Finlay zoomed to the heart of the Aegis Forest, trailing flares to signal that he left his post.

Something wasn’t right. Something big. He was the fastest reinforcement. Up to the others to adjust the defenses. The World Tree was the priority.

Where did the enemy come from? If not the sky, could they have tunneled underground? The roots of Awakened Trees would’ve detected them. A Fairy Ring was also impossible this deep inside the Aegis Forest; its construction would’ve alerted everyone and their grandmothers, assuming said grandmothers were sensitive to natura fluctuations.

Finlay flapped his wings hard as more purple plumes rose from explosions near the World Tree. He morphed his eyes into that of a spectral roc to see what was happening.

Fierce fighting raged among gigantic gnarled roots.

Awakened Trees with draconic Soulhearts resisted the consuming flames, but mutated beasts with putrid mushrooms sprouting from their exposed spines drowned them with sheer numbers. Injured soldiers recuperating away from the frontlines had to take up arms and mount a feeble resistance, only to be swept by demonic chimeras of muscles and horns. Bloated humanoids wrapped in tubes and arcane machinery spewed purple flames at the goatkin trying to save their home.

Human camps burned. So did the tents of the dwarves and elves. Burrows of the Lha’at collapsed, the frog-like people scampering to the Telvari initiates frantically conjuring barriers. Sylphshades fled the fire while the Aviarii took to the air and safety.

Many were dead. Many were dying.

I can’t save everyone. Again.

Finlay closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself.

Cries for help, screams of anguish. The stench of burning flesh laced with sulfur from the unearthly purple flames. This had happened more times than Finlay could remember. He became stronger after each one and still couldn’t prevent the next. A cycle of failures.

He opened his eyes. Just fight!

He pulled his wings close to his body and dove with great speed, crashing into the biggest Node Noble he could find. One moment, the Node Noble was shaking its fleshy caps, spreading chemical clouds to control enslaved hosts, the next moment, it was paste on the cratered ground.

Earthen spikes rippled outward from where he landed, skewering the berserking monstrosities free of the Tide’s control. The earth continued welling toward the enemy forces, stretching up into a wall to slow them down. These were the abilities of the Great Mogloth and the Sand Lurker combined, the same Soulhearts favored by Hilda the Bulwark; she was much better at using them than Finlay.

Finlay flew again, skimming low over the battlefield. He cracked whips of black wind and white fire with every flap of his wings, merging the powers of the spectral roc and Valefire Dracowyrm. Soldiers were surprised as the monsters they fought turned into smoldering pieces while they remained unharmed.

“Warden!” a familiar voice weakly called out.

It came from a bloodied man leaning against a fallen Awakened Tree. Corpses of the Spore-infected littered around them.

Finlay landed next to the man. “Tavri! Where are the children? Are they—?” Finlay looked down. Tavri clutched his stomach to stop his guts from spilling out. Finlay clenched his fist. “Damn it, I don’t have an Evermoss Soulheart. We need to—”

“I’m done for, Warden,” Tavri croaked, his old face wrinkling even more from the pain. “Monk Mandolin… with children. Enemies. Inner Sanctum…”

“We need to get you help.” Even as Finlay said it, he knew it was too late. Tavri’s anima grew faint, his life force flickering. There was no help and too many needed help.

“Give me rest.” Tavri raised his arm. His skin was mottled purple, spores dancing tauntingly. “Enslaver got me. Too weak. Inside my mind… Don’t let them…”

Finlay placed his hand over Tavri’s eyes. Many have asked this of him. Better die a human and deny the Sporeal Tide another host, he knew that. But it was a heavy burden no matter how justified and rational it was. He learned long ago to steel his heart.

“Many thanks,” Tavri whispered. “Go… Inner Sanctum…”

Finlay sent a small shockwave out his hand. It passed through Tavri’s head.

Tavri slumped lower, no longer breathing.

“The Inner Sanctum,” Finlay echoed, narrowing his eyes.

Majestic from afar, the World Tree revealed a decaying reality up close. Rotting holes peppered its trunk, wide swathes of bark had peeled off, and colors drained from many crumpled leaves. According to Ramuel, the lifestream below the World Tree dried up a five years ago, ushering in the fall of the goatkin empire. Remnants of their golden age nestled at the base of the World Tree, including the marble-clad Inner Sanctum where the Herd Queen and the Caretaker both resided. Finlay heard rumors of a way to the core of the World Tree’s trunk through the Inner Sanctum—this should be the target of the Sporeal Tide.

The lives of everyone in the forest relied on the World Tree. The need for Speckles for the war effort was dire, yet Finlay agreed with the Herd Queen that it was too much risk to mine under its roots. Without the World Tree, the defenders would be waiting for death.

As Finlay flew closer to the Inner Sanctum, the more Spore-infected he saw. He couldn’t figure out where they came from. He sowed destruction on the monsters, helping the Awakened Trees. Strong as the children of the World Tree were, they were few. If only the goatkin had made more.

If… There were a lot of ifs.

No end to them if he started. No use thinking about them since he couldn’t turn back time.

Focus on the here and now, Finlay thought as he shed his wings, entering the Inner Sanctum’s enormous doorway.

It was off-limits to non-goatkin. Was. Instead of meeting Horned Blades, royal guards of the Herd Queen, an assortment of Spore-infected attacked.

I can’t waste time with you! He made forceful pushing motions as he activated his psiophant Soulheart, molding the powerful psychic blast he made into a barrier with the Soulheart of the Adam-amin Dragon. It required a massive burst of anima. The air in front of him shimmered. A forcefield violently shoved crowds of monsters down the long hallway, crushing them against each other and clearing a path.

Finlay’s legs buckled. He went down on one knee, his sternial scalding hot.

Not yet! He should use physical attacks to be economical with his anima. No transformations; they drained anima fast and required too much concentration.

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Gritting his teeth, Finlay got back on his feet and charged. Each step siphoned chunks off the stone floor, building an armor encasing his body. Soon, he was twice his actual height and many times wider, a behemoth of compacted stone. Revolting smells of gore and gunk could still penetrate his armor. As Finlay smashed through the ugly meat sacks in his way, a disconcerting sensation grew.

The flow of dense natura wasn’t right.

Finlay entered a grand hall. Rows of columns were silver trees; the vast ceiling they held up was entwined golden branches. He expected many Prime Sporeals because of the natura disruption, but there was none among the hundreds of enslaved hosts.

Two islands of goatkin were on opposite ends of the sea of fleshy horrors.

To the left, Horned Blades defended a small archway. It must lead to the Herd Queen in her quarters because she wasn’t with the second group. The leader of the goatkins to the right was ancient, hunched over, and draped in emerald robes. His bare chest didn’t have any Soulheart, unlike the rest of the goatkins. Finlay hadn’t met him before but guessed he must be the World Tree’s Caretaker. The aged goatkin and his guards stood on a raised dais at the end of the grand hall, their backs to the elegant throne of crystalline branches.

Curiously, the Spore-infected weren’t attacking. They retreated and made space.

A tall and extremely slender creature stepped forward, so thin it might break from a gust of wind. Its limbs and neck were disproportionally long, its skin the blackest of blacks as if absorbing light. Heads of different creatures, including a human, adorned its chest while the head on top of its neck was a goatkin with gem-encrusted horns.

Is that the previous War Buck?

This unknown monster was a black hole of energies that even Finlay’s anima was affected.

Severely spent, Finlay was weakened further in its presence. His instincts screamed he’d lose. He trudged through the Spore-infected to reach the Caretaker. There was no turning back.

The Caretaker gestured with his frail arms as if weaving a loom. His robes flapped open and out came golden vines covered in glowing red thorns, reaching for the dark creature. All vines were instantly cut into pieces. The Caretaker was thrown back, his robes turning red. The other goatkin formed a circle around the Caretaker. They were all dismembered without any hint of movement from the dark creature.

Finlay flung a punch. His door-wide fist extended forward, plowing through monsters, and collided with the dark creature, slamming it against the wall. He shed the rest of his armor and piled it on the unknown enemy, forming a cage of stone.

That wouldn’t stop it for long.

Finlay rushed to the Caretaker’s side. “Hang on!” He tried to put pressure on the Caretaker’s wound, but it was too wide.

All of Finlay’s equipped Soulhearts were for combat. Their meager supply of healing Soulhearts was distributed only to the Healers. And they lacked high Grade ones; a Lumin Wisp Soulheart wouldn’t help here. Would cauterizing the wound work?

“Familiar…” The Caretaker touched Finlay’s chest. “An otherworlder?” It was an old term for those lacking Soulhearts. What was the Caretaker trying to say? Did the Caretaker sense that Finlay wasn’t of Ilaya?

Answers could wait. Monsters were closing in.

Finlay scooped the Caretaker off the floor. Goatkin blood coated his arms. “We have to get you out of here.”

“World Tree… seed. You have…”

“Save your energy,” said Finlay. “Tell me about it when—” he turned around to find the dark creature looming over them.

“Finlay, do you remember me?” asked one of the heads on the creature’s neck—a male human whose face Finlay couldn’t quite place. The head shifted up the long neck as the goatkin head sidled down, exchanging positions with it. “It’s been years. How delightful to find you alive.”

“Who are you?” Finlay didn’t care to know about this head but was intent on buying time. “Did we meet—urgk!” Stinging lined his neck, followed by warmth.

Blood. His own blood oozed out of the cut. He didn’t see the dark creature’s attack that easily sliced his hardened flesh. Pure instinct made him jerk back at the last moment and keep his head. This was the second time today, and his luck had run out.

Before Finlay could pool his anima to stop the wound, he found himself raised off the floor. His abdomen burned. The dark creature skewered him and the Caretaker with a tentacle coming out of the bejeweled goatkin’s mouth. The flow of Finlay’s anima was thrust into disarray.

I’m going to die…

Finlay tasted blood. Rage filled his heart.

Not yet!

One last squeeze of willpower. Finlay drew in natura and refined it even as his consciousness wavered. Anima rushed to his sternial. Every drop he could muster. He’d overload his Soulhearts and pray the explosion would take this bastard with him.

“Wait,” the Caretaker whispered, coughing blood. His hand remained on Finlay’s chest. “A chance… we still have.”

“Before this day ends,” said the dark creature, “your World Tree will fall. My roots will replace its roots. And I will move to another world… I spread.” Its other heads joined in chanting. “I spread, I spread, I spre—”

The wall behind the throne burst open. Vines thicker than tree trunks entered the grand hall. The light they radiated made the monsters cower.

The dark creature pulled Finlay and the Caretaker towards it. Finlay formed a barrier around its goatkin head and severed the tentacle—the last act of his Adam-amin Soulheart before shattering. The glowing vines caught Finlay and the Caretaker as they fell, forming a cocoon around them.

“Traveler from another world!” The Caretaker’s eyes burned white in the darkness and his voice changed. “My life for a second chance, I give.”

Wha-what do you mean? Finlay gargled blood, tasting iron. His throat was blocked. He willed his thoughts to reach the Caretaker for he could no longer speak. Something pierced his chest. Vines from the Caretaker’s Soulheart wrapped Finlay’s sternial.

[Plant it!] It wasn’t the Caretaker talking anymore. There was no sound but the voice shook Finlay’s bones. [A second chance. Plant the seed!]

Plant… what?

The vines protecting them disintegrated. Tendrils of the dark creature entered the cocoon and pierced Finlay’s head. He was already dead when his body was shredded.

----------------------------------------

Finlay opened his eyes. He was looking down at a table.

A white round thing on a table.

He raised a brow. A cake?

A cake with a message—Best wishes on your farming journey!

Popping noises. Finlay flinched, wary of an attack.

Sparkling things fell on him. He held out his hand to catch some… confetti? When did that word last cross his mind? Ilaya had rituals scattering grains and such, but this piece of reflective paper looked like something from… Earth.

Clapping followed. He flinched again.

Three people materialized around the table. They took his picture with their phones. A small room constructed itself around them. Walls, windows, door, air conditioner. A jungle of buildings sprouted outside the glass panes.

“Man, I told you to point the popper away,” someone said. “You got confetti on the cake.”

That was in actual English, not Angloise translated into English in Finlay’s head.

“I was aiming at Finlay because confetti should fall on the celebrant,” was the reply of the other man.

Memories of Earth which deteriorated through the years on Ilaya rushed back into Finlay’s brain. His life literally flashed before his eyes. A massive headache followed and he almost fell face-first on the cake. He planted his palms on the table to support himself. His eyes watered from the pain.

A lady wearing a dark blue blazer leaned forward. “Do you like the cake, Finlay?”

Sarah was her name. She worked four cubicles from his. The other two, Earl and Derrick, were also his co-workers. They entered the company five years ago, along with many other fresh graduates. Most of their ‘batch’ have since left, so they decided to celebrate the next who’d resign. Good friends. They made working here somewhat tolerable.

Earl, Finlay’s next-door cubicle neighbor, patted his back. “Are you seriously crying, man?”

“You’d also cry if you’ve succeeded in escaping corporate slavery,” said Derrick, their resident gym enthusiast.

“Tha-thanks for the cake,” Finlay managed to say. Those were his exact words last time. Twelve hours from now, he’d be transported to Ilaya.