“Thanks for the dinner, Grandpa. It’s delicious.” Finlay picked at the long, thin leaves and vines mixed with the beans and beef. What’s this, though?” He had eaten the same dish previously but forgot what the greens were. There was a slight bitterness that cut the richness of the dish.

“The bitter gourds we transplanted a few weeks ago?” Grandpa Swaney mimicked a pair of scissors with his fingers. “Pruned ‘em today. Those’re its vines.”

“Weren’t those a couple of thousand seedlings?” Finlay said. “Must’ve been a lot of vine cuttings.”

Fewer side branches meant that nutrition from the soil would be focused on the main vine climbing the trellis. Visualizing pruning helped Finlay make a spiritual crucible to contain his body’s anima that naturally strayed throughout. Forcing the anima to move a certain way didn’t work for him, so he tried the reverse. He imagined each of his body parts cut off until the anima had nowhere to go other than the center of his chest, where all life conduits converged. It was the prerequisite for attaching an elderbone fragment to his sternum.

“Bundled ‘em right up and gave most to the workers,” Grandpa Swaney explained. He had four regular employees on the farm and hired temps when the workload was heavy, like during planting or harvesting. “Mighty nutritious, these vines. People forget about ‘em, only thinkin’ ‘bout the fruit itself. But don’t eat matured bitter gourd vines—those’re as damn bitter as your grandma’s heart!”

Finlay awkwardly chuckled. His grandmother suddenly left the farm when his mother was a teenager. As a boy, Finlay asked his mother about it whenever they visited but didn’t get an answer.

As an adult, he knew better than to ask. Let whatever family issue that was get buried by time.

“I give up guessing what’s in this box,” Finlay said, changing the topic. “Can I just open it?”

“Go ahead,” said his grandfather. “Doubt you’ll guess what it is.”

Finlay flipped up the rusted latch and opened the box. Inside was a shriveled object that looked like a brown raisin but was as hard as stone. “Dried rabbit poop?”

Grandpa Swaney burst out laughing. “It’s a seed, my boy! Calling that poop, our ancestors must be turnin’ in their graves.”

Finlay held the seed between his index finger and thumb. It didn’t look or feel special. Toss it to the ground and it’d blend right in. “Ancestors? Why would our family keep an old seed?”

“Legend has it that there used to be a world tree ‘round here. Our family was its caretaker for centuries. Remember that big ol’ stump on the lower peak? Up the slope from the shrine?”

Finlay nodded. Grandpa Swaney toured him up the mountain peaks a month ago. Surprising how his grandfather effortlessly climbed while Finlay got drenched in sweat.

“Supposed to be it,” his grandfather said. “That right there in your hand, is its seed. Again, supposedly. Another thing it’s supposed to be is a lucky charm.”

Finlay heard this story in the previous timeline and thought nothing of it then. The mention of a world tree slipped his mind. He was more interested in the lucky charm part. Now, he asked, “What’s a world tree? Is that a real tree species?”

“Nah, the legendary sort. A mighty huge tree connectin’ heaven, earth, and the underworld. Lotsa cultures have somethin’ like that. Dunno why. Somethin’ philosophical and whatnot, methinks.”

“No way that stump used to be a tree that grew to the sky,” said Finlay. “It’s just slightly wider than this room. I mean, it’s impressive. But there are bigger trees.”

In comparison, the World Tree of Ilaya was a mountain almost. Yet, it was still very, very far from reaching the heavens. Not that Ilaya had an actual heaven. Or hell.

Finlay wasn’t given the opportunity to check.

Speaking of legends, his Warden master once shared a tale of a World Tree older than that of Aegis Forest. It was taller than the tallest mountain and sky people living on its branches harvested clouds for water. Finlay didn’t believe it. The world of Ilaya had magic, but that didn’t mean every fantastical tale was fact. Far-fetched stories also existed. There was no conclusive evidence of such a tree or the sky people.

Or perhaps, no one found any yet.

Hearing his grandfather’s explanation made Finlay rethink his master’s story. Could it be true? That must’ve been an insanely powerful World Tree. Was it the answer to defeating the Sporeal Tide?

“Oftentimes, legends are just that—legends.” Gramps said. “What’s real is that dried seed is a family heirloom. Take good care of it. Never mind its backstory.” He finished eating. This was the end of their conversation last time.

Finlay wasn’t done. He needed to find the truth in the legend. “The trees on this mountain touch the clouds when fog wraps the peaks. Could that be the origin of the story?”

“Never thought of it that way.” His grandfather stroked his frizzy white bead. “Good guess, my boy. Was only repeatin’ what my pops told me. That tree was already a stump in his time too, so he was repeatin’ stories just the same.”

“It was cut that long ago? What’s so special about it then? Can you remember other stories about the world tree? Who planted it?”

“Mighty interested in it, eh? Lemme see if I remember it right. Our ancestor—dunno how many generations ago—met this beautiful lady in the forest, as you do in fairy tales. He fell in love with her and they got married.”

Finlay snorted on his beans. “That’s fast. He didn’t investigate who she was?”

“He found her in a forest in the mountains; have to be a dimwit not to think somethin’ supernatural was afoot. He didn’t care because she’s beautiful, methinks. No fancy computers or internet back then. Nothin’ to do other than gettin’ married. Let’s just say this lady kept her secrets, and her husband didn’t bother pryin’.”

“Did she end up doing anything supernatural?”

“Gettin’ to it, my boy. Relax, will you? Turns out, this lady can travel across worlds.”

Finlay’s ears tingled. New information. He patiently waited for the rest of the story.

“Several years after they married and had little ones,” continued Grandpa Swaney, “the lady went missin’. Husband searched high and low for her. I can empathize with this guy. What’s with this mountain and disappearin’ wives?” He grumbled something that Finlay couldn’t hear. Then he shook his head. “Where was I? Oh, right. Our ancestor found his wife on the lower peak. She told him she had to return to her world. Not a surprise she wasn’t of Earth, now, was it?”

“What happened next?” Finlay eagerly asked.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“She showed her husband a seed,” continued Grandpa Swaney. “Supposedly from the world tree of wherever she came from. Seed can’t grow here. River of life doesn’t flow in our world, somethin’ like that, she said. Can’t recall exactly Pop’s story. Then she planted the seed. Vines emerged from the ground and formed an archway. She walked through it and was gone in a blink.”

Finlay clenched his fist under the table. “Archway? What did it look like?”

“An archway is an archway. Description is not part of the tale, my boy. Feel free to add your own stuff when telling your children this story someday. It’s just a legend, after all. Pops did say the archway led to a sharp drop. After the lady disappeared, the vines wrapped themselves into a trunk and leaves sprouted—our knockoff world tree on the peak. Since we dissectin’ legends and such, methinks this lady jumped off the mountain and the husband makin’ up stories to cover it. Family issues…”

While Grandpa Sawney muttered about his wife leaving him, Finlay focused on the seed.

River of life… That must mean the lifestream of primeval natura from a world’s core.

The dwarves, an ‘otherworlder’ to Ilaya like humans, had records of coming from a magicless world. They didn’t have World Tree. On the other hand, the original world of the elves flowed with natura. Mana, they called it. Elf elders claimed their World Tree transported them to Ilaya before the Sporeal Tide destroyed it.

Earth couldn’t sustain a World Tree because it lacked lifestreams. The most ‘magic’ possible here was the World Tree seed opening a portal and becoming a regular tree after.

“Where did this seed come from, Grandpa?” asked Finlay. “Did our fake world tree bear fruit?”

Grandpa snapped out of his grumpy murmurings. “Must’ve. Dunno if Pops told me ‘bout that part. If he did, I wasn’t listenin’. That’s all I can tell you, my boy. Each village got its own tale of a random guy marryin’ a beautiful fairy or whatnot. Don’t get too wrapped up in legends like your grandma. She was mighty interested in this world tree nonsense too.”

Finlay raised a brow. “Why was she interested?”

“Beats me,” he said with a frown and a shrug. “Gettin’ late. If you don’t have any more questions, get some rest.”

“One last thing, Grandpa. Why did you choose to be a farmer?” Finlay didn’t know what compelled him to ask that. Perhaps he was looking for comforting words, anything to lighten the burden of changing the future.

Grandpa Swaney shook his head. “Choose? I don’t remember doin’ such a thing. I was raised in this life. Couldn’t leave it when I grew up. Knew nothin’ else.”

“I see…” Finlay didn’t know what else to say. But he could understand his grandfather’s sentiments.

“You, on the other hand, did some choosin’. Anyway… I’ll clean up here. You had a long trip.”

“You spent the day pruning,” Finlay countered, starting to stack the plates. “Let me take care of this. Goodnight, Grandpa.”

Finlay wanted to add a goodbye but stopped himself.

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

Finlay placed the box filled with books he bought but never got around to reading for years on top of his bed. That was the last of the moving boxes. He wiped the sweat off his forehead as he surveyed his room. Lifting heavy weights after eating wasn’t advisable but he didn’t want to leave a mess before disappearing.

He started to record a video message with his phone.

“Gramps, you may be wondering where I’ve gone.” Finlay paused, pondering how much he should explain. “I know this’ll sound crazy. This isn’t a prank. The legend about the world tree seed is real. I’ve succeeded in going to another world. Don’t worry—ah, I guess you’ll really worry no matter what I say. Just know that I’m safe. And I know how to return. Tell Mom I have a world to save.”

Finlay ended the recording. He still had a lot of things to say. He would’ve gone on and on if he didn’t stop himself.

The phone’s clock displayed it was nine-thirty. Not much time left. He placed his phone on the table his grandfather made for him. For good measure, Finlay scribbled a note saying, “Watch the video”, and left it beside his phone.

The night was silent except for crunching soil under Finlay’s shoes. No chirping crickets. Probably driven away by pesticides. The sonorous croaking of frogs, as one might expect from the countryside, was absent too. No insect prey, no frog predator.

The full moon drifted across the cloudless sky, illuminating the farm and helping Finlay navigate the long green rows to the back of the property. A rocky wall was the boundary to the south. Finlay of the past tried planting the World Tree seed out of curiosity because he had read that some seeds could survive dormancy for decades. He looked for a spot it wouldn’t accidentally get trampled or weeded.

Tucked away between moss-covered piles of boulders was a small clearing. Goats freely roaming the farm kept the weeds from growing wild. Finlay didn’t need to fence off the area from them like last time because he now knew the seed would instantly grow.

There must be something special about this place. He’d bet on the moon—it always had a part in spooky rituals. A mystery that’d be simply left unresolved.

Using a broken branch, Finlay dug a hole a few inches deep into the ground. He dropped the seed into the hole and covered it with soil. He hoped the changes he made throughout the day wouldn’t affect his return to Ilaya.

“It’s somehow much easier when I used to think I’m a chosen one,” Finlay wistfully said, fondly replaying the challenges along his path to become a Hexalinker Soulheart Warden.

This time, the World Tree chose Finlay… because it didn’t have another choice.

What if the Witchblade Archon Khaero reached the Inner Sanctum instead of him? What if the Heptalinker Eberhard of the Three Tusks didn’t die so early in the war? They could just take the World Tree seed from him and plant it themselves. What if Isidore, Finlay’s master, wasn’t enslaved by—Stop!

No end to second-guessing what had already happened.

Only this time, Finlay could change what would happen. The burning camps of refugees around the World Tree—that wouldn’t happen. They wouldn’t even need to flee to the Aegis Forest because Finlay would convince the goatkin to ally with other races to save Ilaya. He didn’t know yet how, but he would.

Many bad endings he could reverse, many people he’d save. He wouldn’t fail them this time.

There was one person in particular he wanted to do right by. He couldn’t forget her defiant gaze though their meeting was short, eight years ago.

If the mysterious woman, who introduced herself simply as Jade, hadn’t shown up in time, the ferrorsu’s claws would’ve been an inch closer, scraping the front of Finlay’s brain instead of just his face. Teaming up, they defeated the behemoth of an armored bear.

Too bad they couldn’t eat it. The animals and plants in the snow-covered Eloyce Forest had been tarnished by the Sporeal Tide.

Finlay invited Jade to join him in traveling. Better chances of reaching uncontaminated lands together than alone. He was shocked when she took off her hood and brushed aside her copper hair—her sunken cheeks showed the outline of her teeth underneath. Seeing her fight, no one would think she was half-dead from hunger.

“I have non-combatants with me,” Jade said. “Sick and weak. We’ll slow you down.” Her voice was raspy and feeble. But her deep green eyes pierced through him, as if daring him to say what was in his mind.

Finlay wanted to convince her to be realistic and leave them. It was a miracle she got this far with heavy weights dragging her down. She couldn’t save everyone. She couldn’t even properly feed herself. Trying to be a hero was naïve. If she wanted to be one, survive now and save more people tomorrow.

Yet, he kept silent.

He knew she’d never abandon her companions. Finlay shared some food with her and they parted ways.

They crossed paths again a week later.

Jade, if that was truly her name, laid dead in the snow surrounded by several children. Orphans of war. She cared for them while fleeing the Sporeal Tide, they told him. Not one died under her watch.

Finlay took them in.

“I have another chance,” Finlay said, staring at the moonlight-brushed soil. “Things will be different this time.”

Tiny sparkles danced on the ground.

A small glowing vine breached the soil. It grew large as it twirled upward like a dancing snake. Other vines soon sprouted and climbed on each other. Up and up, they went. Peaking ten feet tall, they made a wide curve and went back down to the ground—an archway. It was a freestanding structure of vines to nowhere, without any signs it was magical.

Finlay gazed over his shoulder, one last look at the farm, and walked through the archway.