Chapter 89
The passage narrowed until the two could barely pass side by side.
However, at the end, everything suddenly opened up.
Before me was a semi-transparent domed space.
A massive crystal, shaped like a ripped heart, floats in the center, yet is woven from countless tree-like crystal veins.
Its light was both warm and oppressive, like an endless murmur.
Sprout12 immediately recognized it: "...a fragment of the mother tree's core."
His voice was low, as if he were stating a taboo.
"It was torn apart and scattered during the last apocalypse. I never expected it would be hidden here."
As 237 approached the fragment, the pulse in his chest instantly synchronized with it.
His breathing became rapid, and lines that did not belong to him appeared on his palms—like the runes of the mother tree itself.
Suddenly, the surface of the crystal cracked, and a ray of light extended out and directly entered 237's body.
He suddenly stiffened, as if a layer of his soul had been peeled away from his body.
In the realm of consciousness, an endless forest appears.
The giant trees stood tall, their branches and leaves forming a curtain, yet every tree was bleeding, the blood turning into black mist that filled the sky.
Deep within the mist, a blurry tree shadow whispered:
“Host…you’re finally back.”
237. He was in excruciating pain in his chest and could barely speak.
"Are you... the mother tree?"
The shadows of the trees swayed gently, the sound like the wind, like the friction of roots stirring the soil:
“No… I am a part of it. The true mother tree has long since fallen into a deeper slumber. We are merely fragments, remnants of consciousness. You, Seed 237, should not have awakened, but were forced to hatch prematurely due to the war.”
237 paused for a moment, then gritted his teeth and spoke:
"You want to use me?"
The tree shadow did not deny it.
"If you wish, I will grant you the complete bloodline. At that time, you will no longer be human, no longer a soldier, but a new continuation of the Mother Tree."
Meanwhile, Sprout 12 stood beside the fragment, watching as 237's body was gradually covered by light veins, and the shape of branches and leaves appeared on his body, as if to completely change him.
He gritted his teeth, pulled out the broken piece of the long blade, pressed it against his chest, and murmured under his breath:
“If he is completely assimilated… I must cleave him in two at the last moment.”
However, the blade trembled slightly.
He knew in his heart that that blow not only cleaved 237, but could also destroy his only future.
The light pulse in 237's chest surged in like a tide, its temperature both like the warm spring sun and carrying the chill of the deep sea. The suspended fragment of the mother tree slowly closed, as if binding its entire memory to his very marrow.
In the illusion, the forest suddenly fell silent. The sound of the shadowy tree grew softer and gentler, like the whisper of the wind passing through the rings of a tree:
“Come, seedling. Absorb my broken branches, my whispers, my cycles. Become my unfinished continuation. You will no longer be confined to a single breath—you will learn to think with roots, to measure the right and wrong of light and darkness with the years.”
237's consciousness was touched by millions of tiny roots at the same time—some were memories: ancient sowing and harvesting, sacrifice and rebirth in the ruins of light; some were laws: how to distribute sunlight with the root network, how to seal order with humus; and there was a voice, both a command and a temptation—to return everything to a center, eliminate noise, and restore the "perfect" cycle.
The pain came swiftly, like sharp grains of sand peeling away the old shape from his heart. He heard his "seed" shattering, only to reform in the light of the fragments. Each flash of light was like etching a new ring in the tree.
"Acceptance leads to growth; rejection leads to being devoured." The tree shadow's tone was no longer gentle, but carried an undeniable inevitability.
237 did not respond immediately. The whispers of those nights, the warmth of Bean 12's hand when it held his, and the calculations of the higher-ups outside the isolation pod who wanted to use him as a bargaining chip, entwined his consciousness like vines. He saw his past vulnerability, saw the nights when he was used as a tool, and also saw that moment—when he was embraced by light and darkness at the same time, he felt a wholeness he had never felt before.
He thought of Sprout 12. He thought of the Free Plant that had shielded him from the sniper fire in the corridor, and the vow they had made together amidst the ruins. To protect this plain, to protect Sprout 12, he had to become stronger—not as a key to be pulled, but as a root capable of reweaving the rules.
Then he slowly uttered two words, his voice carrying the richness of earth and the steadfastness of light:
"I...accept."
The fragments instantly closed, and a beam of light poured into his body. In that instant, the boundary between reality and illusion shattered: the air inside the pod seemed to be brewed into honey, the veins of leaves danced beneath his skin, and the will of roots extended from his toes to the ground, intertwining with the winding urban veins beneath the isolation pod.
On a physical level, 237's form did not transform into a tree like a human, but new mossy green veins appeared on its bark, slender tendrils grew from its knuckles, and its breathing rhythm became slower and deeper. Sprout 12 could clearly feel this change, as if a seedling was rapidly sprouting new shoots at night.
His consciousness expanded. The fragmented memories of the past did not merely flood in, but were rewoven into a net like roots: he could simultaneously sense the wind direction outside the quarantine zone, the heartbeat of the guards, and even the fear permeating the high-level conference hall. The world, in his perception, became a multi-layered profile of the soil: surface chaos, deep order, and the distant, surging call of a third force.
The cost of the fragments is also stark and clear—it brings a stretching and shifting of the sense of time. 237 can no longer hear certain fleeting whispers of daily life; those familiar human names are thinned out in his heart, replaced by a sensitivity to the root network, the flow, and the cycle. Memories begin to be filtered: some private and warm scenes retreat to more hidden corners, as if buried in his new "heart"; while the connection with ecology, order, and the mother tree quickly becomes clear.
Sprout 12 looked at him—a complex mix of emotions trembling between his leaves. Fear, loss, pride, and anticipation intertwined. He knew what this acceptance meant: 237 would possess power beyond anything he had ever had, but might also become increasingly like that supreme will that sought to dominate everything.
“You won’t be taken away from yourself, will you?” Sprout12’s voice was lower than ever, but firm.
237 extended a hand that still retained some human warmth, his fingertips lightly touching the leaf of Bean Sprout 12. A gentle tremor emanated from there—not the command of the tree shadow, but the trace of his choice.
“No,” he replied. “I will carry it with me on the path we have chosen.”
The dramatic changes in the outside world were almost immediately apparent: the clouds above the quarantine zone seemed to be torn apart by wind shears, and in the high-rise hall in the distance, the energy curve displayed on the projection screen surged to a new peak. All the monitoring captured a signal that was different from the past—not a pure disturbance of the rift, nor a one-way oppression from a third force, but as if a new root was trying to establish connections between multiple dimensions.
Inside the council chamber, some screamed in terror, others knelt in supplication, and still others wore greedy smiles in silence. On the Third Force's side, the whispers deep within the rift grew impatient, seemingly realizing that this seedling, nurtured by humankind, was being rewritten and was no longer merely a key.
In the domed space at the end of the passage, the fragment of the mother tree slowly dimmed, surrendering its last intact vein—to the seed that had chosen to receive it. Its tone became like a mother's admonition, and also like the murmur of an ancient law:
“Remember, child. Power is not unconditional freedom. Swear by your roots, and bear witness to the soil. You can rewrite the cycle, but at the cost of choosing for whom you will grow.”
In 237's consciousness, there was both a new awakening of power and the weight of responsibility. He felt that he was no longer just fighting for his own survival, but was steadily growing on a path that required bearing broad consequences.
Sprout 12 did not back down; it rested its head on the base of 237's arm, the moss-green veins between them warming slightly like a talisman. In a fractured era, both lives chose to share the burden: one stood tall with new roots, the other watched over with a free spirit.
The wind blew in from the passageway, carrying the scent of a world turned upside down. In the distance, alarms and prayers still mingled, and the gaze from the other side of the rift had not disappeared. But in this instant, Seed 237 had truly stood firm—both as the new root bestowed upon him and as the guardian he had sworn to be.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
