(!) Failure to complete this quest will bring a Level 4 Calamity

  ‘Wh-what does that even mean?!’

  Zamian felt a headache creeping in as he stared at the text.

  ‘A Level 4 Calamity? What the blight was that supposed to be?’

  He had no idea what the ranking meant, or why this thing in his head was threatening him over something as trivial as getting home before dinner. But he didn’t doubt the White Dot’s words—or its power.

  After all, unless he was losing his mind, his mysterious companion had already granted him a divine technique, one powerful enough to reveal other people’s cultivation stages. And, more importantly...

  It had given him hope.

  Hope that he could still save what was left of his family.

  His only hope, in fact.

  A forced cough snapped him back to reality. Bohlo’s desperate gaze met his, the big guy tilting his head toward the Zealot. The message was clear: “You do the talking.”

  ‘Focus on the current problem first.’

  Zamian cleared his throat and turned to face the Zealot. Even with the eerie glow in her eyes, her expression remained unreadable.

  "I am Zamian Greenfield, Enlightened of the Sanctuary,” he began, keeping his voice steady despite the tension pressing on his chest. “Verdant God blessed me, allowing me to live this mortal cycle as the son of the previous Lord Chosen, Dante Greenfield and... Jasmine Greenfield."

  The moment his mother’s name left his lips, the Zealot’s eyes flickered.

  "Jasmine?" she murmured, her head tilting ever so slightly. "Her child was named Zamian, indeed." A faint nod. "So you're the only child of Saintess Jasmine?"

  Zamian’s teeth clenched at the title.

  Saintess.

  The word made his stomach churn, but he forced himself to push past the resentment burning in his throat. Now wasn’t the time.

  "Yes, I am," he answered, his voice taut. "I believe that should be enough to clarify why I am here, shouldn’t it?"

  Bohlo shot him a bewildered look, his confusion plain as he scratched his head and flicked his gaze between them.

  The Zealot stepped closer, the glow in her eyes intensifying. "While this explains your desire to be here, Enlightened Zamian," she said, her tone sharpening, "it does not justify your trespassing or your violation of sacred rules."

  Zamian’s fists curled at his sides.

  ‘Go choke on a thorned branch with your rules.’

  The words burned on his tongue, but he swallowed them down. If he let his anger get the better of him now, he might not have a throat left to speak with at all.

  Taking a slow breath, he spoke through gritted teeth. "Guardian Zealot, I am simply a son missing his mother. As someone who walks the same path, you must understand why I need to be here—to witness her next cycle."

  From the corner of his eye, Zamian noticed Bohlo lowering his head.

  ‘This guy… Father didn’t tell him, I guess.’

  "Nature is the Cycle. So our path is never-ending," the Zealot intoned, her voice eerily mechanical. "Yes, I understand your desire to witness her transformation from Saintess to Colossal Tree. But—"

  Her gaze sharpened, piercing through him like a blade. She was watching, weighing his every reaction.

  Zamian neither flinched nor looked away. He simply waited.

  "But we cannot allow mortal desires to taint God's divine rituals," she continued, her voice carrying the weight of centuries of doctrine. "Enlightened men are prohibited from stepping onto the sacred ground of a Nurture Ritual. You are well-educated in the sacred rules, Enlightened Zamian. And you as well, Enlightened Bohlo."

  Bohlo stiffened beside him, his shoulders squaring, but he didn’t speak.

  "However," the Zealot declared, her tone shifting, "I shall be merciful."

  The vines around their legs slackened, then fell limply to the ground. The green glow faded from her eyes and body, her essence settling back into its natural circulation.

  "I declare that the Cleric Chosen shall decide both of your fates. I cannot judge a young cultivator who erred when he was simply trying to follow his path by witnessing the natural cycle."

  Without another word, she turned and strode through the bushes, heading toward the Cleric Chosen’s abode. Zamian and Bohlo followed in silence, walking side by side.

  Zamian watched the Zealot’s retreating figure, his mind racing.

  ‘Lakea’s mother… She won’t end my mortal cycle, but she could send me to the Deep Ground for repentance—either as punishment, or to use me against Father. That would mean failing the Side Quest, triggering a Level 4 Calamity, which… which I know nothing about.’

  His chest tightened. ‘I’ve read about Calamities, but this blighting level is from White Dot’s creation…’

  A sigh escaped him, his thoughts cut short by the warmth of a hand on his back.

  Zamian glanced sideways. Bohlo’s face was streaked with silent tears, his large hand gripping Zamian’s shoulder while the other wiped at his eyes.

  The fact that the big guy was managing to keep his sobs quiet was honestly a relief.

  Bohlo had known his mother since childhood. To learn about what had happened to her like this…

  It had to hurt.

  Zamian had already made peace with this truth.

  But for most of Sanctuary’s inhabitants, it would be a shock.

  And a blessing.

  The birth of a Colossal Tree was considered a divine blessing, a testament to the Verdant God’s power and benevolence—after all, these behemoths nourished and protected the entire Sanctuary.

  Yet, until it was officially announced, his mother’s fate remained hidden beneath the carefully spun lie that she had been "invited" to the Lord’s Tree.

  For years, Zamian had barely stepped outside, seeing Bohlo only during market trips to gather tea leaves.

  People whispered that the current Lord was keeping his mother imprisoned. That he and his father had been placed under house arrest—a calculated move to suppress and weaken the previous Lord, a man once feared for his ruthlessness and power.

  Zamian knew the rumors well. He just didn't care.

  He had bigger concerns than Sanctuary’s gossip.

  Lost in thought, he hardly noticed how much time had passed—until a sudden flash of white text materialized in front of him.

  Side Quest (!): Get home before dinner time

  Reward: Abyssal Leaf

  Status: Ongoing (5/6 hours left)

  (!) Failure to complete this quest will bring a Level 4 calamity

  ‘That’s odd.’

  The Main Quest had a countdown too, but it only appeared when he commanded it to.

  Zamian furrowed his brows, dismissing the hovering text from his vision.

  His eyes swept over the massive, ancient roots surrounding them. Their size, texture, and the heavy, almost sentient presence in the air confirmed it—

  They were near another Colossal Tree.

  The Cleric Chosen’s residence wasn’t far now.

  "You will remain outside," Zealot Tamara ordered, her tone as rigid as her posture. "I will explain the situation to the Cleric Chosen. Do not enter until I call for you, and do not—" her emerald gaze flicked between them, voice darkening— "lie to her. If you do, I will hunt you both down, bury you alive, and let the roots have you."

  She paused.

  "While still breathing."

  Bohlo swallowed audibly. Zamian just gave a slow nod.

  They resumed walking in silence.

  For a brief moment, Zamian considered bolting home the second she stepped inside. But escaping here, at the very edge of the Sanctuary, would take a miracle.

  And he was fairly certain no divine intervention was coming his way.

  ‘Unless I count divine punishment…’ he mused grimly.

  Also, there was no need to test if the Zealot meant what she said.

  Another hundred steps, and the dense foliage thinned, revealing a small cottage nestled between the roots of a Colossal Tree. The walls were woven with vibrant green leaves, pulsing faintly with Nature’s essence.

  Like most homes here, it had been shaped from living wood, its foundation carved into the hollowed roots of the great tree. The very lifeblood of the Sanctuary flowed through them, nourishing the land and fueling cultivators with Nature’s energy.

  Zealot Tamara stopped.

  Straightening her stance, she took a step toward the vine-woven door.

  Before she could knock, the vines unraveled on their own, parting to create an entrance. She stepped inside without hesitation—

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  And just as swiftly, the vines wove shut behind her.

  Zamian barely had time to think before Bohlo turned to speak—

  He cut him off with a quick shake of his head.

  They were too close to the Cleric Chosen’s home. Even a whisper could be heard.

  The Chosen were the most revered cultivators in the Sanctuary. Being judged by one wasn’t just serious—it was an honor.

  If not for his father’s past as the Lord Chosen and his mother’s standing as a Saintess, a Chosen herself, he doubted the Zealot would have even brought them here.

  ‘Maybe I’d be meeting Mother on the next cycle by now…’

  His stomach twisted at the thought.

  Beside him, Bohlo kept his head lowered, his shoulders trembling slightly. His mouth opened, then shut, as if struggling to find the words.

  Zamian thought about saying something—anything—to ease his friend’s grief.

  But before he could, a faint rustling made them both turn.

  The vines parted once more, and Zealot Tamara stepped outside, motioning for them to enter.

  At the Zealot’s command, Zamian stepped forward, passing through the vine-woven doorway with Bohlo close behind.

  The moment he entered, he barely spared a glance at the modest furnishings—the house mirrored his own, with no excess furniture, only simple wooden bowls, cups, and doors leading to private chambers.

  Instead, his attention snapped to the middle-aged woman seated at the center of the room.

  Her legs were folded neatly beneath her, her posture straight and unmoving—as if she had been rooted in place for centuries.

  Before her sat intricately carved wooden bowls, cups, and teapots, each exhaling a gentle steam infused with the sweet aroma of peach. The scent mingled in the air, warm and inviting.

  She wore a robe of delicate orange petals, the same vivid hue as her eyes and hair.

  Her face remained unchanged, just as beautiful and ageless as Zamian remembered.

  But none of that mattered as much as what hovered just above her head.

  [LEVEL 4 - MORTAL TIER - CREATION PATHWAY]

  Without hesitation, he and Bohlo dropped to their knees, lowering their heads, hands resting flat against their thighs.

  "This Enlightened one greets the soil stepped by the Chosen," they recited in unison. "May the sacred light of Verdant shine through your family's leaves forever."

  The soft sound of liquid pouring broke the silence. The Cleric Chosen poured tea into wooden cups, her gentle smile never faltering.

  "Zealot Tamara," she spoke, her voice smooth and warm, yet carrying an undeniable authority. "Stand guard outside. I would like to have a private conversation with these boys."

  Without hesitation, the Zealot bowed and stepped out, never sparing them a backward glance.

  As soon as the door closed, the vines sealed shut, pulsing faintly with green light—a telltale sign that someone unseen had reinforced the barrier.

  Zamian’s gaze flicked toward the three other doors in the room.

  He knew there were people inside. He had felt their presence, sensed their techniques activating—yet, no text appeared above their heads.

  ‘I still need a direct line of sight to see their levels.’

  The Cleric Chosen’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  "Come closer, young boys," she gestured, motioning them forward. "Those behind these doors cannot hear you, even if they know you are here."

  Both Zamian and Bohlo shifted forward on their knees, their hands brushing the polished wooden floor as they approached.

  A soft chuckle escaped the woman’s lips.

  "I see you still know the rules, Zamian." Her smile deepened. "You may raise your heads."

  Zamian met her gaze, that warm, motherly smile never faltering.

  "Drink," she continued, lifting her cup elegantly. "I just made this tea."

  Zamian forced a wry smile, taking a cup in both hands and drinking immediately. Bohlo, watching carefully, followed suit—making sure not to fumble the moment and get them both in more trouble.

  "Good tea," Zamian remarked, glancing at Bohlo.

  "Ah, yes. Good tea," Bohlo repeated awkwardly.

  The Cleric Chosen nodded, setting her cup down as her orange eyes flickered green.

  A chill ran down Zamian’s spine.

  He hadn’t noticed it before, but despite the softness in her lips, her eyes were cold.

  Calculating.

  Slightly glowing.

  Sitting straighter, he felt an invisible pressure, like a hundred unseen vines curling around him, scraping against his skin from the inside out.

  And then, out of nowhere, a white text appeared in his vision.

  STATS POINTS (!)

  Body: 8/20

  Mind: 24/40

  Soul: 28/30

  (!) Notification: there was a sudden drop in stats, please beware of your health.

  Zamian dismissed the text with a thought, but the lingering pain in his skull made it impossible to ignore.

  His head pounded, each throb a harsh reminder of the sudden stat drop.

  This was different. Before, when he had lost or gained points, his limits had remained intact.

  Now, his very cap had decreased.

  ‘But why?’

  Was this the weight of a Chosen’s gaze pressing down on him?

  Despite the confusion, he couldn’t afford to show weakness here.

  He stole a glance at Bohlo. The big guy’s face had gone pale, his massive shoulders trembling slightly—until he took a sharp breath and forced himself steady.

  Zamian frowned. ‘Maybe I’m just too tired. Bohlo took that like a Colossal Tree.’

  Before he could process further, the Chosen’s voice broke the silence.

  "I see you both are on the cusp of a breakthrough," she mused, her tone gentle, almost indulgent. "Just a few more years, and you will join Tamara as Zealots. What a delight."

  She nodded once, calm and composed, as if their fate had already been decided.

  "Thank you, Cleric Chosen," both Zamian and Bohlo answered in unison.

  The warmth in her expression remained, but her words sharpened.

  "Sadly, Tamara has informed me that your actions do not match your potential. In fact, they contradict our Sanctuary’s laws, which is… concerning." She tilted her head slightly, eyes piercing. "What do you have to say for yourselves?"

  Zamian inhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain composed.

  "Cleric Chosen," he began, keeping his tone respectful, "may I first ask—how is Lakea?"

  For the first time, the woman’s expression shifted slightly, something unreadable flickering behind her orange eyes.

  "Odd timing," she remarked, watching him closely. "But she's well, Zamian. An Enlightened, like you. Nearly sixteen, like you," she paused, a small, knowing smile forming on her lips, "and still single, like you."

  Zamian’s eyes widened.

  "N-no, that’s not what I meant!" he stammered, shaking his head. "I just—I just wanted to know more about her current situation! I haven’t seen her for almost two years!"

  The Chosen laughed lightly, sipping from her tea.

  "Little boy, I know what you're doing," she murmured. "You're fortunate I enjoy talking about my daughter."

  Zamian exhaled, relieved that she had taken the bait. A little more time. Just enough to think.

  But then, the Chosen tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharp.

  "Did you know she participated in the very ritual you both tainted today?"

  Zamian's breath caught in his throat.

  "She’s a Cleric now," the woman continued, setting her cup down with deliberate ease.

  His fingers tightened around his own cup.

  He had only meant to stall—to buy himself space to think.

  He never imagined Lakea had been there.

  From their vantage point, they had been too far to notice details, and the text above the participants' heads hadn't shown names.

  A slow chill crept over him.

  The weight of the revelation settled like a stone in his gut.

  "Cleric Chosen..." Zamian swallowed, his voice suddenly hoarse. "I swear, in Verdant’s name, we weren’t there to disrupt the ritual. You knew my mother personally. I just…"

  His voice wavered, but he pushed forward.

  "I just wanted to participate, somehow. To witness her transformation. To keep being a part of her cycle."

  His mother was becoming a Colossal Tree, and he hated it.

  "Is it wrong," he asked, his voice rising, "for me, her only child, to do that?"

  The Cleric Chosen didn’t hesitate.

  "Yes."

  She nodded once, as if the answer was obvious.

  Zamian fell silent.

  "And you, Bohlo?" The Cleric Chosen turned her gaze toward him, her voice smooth yet unyielding. "Do you have anything to add? Your parents are at the market, working as the faithful servants they are, while you’re here, flouting our sacred laws."

  Zamian tensed.

  "Please, Aunt—" he started, only to hesitate as Bohlo placed a firm hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

  Zamian turned toward him—only to freeze.

  Bohlo shifted forward, still seated, and bowed deeply, pressing his forehead against the wooden floor.

  Then, without warning, he slammed his head down.

  A dull, sickening thud echoed through the room as blood trickled from his brow, staining the floorboards.

  With each impact, he spoke.

  "I. WAS. BLIND. AND. DID. NOT. SEE. THE. GOD’S. TREE."

  Ten thuds.

  "MY. MORTAL. CYCLE. SHALL. BE. FINISHED."

  Another six thuds.

  "PLEASE. FORGIVE. MY. FAMILY. CLERIC. CHOSEN!"

  With the last six thuds, the room fell silent, save for the sharp intake of Zamian’s breath.

  His hands clenched into tight fists, nails pressing into his palms.

  The Cleric Chosen remained motionless, observing Bohlo’s act of repentance with a cool detachment.

  When the big guy finally stopped—his forehead slick with blood, his hands planted beside him, holding himself steady—she nodded.

  "Very well," she declared, her tone as even as before. "Your family’s cycle will not be implicated in this."

  Bohlo let out a shuddering breath, shoulders sagging in relief.

  But the Chosen wasn’t done.

  "The nature of your punishment—whether it be the end of your mortal cycle or something else—will depend on your reasons for being there."

  Her gaze sharpened. "Now, young boys. Tell me why you were there."

  Bohlo remained silent, his head still lowered, his breath uneven.

  Zamian knew his friend wouldn’t speak. With his family spared, Bohlo wouldn’t risk saying anything that could make things worse.

  Zamian exhaled slowly, then straightened.

  "Cleric Chosen, if I may?" he asked.

  The woman inclined her head slightly, allowing him to continue.

  "Bohlo was there following my father's orders," Zamian said evenly. "He was only obeying the previous Lord Chosen’s command—too scared for his life and his family’s to refuse."

  Bohlo said nothing.

  Zamian was grateful he didn’t contradict him.

  The Cleric Chosen hummed thoughtfully, tilting her head slightly, watching him with an evaluating gaze.

  "Hmm," she mused. "How is he, Zamian? How is your father?"

  Zamian barely resisted the urge to curse at her, as she dared to make such a question, faking concern.

  "When Oliver completed his mortal cycle, it took me years to see our God’s grace again," she added, her voice deceptively soft.

  'Is this a test?' Zamian thought, inhaling, before opening his mouth to speak.

  "My father," he said carefully, "is suffering, as I’m sure you’ve heard. The old man has confined himself to our home, drinking tea—just as my mother used to do. He even stepped down from his position willingly."

  He met the Chosen’s gaze unwaveringly.

  "But I believe that, with time, he will overcome this. We both will."

  He lifted his cup, sipping the sweet tea, its warmth doing little to comfort him.

  Across from him, the Cleric Chosen hummed softly, gaze drifting past them, her expression distant.

  The wind whistled through the hollow root, a soft, whispering tune against the walls of the cottage.

  A moment later, she blinked away the moisture in her eyes and reached for her cup—only to find it empty.

  She sighed.

  "Tell me why you were there, little Zamian," she said at last, her voice no longer as harsh.

  Zamian’s fingers tightened around his cup.

  "Like I said, I had to see my mother," he murmured.

  The Chosen nodded, sipping from her tea before speaking again.

  "Did you know, little Zamian," she said, her voice measured, "that Lakea’s grandfather—my father-in-law—completed his mortal cycle outside this Sanctuary?"

  Zamian blinked.

  "...No?"

  She nodded, taking another sip of tea, from the same cup that was previously empty, before setting the cup down.

  "When they brought his body back," she continued, "it was barely recognizable. Full of holes. Burned. Missing an arm. One leg shredded. A terrible sight."

  "I'm sorry," he murmured, a little confused.

  ‘What is this old viper talking about?’ he thought.

  "It is okay, child. Thank you," she said, offering a small, fleeting smile before continuing, her gaze distant.

  "To finish my story—when my husband saw his father’s body, he didn’t cry. He only stood there, staring at what remained of him. Expressionless."

  Zamian furrowed his brows but kept silent.

  "It was only later, during the burial, as we let the roots consume his father’s remains, that he finally broke."

  The Chosen lifted her cup again, her orange eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light.

  "Years later, just after Lakea was born, and when my husband failed to advance to Chosen, we spoke about that moment." She took another sip before pausing. "I asked him why he hadn’t cried at first. Do you know what he told me?"

  Zamian shook his head.

  "He said he couldn’t recognize that wretched thing as his father."

  She set the cup down with a soft clink, her fingers lingering on the edge.

  "He told me that no matter how long he stared at that hideous corpse, all he saw was a ruined thing—some random human. Not his father. Not his blood."

  Zamian's throat felt dry.

  "It wasn’t until the burial," she said, her voice almost a whisper, "that Oliver realized he had lost his father. That only in God’s Tree would they meet again."

  Zamian remained silent, his breath shallow, his eyes burning—but no tears fell.

  "Tell me the truth, child," she said suddenly, her gaze flashing deep green.

  Zamian stiffened.

  "I know you and your father don’t see the Colossal Sapling as your mother," she continued, smiling as if she had caught him in a lie.

  "At least, not yet."

  The moment she spoke, a crushing force invaded Zamian’s mind—like vines constricting around his skull, digging deep, tightening.

  STATS POINTS (!)

  Body: 8/20

  Mind: 23/40

  Soul: 18/20

  (!) Notification: there was a sudden drop in stats, please beware of your health.

  Zamian exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a brief moment—just enough to regain control of his thoughts.

  But before he could steady himself, another notification flashed before his eyes.

  This one wasn’t about his stats.

  His chest tightened. His pulse pounded against his ribs. A cold sweat slicked his palms. Each breath felt shallower than the last, as if the very air had thickened around him.

  Opening his eyes, he avoided the Chosen’s piercing stare, his lips barely parting as he murmured something low, almost too faint to be heard.

  Then—

  Clatter.

  The wooden cup slipped from the Cleric Chosen’s hand, striking the floor with a sharp, hollow sound, the remaining warm liquid spilling.

  Her entire body had gone rigid.

  "What…" Her voice, normally so composed, faltered. Her fingers twitched. "What did you just say, brat?"

  Even Bohlo shifted slightly, despite keeping his bloody forehead on the ground.

  Zamian took a slow, measured breath, forcing his heartbeat to settle.

  Then, locking eyes with the older cultivator, he spoke again, louder.

  "I went there to ask Lakea to marry me."