to the World Seed,” the tree continued, its voice resonant and calm. “But take caution, Guardian, for such an act is delicate and powerful. To unite them is to create something new—a tree that carries the memories of a world long gone, reborn under your care. And in doing so, it will be bound to you, as you are to it.”

Noah felt the weight of these words, realizing that this would not be a simple act but a commitment that would shape his journey—and his life.

“Take your time,” the tree advised. “Find a place worthy of such a seed, somewhere it can grow safely, and when you are ready, entrust the spark to the seed. This tree, if it takes root, may be the first of its kind. A new legacy.”

The tree’s light flared gently, surrounding Noah with a comforting warmth. “Guard it well, and remember that it holds the essence of life, memory, and hope. Through your hands, Guardian, worlds may yet find rebirth.”

Noah wondered if should he plant another seed in his world or another one? and if he could….how would he embody the spark into the blank seed.

As Noah sat in thoughtful silence, the Tree of Knowledge seemed to sense his inner questions, its voice gentle as it addressed his unspoken thoughts.

“Where you plant the seed will shape its future and yours. Each realm carries its own essence, and to plant it in one world over another is to choose what kind of life the tree may lead. In your world, it would find familiar soil, growing alongside the World Shrub you already protect. Together, they could strengthen each other. Yet, in another world, it might serve as a bridge, connecting realms and offering hope to those beyond your own.”

The weight of choice settled over Noah, the realization that this decision would carry deep consequences, not only for himself but for the realms themselves.

“As for how to imbue the spark into the seed…” the tree continued, its voice rich with wisdom, “it requires intent, patience, and trust. The spark is a memory, a legacy in its own right. You must first understand what it holds, feel its purpose, and with that understanding, offer it willingly to the seed. It will be a merging, a gift freely given from one to another.”

Noah’s heart pounded, the task feeling both daunting and sacred. He realized that before he could merge the spark with the seed, he would need to meditate on its essence, to truly know what memories, lives, and hopes it carried.

“When you are ready,” the tree added softly, “you will feel the spark respond to you, as if recognizing the one chosen to carry its legacy forward. Guide it with purpose, and the seed will take what it needs, blossoming into the tree it was always meant to become.”

Noah nodded, a quiet gratitude settling within him. “Thank you. I’ll leave you to your roots now. And… thank you, for sharing your story and your knowledge.”

The Tree of Knowledge pulsed softly, its light dimming to a serene glow. “Farewell, young Guardian.”

As Noah walked, he glanced back, watching the massive tree fade into a distant haze, its light softening until only a faint, mystical glow remained, like a lingering echo of its presence. Turning back, he was just starting to process the Tree of Knowledge’s words when something caught the corner of his eye.

A figure loomed in front of him, and he staggered back with a gasp, clutching his chest. “Oh!” he cried out, his voice nearly echoing in the vast, empty hall. “Old man, where did you come from?!”

The Archivist was standing there, his familiar, grandfatherly face alight with mischief. His paper-thin, white beard fluttered slightly as he gave Noah a bemused look, hands tucked into the folds of his flowing robe. “Ah, did I startle you, young man?” His eyes sparkled with the quiet amusement of someone who’d seen one too many jumpy young visitors.

“Just taking my usual rounds, you see,” he continued, lips curling into a small, sly grin. “The Library, much like myself, enjoys a touch of the dramatic now and then. Keeps things… interesting.”

Noah let out a long breath, his heart gradually slowing as he tried to shake off the sudden fright. “Yeah, well, I think the Library’s definition of ‘interesting’ is giving me a few gray hairs,” he muttered, eyeing the Archivist with a mixture of exasperation and humor.

The Archivist chuckled softly, a sound like old pages turning. “Ah, gray hairs are nothing, young Guardian. Think of them as little reminders of wisdom gained,” he said with a wink, before leaning closer. “Besides, it’s good to see you walking these halls with purpose, Noah. Not everyone leaves the Tree of Knowledge with such a look of resolve.”

Noah’s surprise melted into a thoughtful nod, the weight of the Tree’s words returning to his mind. He realized now that he hadn’t just gained knowledge—he’d received a reminder of the journey and the responsibility he’d taken on.

“Well, I can’t say it’s an easy path,” he admitted, glancing back down the hall, where the faint glow of the Tree had disappeared. “But I think I understand a little more of what I’m meant to do.”

As Noah’s heart settled, he shot the Archivist a wary look, suspicion mingling with curiosity. “Wait a minute—how did you know I’d just seen the Tree of Knowledge?”

The Archivist’s smile deepened, a glint of knowing sparkled in his eye as he adjusted his robe, his movements deliberate and serene. “Ah, the Library and I are quite close,” he said, gesturing around them with a graceful sweep of his hand. “It shares its secrets with me, though it may be a touch more selective with others.”

Noah raised an eyebrow, his intrigue mingling with a slight unease. “So… you knew all along I’d end up meeting the tree?”

“Let’s just say I had an inkling,” the Archivist replied, a faint chuckle rumbling in his chest like the turning of ancient pages. “The Library has a way of guiding those who wander its halls to the places—and the knowledge—they need most. And if I may say so, you look every bit the young man with purpose now, carrying something greater than before.”

Noah absorbed the words, casting a glance back down the hall where the soft glow of the Tree of Knowledge had disappeared into memory. He could still feel the weight of its story, a new purpose subtly infused into his own. The Archivist’s words lingered, shaping the thoughts that swirled in his mind.

“So… this is all part of the Library’s plan, then?” Noah asked, half-joking, though a sincerity edged his voice.

“Perhaps,” the Archivist replied, eyes twinkling as he leaned slightly closer, his tone light but certain. “Or perhaps it’s the Library simply giving you choices to shape your own path. But,” he added with a soft, knowing smile, “I’d say you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

A gentle silence hung between them. Noah nodded, allowing the Archivist’s words to settle into his mind, a quiet gratitude swelling within him. “Thanks,” he said finally, his voice sincere, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was thanking the Archivist for. “For... whatever it is you do here.”

The Archivist gave him a respectful nod, his smile warm. “It is both more and less than you might think. Now, young man,” he said, gesturing down the aisles of books once more, “there are pages yet to be turned, and stories waiting to be discovered.”

“can you lead me to some seating, with a table, I got books to read” Noah asked

The Archivist’s smile widened, a touch of amusement in his eyes. “Ah, a reader ready to dive into his spoils. Very well, follow me.”

He turned gracefully, leading Noah down a series of winding aisles, the shelves towering high above them, each filled with knowledge and secrets waiting to be uncovered. After a few minutes, they reached a quiet alcove, nestled beneath an arched ceiling of entwined roots and vines that seemed to hum with life. A sturdy wooden table sat in the center, surrounded by comfortable armchairs, with a soft, golden light illuminating the space.

The Archivist gestured to the table. “This spot should suit you well, young man. Here, you’ll find both peace and purpose.”

Noah nodded, feeling a sense of gratitude. “Thank you,” he said, setting his collection of books down on the table, feeling the weight of their knowledge waiting to be revealed.

“May your readings enlighten and inspire,” the Archivist replied, giving a final nod before disappearing quietly down the shadowed aisle, leaving Noah to his discoveries.

Noah sat down and began reading the first book, he pulled out The Forgotten Song: Echoes of Lost Trees.

The book rests heavily in Noah’s hands, its cover crafted from a deep, forest-green leather, worn and weathered along the edges, as though countless hands have held it before. Faint, golden veins run across the leather-like roots, connecting to form a winding, intricate pattern that spirals toward the centre. In that centre lies an embossed symbol of an ancient tree, its branches twisting into loops that almost resemble musical notes, each note flowing as if in harmony with the tree’s roots below.

Beneath the symbol, the title is inscribed in elegant, curling script: The Forgotten Song: Echoes of Lost Trees. The letters shimmer faintly, almost pulsing, as though they carry a life of their own, inviting him to listen to the song woven within its pages.

With a steadying breath, Noah opened The Forgotten Song: Echoes of Lost Trees, his fingers tracing the textured edge of the first page. The parchment felt old, thicker and coarser than most, as though it had been pressed with care ages ago. The opening lines were written in flowing script, beautiful yet haunting:

"In the beginning, the trees sang to the stars, their roots bound in earth but their voices reaching far beyond. Each tree held a verse, a note in the harmony of creation, an unbroken song that kept realms connected through ancient rhythms."

Noah felt a chill, as if he could almost hear faint music stirring from the pages. He continued, captivated, as the text delved into a time long before the realms were separated, when World Trees were conduits of knowledge and peace, each one lending its strength to the balance of life. It spoke of the first trees, their roots stretching not just through soil but through dimensions, creating unseen bonds between worlds.

As he read further, the book described how the trees learned to adapt, their songs shifting in harmony with the needs of the worlds they anchored. Each tree developed a distinct melody, a unique way of blending with its environment, and some began to take on guardians—beings with a profound connection to the essence of life, charged with protecting their trees and, by extension, their realms.

The deeper Noah went, the more he felt the weight of the world he had stepped into. This wasn’t just ancient history; it felt alive, a tapestry woven with intentions and sacrifices of those who had come before him.

“The people of other worlds heard these songs and rejoiced in the harmony they created. But one day, the song broke. A single note changed, they say—a slight discord at first, barely noticed. Yet over time, the note faded, slipping away, leaving silence in its place.”

Noah’s gaze lingered on the words, feeling the sorrow embedded in each line. It was as if the book mourned a lost melody, one that had kept the worlds connected through its gentle presence. The passage continued:

“In the absence of this note, a shadow crept into the song, filling the spaces where harmony had once been. The trees trembled, their roots reaching deeper, searching for the lost note, but finding only echoes of what had been. And with each passing age, the silence grew, the gap widening between realms, as if even the stars had forgotten the tune.”

A heaviness settled over Noah. He felt as though he could almost hear the broken song, its mournful strains lingering in the air around him. This lost note, this fractured melody—was it the first sign of the corruption that threatened the World Trees?.

“Then, worlds began to disappear. And the trees fell silent, afraid to sing.”

Noah’s breath hitched as he read the words. The very idea felt both tragic and haunting: entire realms vanishing into the void, erased as the trees withdrew into silence. He could imagine it—the once vibrant song fading, replaced by an oppressive quiet, the trees’ voices stilled out of fear, their melodies lost to time.

The passage continued, each line unraveling the tale of that terrible quiet:

“With their silence came a dark age, one where knowledge grew scarce, and memory faded like mist. Those few left who remembered the song spoke of it in whispers, hoping one day to rekindle the lost note. Yet without the trees, the worlds were left vulnerable, and the shadows deepened.”

Noah felt a pang of determination rise within him. These trees, these songs—they were more than just legends or history. They were living connections to realms beyond understanding. And he was beginning to realize that the World Tree he protected wasn’t just a remnant of an ancient past. It was part of a legacy, a piece of a song still waiting to be heard again.

The initial chapters were filled with reflections, each recounting the story of the broken song from various perspectives. It was as if the writers—Guardians, sages, and wanderers—had each experienced the silence in their own way. Their words were woven with grief, awe, and sometimes regret, each capturing a unique moment when they realized the song had stilled.

But it was the latter half of the book that truly captivated Noah. Here, each chapter delved into the intricate details of the melodies that the trees once sang. Descriptions of haunting, beautiful harmonies filled the pages, each melody tailored to the nature and needs of the realm it anchored. The writing didn’t merely describe the songs—it painted them, using language so vivid he could almost hear faint echoes of each tree’s unique tune.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

One chapter described a melody as “a lullaby of stars, rising and falling like waves, each note a guiding light for lost souls.” Another spoke of a “hymn of roots,” deep and resonant, “a grounding force binding all life to the pulse of the world.”

Noah’s fingers traced these passages with reverence, feeling as though he was touching a lost memory of the universe. There was a particular line that caught his eye, one he read and reread, its words echoing within him:

"For in the song’s resonance lay the answer to all realms’ harmony, and its loss… the beginning of their undoing.”

It felt like a warning, a truth whispered across eons, a reminder of the cost of silence.

Noah closed The Forgotten Song with a lingering sense of loss, the idea of the trees’ voices silenced haunting him. The image of a song, once pure and unbroken, now fractured and faded, weighed heavily on his mind. He had seen firsthand what happened when corruption took root—both in the World Tree he now protected and in the withered, dying tree forced to remain alive. He could feel the ache of all they had lost, a sorrow so old it felt eternal. But he couldn’t dwell on it; there was more to learn, more stories waiting to be told.

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He took Guardians of the Green into his hands, feeling its earthy, rugged weight. The cover’s deep green leather seemed aged, as though it had endured countless seasons, each marking a story of its own. His fingers traced the rough, weathered texture, feeling the history beneath them. Golden patterns lined the edges, delicate vines and branches woven together like a protective embrace. They shimmered faintly in the light, catching his gaze as he turned the book over in his hands, mesmerized.

In the centre of the cover, a shield entwined with vines and leaves stood out, radiating a quiet strength. Behind the shield, he could make out the faint silhouettes of figures—each one wielding something unique, whether a staff, a weapon, or some tool of protection. They appeared frozen, their forms captured in motion, as though ready to step forward to fulfil their duties. Each seemed to carry a legacy, a purpose, whispering through the ages of courage and resilience.

He ran his thumb along the title, Guardians of the Green, engraved in bold, ancient script. The letters pulsed softly beneath his touch, interwoven with tendrils that seemed to breathe as if carrying some remnant of life. Just below, he read the line: A Record of Their Sacrifice, Their Legacy, and the Wisdom They Left Behind. The words sank deep, a powerful reminder that the path of a Guardian was one of duty and sacrifice. It wasn’t just a book in his hands—it felt like a passageway into a world of stories, a keepsake left by those who had protected the World Trees before him.

As Noah read the first page, the weight of its words settled heavily on him. The text was simple yet laced with an undeniable solemnity: “This is the written account of all known Guardians left alive before the bridges to the realms broke apart. Those who established the portal network across worlds were the saviors of lost worlds.”

He paused, absorbing the gravity of what he was reading. These weren’t just tales of Guardians protecting trees—this was an entire network of realms, a vast system of worlds that had once been connected, each one protected by a Guardian bonded to its World Tree. A network that had since fractured and fallen, leaving only echoes of its former glory.

He continued, his eyes tracing over the elegant yet sorrowful script: “Each detailed account is set to tell the stories and lives after they bonded with their World Trees, and their fall when they failed to save them.”

The line hit him like a cold wind. These were not stories of victory, but of struggle, sacrifice, and, ultimately, loss. For every Guardian that had risen to the call, there had been a price, a moment when they’d fought and, despite their greatest efforts, had seen their world unravel.

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Noah's eyes lingered on the passage, feeling the haunting weight of each word. "The world of Calandor has fallen," it began, stark and final. In his mind, he could almost hear the distant cries, see the panicked faces of refugees streaming through the portal network—families clutching each other, carrying whatever scraps of their lives they could save, their voices hoarse from recounting tales of twisted horrors. They spoke of familiar creatures and loved ones transformed, grotesque beings with limbs and faces that seemed merged in ways that defied the laws of nature. The description alone sent a chill through him, a grim reminder of what he and his own world could face if he failed.

The text continued, recounting the Guardian’s final, defiant stand, "...the Guardian of the World Tree on Calandor was defending everyone that she could." She had stood her ground at the brink of despair, keeping the darkness at bay. He imagined her there—a lone figure facing an unstoppable force, buying every second she could with sheer will and sacrifice. Her actions gave the refugees precious time to flee, a shield between them and the horrors she fought to hold back.

Her final words, recorded by those who had survived, were etched with courage and resolve: "I’ll hold these things back as long as I can. Get everyone through the portal, and if I fall… I’ll destroy it." The stark, simple phrase echoed through him, revealing the depth of her sacrifice. She’d known that severing the portal would mean her own fate was sealed, yet she had done so willingly, choosing to sever Calandor’s last connection to safety to protect those who’d already crossed over.

Noah's grip tightened on the book, feeling the weight of her sacrifice press down on him. She had saved countless lives, yet she had done so knowing it meant her world—and her own life—would be lost to darkness. Her actions had preserved hope for others, even if it came at the highest personal cost.

Closing his eyes, he took a moment to honor her memory, feeling both awe and sorrow for a Guardian he had never met. Her story was a reminder of what it meant to be bound to a World Tree—a commitment to something greater than oneself. He took a steadying breath, his heart echoing with a newfound resolve.

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Turning the page, Noah’s gaze settled on the next account, written in an elegant yet hurried script, as if captured in the heat of battle. "The final days of Aramun’s Guardian,” it began, describing a realm covered in golden plains and high cliffs, where powerful winds swept through the land like whispers of ancient voices.

The entry told of Eirik, Guardian of Aramun, whose bond with his World Tree had given him unparalleled command over the wind. In the account, he was described as steadfast and fierce, his presence like the very storms he summoned. For years, he had protected his world, his mastery of wind and storm unmatched. But as the corruption crept in, Aramun’s skies began to darken, casting shadows over the once sunlit fields.

"Eirik fought the darkness with the fury of a tempest,” the passage continued, painting a vivid image of the battle that had consumed Aramun’s last days. As the corruption spread, merging with the air and poisoning it, Eirik had stood at the edge of his world, channeling every ounce of his strength to push it back. He had transformed the skies into his battleground, calling down lightning and torrents of rain upon the darkness, trying to cleanse it, drive it away.

But even he could not hold it off forever. In a final effort to save his world’s people, he had gathered the last survivors, urging them toward the portal to escape the spreading corruption. With winds howling around him, he had unleashed a storm so powerful that it held the encroaching darkness at bay, giving them precious time to flee.

The final words of the account sent a pang through Noah's heart: “He stood as the last soul crossed over, the tempest encircling him. And as the portal closed, he turned back to the corrupted plains, a lone figure against the storm he had summoned, becoming one with the wind itself.”

Eirik’s memory lingered in the text like the echo of a distant thunderstorm, a man whose final stand had become a part of the land he had once protected. As he closed the entry, Noah felt the Guardian’s strength and fierce loyalty. The storm, now silent, had left its mark not only on the land of Aramun but on the heart of every Guardian who had come after.

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Noah turned the page, and the next entry stood out with a different kind of energy. The words seemed to pulse with a quiet optimism, hinting at a tale less weighed by loss.

"The World Tree of Thallinor and Its Guardian, Elara," the entry began, describing a land filled with shimmering lakes and boundless forests where the tree’s roots spread wide, their influence woven into every corner of the land. Elara, Guardian of Thallinor, was said to have a bond so close to her World Tree that she could communicate with every living creature within her realm. Known for her gentleness and wisdom, she nurtured her world with a steady and unwavering devotion.

But when the corruption appeared on the borders of Thallinor, Elara knew that force alone would not hold it back. Instead, she turned to her deep connection with the creatures and spirits of the land. She sought help from the ancient, mystical beings that inhabited her realm, gathering allies who had also been touched by the World Tree’s magic over the years.

The entry described how, rather than waging a battle of destruction, Elara had woven a vast protective barrier around Thallinor with the help of the land’s creatures and spirits. Together, they created a natural ward, a web of life and energy that pulsed with the power of the World Tree itself. Birds carried branches to distant corners, deer and wolves pressed their bodies against the land to strengthen its roots, and even the smallest creatures, like insects, added their hum to the barrier’s magic.

"In time," the passage continued, "the corruption slowed, deterred by the web of life that defended Thallinor. Unable to pass through the barrier, it faded to the edges of the land, and Thallinor remained safe—one of the few worlds untouched by the shadow."

Elara’s efforts, fueled by harmony and unity with her world, had saved her realm from ruin. Instead of a battle that scarred the land, she had protected it with a song of life that still pulsed through Thallinor. The animals, plants, and ancient spirits had become guardians in their own way, leaving Thallinor a haven untouched by corruption.

As Noah closed the entry, he felt a warmth spreading through him. Elara had shown a different path—one of preservation and unity, a reminder that the strength of a Guardian could come not only from power but from the connection they shared with their world. Thallinor’s story wasn’t one of loss, but of resilience and protection, leaving behind a legacy of hope for all Guardians.

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As Noah read on, he absorbed the patterns in the tales, each Guardian’s story echoing with a shared struggle but often ending in silence—Guardians going missing, their worlds left in mystery, or trees withering quietly after their bond was broken. There were accounts of Guardians passing on their connection, transferring the bond in a last act of preservation before succumbing to illness or age, leaving behind their stories and legacies in the hands of another.

But what struck him was the absence of any mention of Guardians succumbing to the corruption itself. There were no accounts, at least at the time of writing, of Guardians who had been consumed or twisted by the darkness. It felt both reassuring and unsettling. Could it mean that the Guardians, for all their strength and connection to the World Trees, were somehow protected from the corruption? Or was there a vulnerability hidden somewhere in these stories, a weakness yet undiscovered?

The book’s final chapters provided little more clarity, filled with fragments and loose threads that hinted at knowledge lost or deliberately concealed. Yet, for all the mysteries, the book held a quiet strength—a testament to those who had stood before him, many facing their final battles alone, and all leaving behind a legacy of devotion and courage.

Closing Guardians of the Green, Noah sat for a while thinking about the accounts.

Noah needed a moment to pause from reading, letting out a sigh as he rested his head in his hands. When he looked up, a small cup of tea had appeared on the table, along with an assortment of biscuits.

“Thank you,” he whispered, feeling a quiet gratitude. He took a sip, savoring the taste—it was sweet but not overly so, crafted exactly to his liking. Taking another steadying breath, he reached for Roots of Power: The Binding of Realms

Roots of Power: The Binding of Realms felt weighty in his hands, its cover a deep, earthen brown, almost like the bark of an ancient tree. Intricate vines and roots were embossed along the edges, their gold-tinged lines spiraling and weaving in a complex, interlocking pattern that seemed to pulse with life. The title was engraved in bold, silver script, standing out against the dark cover, each letter connected by fine, thread-like veins that seemed to carry the energy of the book itself.

He traced a finger over the cover, feeling an unusual warmth beneath his fingertips, almost as if the book were alive. This wasn’t just another text; it felt powerful, potent, and somehow grounded, as though it contained secrets that could reach into the depths of the earth and out to the farthest edges of existence.

Taking a deep breath, Noah opened the book, flipping past the introductory pages, where old script spoke of roots connecting realms and branches touching the skies. He began to read, feeling a quiet hum from the pages, each one unfolding a new layer of the World Trees’ role across dimensions. The book described how the trees served as conduits, binding the energies of different worlds together, maintaining a balance that allowed life to flourish across realms.

The deeper he delved, the more he sensed the profound purpose these trees held: they weren’t merely guardians of their own worlds but served as the glue that held realms together, each one anchoring its reality, drawing strength from the roots that touched the heart of creation itself.

One section described how, in ancient times, world-shaping events caused certain trees to send roots into distant realms, seeking to stabilize worlds on the verge of collapse. Roots of Power detailed the mysterious phenomena of roots crossing boundaries, binding life to life, each world connected in a network older than time. It was almost impossible to imagine the scale of it, but Noah found himself captivated, drawn into the mysteries of how such a system could work.

As he continued reading, Noah found passages that alluded to an even deeper, hidden power within the roots themselves, a kind of memory of all life, holding the stories of every realm they’d touched. It was said that those attuned to the roots could feel this memory, a resonance of voices past, like whispers in the soil, offering guidance, wisdom, and warning to those who could listen.

Turning another page, he came across a single line written in a language he couldn’t understand. But as he looked closer, it seemed to shift, letters rearranging until he could read it.

“To know the roots is to understand the realms; to protect them is to uphold all life,” the text intoned solemnly.

The passage continued, speaking to Noah as though revealing secrets held close by Guardians across ages:

“The roots draw strength from each other,” it read, “as told by those who have tended to the trees through countless seasons. When a World Tree lacks something—sunlight, water, or energy—another tree may offer what is needed.”

Then the account turned to a particular Guardian, a figure who cared for the Grove of Worlds. Known simply as the Grovekeeper, he was not a human Guardian but a deer-like buck, his antlers said to have mirrored the branches of the trees he protected.

“The Grovekeeper, a buck of gentle wisdom, spoke of his own World Tree—a tree often in need of sunlight or warmth during colder seasons. Yet because his tree was connected to others in the Grove of Worlds, he described how it could share water from nearby roots, or in turn, provide sun essence to trees hidden in shadows.”

The text described how each World Tree could bridge not only realms but lives, binding distant worlds through roots unseen yet full of purpose. Together, they created a web that spanned realities, ensuring that when one world faltered, another would hold it up.

As Noah continued reading, he came to a section that outlined the "Essences of the Realms," each essence a lifeblood unique to its world. The text described these essences as the "vital forces" that World Trees draw from their respective realms, maintaining their health and harmony.

"Each World Tree," the passage began, "is bound to the core of its realm, drawing strength from its unique essence. Just as a Guardian is bound to a tree, so too is a tree bound to the spirit of its land. This essence varies from world to world, shaping each World Tree according to the magic and life of its surroundings."

The book illustrated several types of essences:

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Sunlight Essence: Common in realms with bright, arid landscapes, trees drawing upon Sunlight Essence thrive in warmth and often have leaves or blossoms that glow faintly, absorbing solar power to channel magic or heal their Guardians.

Water Essence: Trees rooted in lush, wet environments like rainforests or misty highlands pull from Water Essence, their roots extending deeply into sources of fresh water. They often exude a cooling aura, and their Guardians can wield water-based magic to heal, shield, or purify.

Shadow Essence: In darker realms where shadows dominate and the line between day and night blurs, World Trees draw from Shadow Essence. This essence allows Guardians to blend with shadows or summon shades, and the trees themselves act as silent watchers, their roots sensing even the faintest tremors of danger.

Earth Essence: Found in mountainous or cavernous regions, World Trees nourished by Earth Essence have dense, rugged trunks and roots like stone. These trees are powerful protectors, and their Guardians often inherit the strength and resilience of the earth itself, making them formidable in defence.

Sky Essence: In realms with vast, open skies or floating landscapes, World Trees connect to the sky, their branches reaching toward the heavens. They channel Sky Essence, allowing Guardians to control wind currents, heighten perception, or even gain temporary flight abilities.

Star Essence: Rare and ancient, Star Essence flows in realms touched by cosmic energy, like starlit deserts or places bathed in astral light. World Trees bonded to this essence are deeply mystical, their Guardians able to see beyond physical boundaries, sense distant magic, or commune with the cosmos itself.

Life Essence: One of the most potent and rare essences, Life Essence embodies the core of growth, renewal, and pure vitality. World Trees infused with Life Essence are typically rooted in lush, ancient rainforests, enchanted groves, or other places where nature thrives undisturbed. These trees glow softly with an emerald luminescence, and their branches are constantly adorned with vibrant blooms, leaves, or fruit. Their roots extend deep and wide, forming a vast network that connects with every part of the realm, breathing life into the soil and nourishing the creatures within it. The presence of Life Essence ensures a delicate balance, fostering a symbiosis between the tree and its surroundings, creating an ecosystem of resilience and continuous growth. Guardians of Life Trees often possess abilities tied to healing, rapid regeneration, and the nurturing of flora, becoming stewards of life and harmony across the lands they protect.

Frost Essence: Found in icy realms with glaciers, mountains, and arctic tundras, Frost Essence keeps the World Tree's sap cold and preserves life in extreme climates. Guardians of Frost Trees can manipulate ice, slow time momentarily, or protect against harsh environments, making them skilled in defence and endurance.

Flame Essence: In volcanic landscapes and fire-scorched regions, trees rooted in Flame Essence withstand intense heat and transform fire into energy. These trees often have glowing bark or ember-like roots, and Guardians connected to Flame Essence gain control over fire and ash, sometimes even able to manipulate molten earth.

Storm Essence: Drawn from realms with frequent thunderstorms and turbulent skies, Storm Essence imbues the World Tree with an electric pulse, enabling the Guardian to channel lightning and create protective electric fields. These trees have bark with jagged, crackling patterns and a faint hum of electricity, embodying raw, untamed power.

Crystal Essence: In crystal-rich caverns or landscapes with reflective surfaces, trees harness Crystal Essence, allowing them to store light or information within the crystals embedded in their roots and branches. Guardians gain enhanced sight and knowledge-based magic, often able to unlock hidden truths or project illusions.

Verdant Essence: Often found in dense, enchanted forests where life is lush and vigorous, Verdant Essence makes the World Tree particularly attuned to the cycles of life and growth. Guardians can communicate with flora and fauna, heal wounds, and even accelerate the growth of plants, embodying nature’s resilience and renewal.

Dream Essence: Rarely seen and mysterious, Dream Essence is found in realms with a strong connection to dreams, illusions, or the subconscious. Trees nourished by Dream Essence thrive in hazy, ethereal realms, where reality and illusion blur. Guardians can enter dreams, sense thoughts, or create powerful illusions, bridging the gap between worlds seen and unseen.

Lunar Essence: In worlds where moonlight holds special power, trees enriched by Lunar Essence absorb the moon’s energy and emit a soft, silver glow. Their Guardians are strengthened by moonlight, gaining enhanced sight in darkness, subtle mind-influencing abilities, and the power to manipulate tides or calm troubled spirits.

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The text continued, describing how some Guardians believed in the existence of a mythical World Tree—the King Tree or First Tree—possessing all known essences. This ancient tree, if it ever existed, would be unlike any other, a true cornerstone of balance across the realms, holding the powers of Fire, Water, Earth, Life, Light, Shadow, and more.

"It is said," the text read, "that if such a tree bore seeds, these would be unlike any others, imbued with a potent potential to shape realms and lives alike. But if it existed, its seeds would be hidden or lost to time. Some believe its presence vanished before corruption touched the realms, leaving behind only faint memories and distant legends."

Noah’s mind raced. If a World Tree could embody multiple essences, what potential lay within his own world’s tree—or the seed he now carried? He imagined the possibilities: a tree capable of restoring balance across broken worlds, a bridge for the realms it connected. And if his tree or the new seed could evolve to hold even a fraction of that power, what legacy might it create?

The words left him with both a sense of wonder and weight, as though he glimpsed an ancient truth just out of reach—a legacy of resilience and harmony older than any world he knew.

Noah's mind wondered, as he turned a few pagers noticing something odd, a single page was ripped out of the book.

Noah's gaze lingered on the jagged edge of the torn page, its absence an unsettling gap in the story. The page was missing from a section titled "The Legacy of Unity", a chapter that seemed poised to reveal more about the connections between the essences and the mystical bonds shared by Guardians.

Turning the book over in his hands, Noah couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration and curiosity. Who had removed it? Why? It was as if someone—or something—had tried to hide a piece of the puzzle, a part of the knowledge meant for those who sought to uphold the balance.

He ran his thumb along the torn edge, feeling the faint indent where the page once rested. Just then, a faint whisper seemed to drift through the Library, echoing softly, "Some knowledge seeks those ready to find it… yet some hides to protect itself."

A chill ran through him. The book, the Library—perhaps even the Tree of Knowledge—was full of secrets, some guarded more fiercely than others.

If he wanted to understand his World Tree better, he would need to know what essence it held. Perhaps there was a section of the Library dedicated to identifying these unique essences.

Atlas pulsed softly in his hand, sensing his intent, and after a moment, its pages flipped open to a map. A faint glow indicated a nearby section labeled "Essence Identification and Classification."

Noah rose and followed the map’s guidance, winding through aisles until he reached an area where the air seemed subtly different—thicker, almost humming with latent energy. Shelves were filled with volumes on essence theory, identification methods, and studies from Guardians who had recorded their experiences.

He selected a book titled "Recognizing World Tree Essences: A Guide for Guardians." The cover was smooth, embossed with an intricate diagram of interwoven roots, each glowing with a different colour to represent a unique essence.

Opening the book, he skimmed through chapters detailing how essences might manifest, from subtle signs in the environment around the tree to changes in the Guardian themselves. One passage caught his eye:

"Life Essence brings vibrancy to flora and fauna, sustaining balance and growth. Fire Essence may cause warmth or embers within the roots, visible in dark or cold places. Water Essence nurtures nearby springs, rivers, or moist soil, while Shadow Essence draws creatures of dusk and quiet to its shade. Each essence resonates uniquely within its Guardian and will often create a bond that shapes both tree and protector."

Noah’s mind raced as he recalled moments with his World Tree. The roots pulsed with vitality, the plants surrounding it were lush, and he’d noticed a faint glow beneath the soil, almost as if life itself pulsed there. He felt he might be on the verge of understanding the essence his tree held—perhaps something tied to growth, harmony, or even life itself.

Turning the page, another line of text drew his attention:

"A Guardian may meditate beside their tree to attune themselves fully, letting the essence reveal itself in visions, sensations, or signs as the bond deepens."

He closed the book, storing it carefully. It seemed his next step would be to connect with his tree directly, seeking its essence through meditation.