Tree Guardian
Page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
TREE Guardian
Divine Seed: Book 2
by Andrew Karevik
Tree Guardian: Divine Seed (Book 2)
Copyright © 2019 LitRPG Freaks
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.
Chapter 1
Ordinarily, time means nothing to me. As an ageless, immortal tree who is powered by the presence of magic in the land of Yehan, I should have been content to watch the decades and centuries pass by as if they were nothing. Aging, time, those were all the concerns of mortals. Yet, in a cruel irony, I had discovered that time was of the utmost importance to all beings upon Yehan. For in nine years, something horrific, some unknown enemy from an unknown place, would destroy everything upon this land.
It would be a great pleasure to rest for a time, to settle my roots down and watch the dungeon I have developed flourish, but I do not have that luxury. For while the gods of this world are unable to respond to the nightmare that is to come, I find that I alone have the capability of fighting back. For I am not a part of Yehan’s reality; I am a stranger, a sojourner who is composed of different life essences. And it is the Goddess of the Future’s hope that this different, foreign essence that pulses within my body, shall allow me to defy her prophecy. That in nine years, all life will be gone. Even the gods will not remain. No, it is not time for me to rest.
To a mortal, nine years is long enough to have accomplished many, many of his goals. But for a creature like me, nine years is like blinking. Yet, now, I must be fully present in this world, focusing each moment so that I may build my power. So that I may prepare for what is on its way. It is fortunate that I do not need to sleep.
But while sleep is not a physical necessity for a being such as myself, magic is my lifeblood. Without it, I cannot achieve anything. That is where the dungeon has come in, for a great many people swarm me, adventurers, who are searching for treasure and glory. A few find a trinket or valuable artifact, but most find death. And while their demise is usually temporary, thanks to the resurrections provided by the gods, my gain is permanent. I am able to consume the magical essence they leave behind and, in doing so, I become elevated.
Yet, I knew that I was not nearly powerful enough to fight whatever strange Invasion was coming. If the gods had no chance of survival, what did that say about me, a much weaker being? I was entering a new season, not one of winter, for rest, but rather a summer of great labor. If I were to save this world, the very land that I watched over, I would have to become something far greater than I currently was.
Truth be told, I spent a great deal of time in contemplation after my fateful encounter with the Mistmother. Her words about what was to be the fate of the world had filled me with a terrible dread. I had grown so attached to the mortals who inhabited this realm, not simply the goblins and merchants who survived within me, but also those who lived in the outside world. My raised status, towering high above most of South Yehan, allowed me to watch the daily lives and rituals of the human, elven and gnomish villages. To think that, one day, all would be silent and still in this world, caused me great grief.
It was my responsibility, I had realized, to save them all. No one had asked me to shoulder this burden, but I was willing to accept it all the same. Every world needs a guardian, someone to watch over it and ensure that it remains safe from terrible threats. In most cases, those guardians would be the gods. But who did you look to when the gods were unable to succeed? Perhaps this was to be my destiny. I suppose I would find out, when the Invasion finally commenced.
In the meantime, there were many tasks for me to complete. Time was on my side in a sense. My expanded consciousness, my immense magical power, it all allowed me to think and act quickly. I could run a thousand scenarios in my mind within a few seconds, and in doing so, I would develop new methods of finding more power.
Power was all this came down to. I had my own unique essence, and thanks to the way magic worked in this realm, I was able to effortlessly infuse my own essence into magic. This was helpful in trapping an unruly god within one of my vaults, and it was helpful in killing an outlying invader. If I was going to be able to fight off an entire army of unknown size and power, I would need to have tremendous magical reserves. I would need to loom even higher over Yehan, so that perhaps everyone on the main continent could see me.
And I would need warriors to aid me in facing these beings in the lands that I was unable to reach with my powers. A tall order to accomplish all of these objectives within a measly nine years. But for now, I would be forced to live like a mortal, taking in each hour with intentionality, refusing to allow time to speed by as if it meant nothing. There was much to be done. I only hoped that I would be able to achieve everything in time for the attack. If not…well, I wouldn’t be the World Tree anymore, because there would be no more world.
Chapter 2
The ecology of the dungeon within me was quite complex. Adventurers would arrive and look for treasure, breaking traps and causing immense damage to my interior in the hopes of finding secret doors. The goblin folks—the Ehdridkin tribe who resided within me—raised cattle and families, repairing the damage caused by adventurers and ensuring that I was kept in clean, pristine condition. The shopkeepers would make sure adventurers had access to the best gear to survive my many trials, and a small trading post run by the orcs brought in a few merchants here and there.
I was happy with the way my world worked, at least in a sense of there being balance and harmony. On average, I received about three adventuring parties a month, most of which were what I would consider to be weaker. Their essences were fresh, as if they had just begun adventuring, and consuming them brought me little advantage.
For a time, I had a great number of strong and seasoned adventurers who would show up to face the second floor, hoping to claim a mighty artifact. But in the recent year, word had gotten out that King Soren of Yorburn had been the one to gain hold of the rare item. And without such a precious piece, the greatest of adventurers found themselves shuffling off elsewhere, to die in some other dungeon.
My third level was designed to be less of a treasure zone and more of a brutal killing field, meant to dutifully end the lives of orcs who sought to enter into a new afterlife, one created by me. But due to the treachery of Izguril, the god I had sealed away, I had lost both the new afterlife realm and a great deal of magical power. In time, I would be able to recreate such a realm, one open to any who wished to find rest in a world alternative to
the gods’, but for now I was in a serious power deficit.
The trickle of weak adventurers was not enough. In fact, the only thing these essences were good for was keeping my power levels maintained. I would need more magic if I were to accomplish any of my goals. This meant I would have to find new ways to draw adventurers towards me.
My current method was less than effective. The great trickster, Immix, the goblin who I relied upon for aiding me in trickery and deception, was responsible for spreading the word about my dungeon to Yehan. The problem was that Immix was unreliable in many ways. When there was a time of real crisis, he was focused and able to achieve his mission in order to protect his village. But when I gave him generalized tasks, he showed great contempt for them.
His current assignment was to go about and spread the word to every tavern in North Yehan about me. However, seven months after he departed, he was found sleeping in a barrel in a goblin brewery. Apparently, he saw it fit to use his trickster spells to place himself in a magical sleep, to avoid the boredom of my task. Sleeping, he told me, was far more interesting than what I wanted.
His punishment was severe, but he only found delight in it, defying me and mocking me from his cage suspended above the Merchant District. I began to realize, in that time, that Immix was not someone I should be relying upon for guiding adventurers towards me. In times of trial and crisis, the jackass would serve me well, but I could not keep calling upon him for such a mundane thing. It was a disservice to his special role in the goblin community and it was a disservice to me.
My mind began to turn towards the idea of just exactly how I would attract a higher quality of adventurer. I needed strong and seasoned fighters, those who had enough soul energy to power me greatly upon their death. Yet, I could not simply just create a powerful artifact, and rely upon some messenger to run around and shout my name. It would work for a short season and, then, I would find myself in the same position again.
Rather, I needed to create some method, some steady way of continually drawing in new adventurers to my location. I needed more than a singular gimmick, I needed…something. I wasn’t sure quite yet what that would look like. Perhaps I could consult with some of the mortals who lived within me, to see what they thought best.
In my time in Yehan, I had learned that one of the greatest dangers to any being was his pride. If I had chosen to isolate myself and speak to no one, to only kill and devour, I would not still be alive. For it was the wise council of my allies, my friends, who often gave me a better understanding of the world I inhabited. For one of my greatest weaknesses was that I was immobile. I could not travel around and interact with cultures like most mortals. Instead, I had the power to observe from afar. Oftentimes, I would observe the activities of certain beings and only be able to guess as to what they were doing.
The wise council of mortals was to be weighed against my own instincts, of course. But while the responsibility to save this world was on me, I would not be in this alone. I had Ehdrid, the goblin shaman, the aid of Orcish Merchant Queen Gariatha who ran the trading post, and the human architect, Thomas, who created interesting trap designs for me.
These three were entrusted with the gift of direct communication with me. There were others out there, who I had been required to speak to about some pressing matter, but for the most part I kept my voice hidden. To speak with me was a privilege. Only my council had the rights to call upon me and receive an answer. All others could cry out to catch my attention, but I would only answer if I found their case to be of interest to me.
Still, the size of such a council was small and their experiences were limited. Ehdrid was wise in the ways of the spirit and remained a loyal friend, but he knew and cared little about dungeon design. Gariatha was primarily concerned with the fate of the orcs and gaining immense wealth through trade. And Thomas…well, he was efficient at creating killing machines but, other than that, had no opinions to share. Something was missing on this council. I wondered if perhaps this was linked to my problems of being able to generate interest in my dungeon.
Yes, that would make sense. Perhaps what I needed was another member of the council, someone who understood the motivations and inner workings of adventurers. They could advise me in the best ways of catching the attention of the strong warriors who would give me greater fuel for my endeavors. But where was I to find such an individual?
My first look was at the shopkeepers, the men and women who saw fit to reside within me. Most of them were retired adventurers themselves, who grew weary of the eternal struggle of life and death, and who sought to make their fortunes by selling overpriced healing potions. There were six shops within me total. Three in the Merchant District, where they sold basic necessities. Then, there was one shop on each floor of the actual dungeon itself. The last shop, however, the one belonging to floor three, was in the process of closing out, as there were zero adventurers who sought to brave an area meant only to obliterate the hardiest of warriors.
I rarely paid any attention to these shopkeeps, as they lived unbelievably repetitive lives. They would awake each morning, leaving their little huts in the Merchant District to go and check on their shipments. Then, from there, they would restock their stores, check their safes to ensure the gold was still there, and then sit idly by for hours upon hours until an adventurer—often bleeding from head to toe—would arrive in dire need of something.
I had watched them curiously for the first few weeks that they had arrived, but now I barely remembered that they even lived here. They were quiet and keenly aware of the fact that I was both intelligent and very powerful. They knew that if they were to cause any trouble, I would put a quick end to it. This led to a rather tame life for these mortals, but they seemed to enjoy it. Perhaps when every day out in the world was a constant struggle of violence and chaos, boredom and silence became a luxury.
One shopkeeper caught my attention in my time of renewed scrutiny. He was a burly minotaur, a race that came from the far off Isles of Esca. As the story goes about the minotaurs, they were content to live on Esca, until one invented a boat and sought to sail to a new land with mountains and snow. A curious race with a fascination of discovery, the minotaur people all rushed to build their own ships and, soon, they had all left Esca to explore the world.
This act of abandoning the homelands had angered Escoar the Minotaurgod, for he had crafted the island to be everything they had ever wanted. And so, he chose to hide the Isles of Esca from all mortals, moving them to somewhere far away, leaving the minotaur race stranded in the main continent of Yehan. This left them in a position of being nomadic, homeless and without a claim to land. A great many would become adventurers, searching for some parcel that wasn’t under the claim of a king.
It was rare to find a minotaur stay in one place for long, but Regar had been at his shop on the second level for almost two years now. What made him so interesting to me was the fact that when he did get bored when there was a long stretch without customers, he would sometimes go exploring the dungeon itself. This, of course, meant he was risking his life, as he was susceptible to the many traps that were waiting for him within the halls and rooms.
Every merchant on the floor had been provided a special entrance that was connected to the Merchant District, and which allowed them to reach their shop without having to pass the horrors that existed within my dungeon. These corridors were specially keyed to the selected shopkeep. If anyone else (except the goblins) entered into these service tunnels, a rune would activate, obliterating anyone inside and collapsing the tunnel. I was not about to let some clever adventurer try and find a loophole in traveling about.
Regar fought some of the monsters on occasion, bringing his great axe with him. And in my time of observing, I realized that he was quite skilled. Why did someone like him—who clearly knew how to navigate, find treasure and fight monsters—wish to sit in a shop all day? He never even took the treasure when he found it, either. Perhaps because he was
worried that it was against the rules of the merchant agreement.
In contrast with the other merchants, Regar was the most interesting. The others seemed to mostly read books or polish their gold. None dared to challenge the traps within. I decided that I would speak to the minotaur and find out if he would make a good candidate for being on the council.
One afternoon, as Regar sought to figure a way to bypass a buzzsaw trap in the halls, I spoke to him.
“You should be more cautious when so close to a blade,” I whispered, using my telepathic power to connect to him. This would allow me not only to communicate, but to also get a sense of his emotions and feelings.
Regar did not jump, as some mortals did when hearing a voice in their head, but instead merely leaned upwards, gazing at the air. “You have some need of me, Great Tree?” he asked. I could sense pride within him, a joy at the realization that I had spoken to him. He was honored to be hearing my voice.
“Perhaps,” I replied. “Tell me, Regar, you are a great warrior and a clever adventurer. I see you pace these halls out of boredom when you have no customers. Tell me, why do you run a shop?”
Regar snorted a little at that. “You are curious about that? I was hoping that you’d have some task for me, some purpose that only I could fulfill.”
I did not reply. If he did not wish to answer my question, I would find another candidate. One who had the humility to share his secrets. Regar, however, took notice of this silence and grew a little anxious. He continued speaking. “Uh, yes of course, the shop. Well, my friend, I have been to many dungeons as a warrior, often serving as the man on the frontlines. I have been injured, maimed and killed so many times that I have lost count. But to perish countless times, only to be brought back just so you can stand in front of the wizard and defend him…it grows wearisome.
“I dream about the afterlife, to be honest. Seventy years I have been upon this land and seventy more I shall live. But if there were no resurrections, I would have been dead at the ripe age of sixteen, when I first found a dungeon to plunder. After my last horrendous encounter, one that led my entire party to leave me behind, I realized that adventuring had become rote. Boring. And so, I decided to try out a different adventure, running a store.” He paused to wave at the small shack down the corridor.