Silence fell across the forest—not the silence of peace, but the held breath before a scream.
The Timber Giants lay as twisted carcasses of steel, their broken bodies half-buried in soil that still steamed with life energy. Sparks flickered weakly from their severed wires like dying stars. Around the battlefield, shattered branches and uprooted trees stood as silent witnesses to a victory that felt unfinished, fragile, and terribly thin.
Mokshit stood at the center of the wreckage. His chest rose and fell in ragged heaves, his bark-armor pulsing with a fading green light. His hands trembled as the vines around his wrists began to slacken. They didn't retreat in triumph; they loosened in hesitation, as if the forest itself was suddenly unsure of its champion.
Then, the wind changed.
It no longer carried the familiar warmth of damp earth and blooming jasmine. It arrived cold and sharp, slicing through the clearing like an unseen blade. It carried a scent that didn't belong in nature—something hollow, something rotting.
The trees shuddered. Not from a physical blow, but from a primal fear. Leaves curled inward, recoiling from an invisible poison. Animals that had begun to peek from the shadows vanished back into the dark, their instincts screaming a warning louder than any sound.
Even the vines on Mokshit's arms withered.
Mokshit felt a chill crawl up his spine. He lifted his head slowly, dread settling like lead in his stomach.
Nirmul stood at the edge of the clearing. He was no longer wearing the mocking smile of a businessman. His expression was stripped bare, revealing the cold, sharp predator beneath. His eyes didn't just glow; they were filled with a swirling red mist that moved like trapped smoke.
For the first time since his awakening, Mokshit felt the forest pull away from him. It wasn't abandoning him—it was warning him to run.
"You think the forest made you strong," Nirmul said, his voice sinking into the ground like a rusted nail. "But strength built on kindness is a glass house, boy."
He lifted a hand. Darkness gathered in his palm—not a shadow, but a thick, oily smoke. It hissed as it coiled, smelling of decay and burnt roots.
"How..." Mokshit whispered, his voice shaking. "How do you have power?"
Nirmul's lips curled into a cruel, jagged line. "You're not the only one nature touched, boy. But while you asked for its blessing, I took its soul."
Nirmul slammed his hand into the earth.
The sound wasn't a bang; it was a deep, tectonic groan. A ripple of pressure tore through the soil, and then—
BOOOOOOM—!!
The ground erupted.
Corrupted red vines tore through the grass like open wounds. They were thick, twisted, and covered in black thorns that dripped with a venomous, glowing sap. They didn't grow; they spread like a virus. Wherever they touched, the world died.
Ancient trees turned black instantly, their bark peeling away in charred flakes. Leaves shriveled into ash before they even hit the ground.
Mokshit clutched his chest and fell to his knees. A sharp, unbearable agony tore through him—not a physical wound, but a spiritual one. It felt like a blade being driven into the center of his soul.
"Stop…" he gasped, tears blurring his vision. "STOP! I can feel it… I can feel them dying!"
Nirmul stepped closer, his boots crunching over soil that no longer breathed. "Good," he whispered. "I want you to feel every second of it."
The corrupted vines surged forward, crawling toward Mokshit like living malice. He raised his hands desperately, calling for the green light, pleading for the forest to answer.
But the green aura flickered. It sputtered like a candle in a storm.
The red vines reached him. They wrapped around his ankles, the black thorns sinking deep into his skin.
"No—!!" Mokshit screamed as the poison entered his veins. It felt like liquid acid.
Nirmul clenched his fist. "Nature is beautiful, isn't it? But corrupted nature..." He twisted his hand. "...is unstoppable."
A red vine snapped forward like a whip. CRACK! It struck Mokshit in the stomach, sending him flying backward.
SLAM!!
He collided with a massive tree. The impact shattered his bark-armor, sending cracks spiderwebbing across his chestplate. The breath was torn from his lungs. He slid down the trunk, gasping, his vision tunneling into darkness.
Behind him, the tree he had leaned against withered instantly, its leaves falling around him like a funeral shroud.
"No… not the trees… please…" Mokshit sobbed, reaching out a trembling hand to the blackened bark.
"Your suffering feeds the corruption," Nirmul said, standing over him. "The more you care, the more it hurts."
He raised his hand again. Red roots erupted from the dirt, pinning Mokshit's arms and legs to the dying tree. They tightened around his throat, choking the life out of him. His armor sparked and died, the living vines within it shriveling into dry husks.
CRACK.
His mask fractured, a piece of the polished wood falling into the dirt.
"L-let… me… go—!" Mokshit choked.
Nirmul leaned in, his face inches away, his eyes twin pits of crimson rot. "You are nothing," he whispered. "Just a scared child playing hero in a world that belongs to me."
That was when Mokshit heard it. The sound that broke his spirit.
The forest was crying.
Not a loud roar, but a weak, fading whisper carried through the roots.
"...Help..." "...Guardian..." "...it hurts..."
Mokshit let out a broken sob, his strength vanishing. "I'm trying… I'm trying but… I can't move…"
Nirmul raised a hand crackling with red lightning. "This is the end of your story, boy."
He released the blast.
BOOOOOOM—!!!!
The explosion tore the clearing apart. Red corruption swallowed everything. The ground split, the trees burned, and Mokshit's body was flung like a ragdoll into the dark abyss beyond the cliffside.
He fell.
And fell.
Into a darkness that had no end.
THE SPIRIT REALM
It was cold. Endless.
Then, a faint golden glow appeared. Mokshit opened his eyes to find himself floating in a vast, luminous void. Glowing roots spiraled around him, their touch warm and healing.
A voice echoed—ancient, calm, and vast as the ocean.
"Do not fear... chosen one."
A colossal figure formed from light, leaves, and stardust—the Nature Spirit.
"I failed..." Mokshit wept, his spirit form trembling. "I wasn't strong enough."
"You were chosen not for your strength... but for your heart," the Spirit replied. "You lost today so that you may rise tomorrow. To defeat corruption, you must awaken the sun that sleeps within the soil."
Golden light flooded Mokshit's senses.
"Awaken... Guardian of Earth."
EPILOGUE
Mokshit lay on a distant riverbank. His armor was gone. His mask was in pieces. His body was bruised and broken.
But deep beneath his ribs, a tiny, golden-green spark remained.
He was alive. And the forest was waiting for him to wake up.