Chapter 89: Chapter 89: The Skeptical Council

Elarwyn did not offer Dayat the luxury of a slow morning. He hadn’t even had the chance to brew the last packet of instant coffee hidden in his tactical pack before the world came knocking. Just as the orange sun began to crawl behind the suffocating curtain of yellow spore-fog, four guards clad in polished Sandalwood-Ironwood armor were already standing outside his makeshift shack.

They hadn’t come to offer gratitude for the few Manaferum Sativa sprouts that had begun to reclaim their green luster. Instead, they had come to escort him to The Hall of Wood-Echo.

An emergency session had been convened by the Council of Elders. The charges were heavy, whispered through the boughs with a chilling weight: desecration of the sacred roots and the deployment of forbidden substances deemed toxic to the very soul of the World Tree.

As they walked across the massive root-bridge toward the city’s heart, Dayat felt the weight of a thousand eyes. Druids gathered along the higher branches, their gazes sharp and filled with a volatile mix of suspicion and fear. The news of the pungent sulfur stench—which they called the “smell of hellfire”—and the transparent polymer pipes—which they viewed as “dead translucent snakes”—had spread faster than the Abyssal parasites themselves.

Kancil walked by Dayat’s side, his steps uncharacteristically jittery. His hand repeatedly brushed the hilt of his wooden staff, while Dola maintained her perfect, mechanical rhythm. Her face was as calm as a still lake, seemingly indifferent to the fact that they were heading into a room that could very well decide their execution.

The Hall of Wood-Echo was a triumph of Elven architecture, a space designed not just for sight, but for sound. It was a gargantuan dome carved into a hollowed-out section of the primary trunk. Every wall was lined with layers of wood polished to such a degree that even a soft whisper would resonate, amplified by the natural acoustics into a voice of authority.

In the center of the hall, seven figures sat in a semi-circle, forming the Council of the Root Guardians.

Dayat paused, momentarily taken aback by their appearance. Though they were called “Elders” and had lived for millennia, their faces lacked even a single wrinkle. These high-ranking Elves possessed features of haunting beauty—skin like fine porcelain and silver hair that shimmered under the warm glow of Light-Bloom clusters. It was only their eyes—deep, dark, and heavy with the crushing weight of history—that betrayed their true age. They looked like statues of youth possessed by ancient, weary spirits.

Standing before them was a Senior Druid in formal, deep-green robes. He stared at Dayat with an expression that was hard to read—there was hatred, yes, but beneath it lay a profound, desperate doubt.

“Outlander,” the Senior Druid’s voice boomed through the hall, sounding like a clap of distant, controlled thunder. “You arrive in our hour of need, bearing a ’cure’ that reeks of the volcanic pits. You have strapped dead, artificial veins to the body of the Guardian we hold most holy. And now, one of your devices has been found shattered, and you dare to claim a traitor walks among us. Is it not more logical, Manusia, to assume that nature itself is rejecting your cold, dead tools?”

Dayat stepped into the center of the circle. He didn’t bow low enough to signify submission, but he maintained a level of polite respect. “Honorable Elders, I understand that what I bring looks like a calamity to your eyes. But let us set aside tradition for a moment and speak of facts—facts you can see for yourselves.”

“Facts?” a female Elder with a crown of white lilies interjected, her voice sharp. “The fact is that your brimstone odor offends the very spirit of this tree.”

Dayat glanced at Dola. She remained silent, but he felt the subtle vibration of a data transmission in his ear-comm. She was feeding him theoretical talking points in real-time. Dayat took a slow, deep breath.

“This tree is not offended by a smell, Elder. It is suffering from a blockage,” Dayat said, choosing an analogy he hoped would bridge the gap between his science and their mysticism. “You call it harmony, but your current irrigation system is a feast that has lost its target. You pour massive amounts of Mana into the soil, hoping it will heal the roots. But the reality is that there is a thief in your house—a parasite that severs the lifeline of your plants before they can take a single sip.”

“Microscopic entities… such a concept is nonsensical to us,” the Senior Druid interrupted, his lip curling slightly. “Life we cannot see does not exist in the balance of the forest.”

“Perhaps not to your eyes, but Governor Caelmir has seen the truth,” Dayat pointed toward the Governor, who sat at the side of the hall as a witness.

Caelmir stood up, his face looking more determined than it had in days. “I have seen it through the vision provided by that woman,” he pointed to Dola. “What she showed me was brutal and ugly, but it explains why our rituals have failed. Our tree is being robbed beneath the earth, and what Dayat has brought is a way to strike at the thief without harming the host.”

Dayat realized this was the moment he had to provide a physical “Aha!” moment. He had to show them growth they couldn’t deny.

“I need a moment,” Dayat spoke, his tone shifting to one of quiet confidence. “Give me one patch of earth in this very hall—one that you have already declared dead. I will show you how this tree can rise again without a single syllable of a mantra.”

The Elders whispered among themselves, the sound echoing like dry leaves in a storm. The Senior Druid looked torn. He felt insulted that his ancestral traditions were being challenged by an outlander, but he also saw Elarwyn sliding into a grave, and Dayat was the only new variable that had produced a visible result.

“Fine,” the Senior Druid said at last. “Show us the ’miracle’ of your world.”

Dayat walked toward a small alcove in the corner of the hall where a royal ornamental plant lay blackened and shriveled. He closed his eyes, centering his imagination. The sapphire-purple light began to swirl in his palm. This time, he manifested a small ceramic jar filled with gray and white granules—what he knew as NPK-Mana Booster.

Of course, he wasn’t going to mention “Nitrogen, Phosphorus, and Potassium” to them.

“What is that dust?” the female Elder asked.

“This is the Trinity of Supporting Essences,” Dayat lied smoothly, adapting his language to their culture. “In my world, we believe every living thing requires three primary pillars. The first essence is for the Breath of the Leaf, to keep them green so they may embrace the sun. The second is for the Pillar of the Stem, to keep them strong against the wind. And the third is for the Blood of the Root, to ensure they grip the earth with unyielding strength.”

Dayat scattered the granules around the base of the dying plant, then watered it with a small amount of the sulfur-Mana solution he had prepared the day before. “This isn’t magic. These are the nutrients that have been stolen from your soil by the parasites. This water will ensure the thieves die before they can touch this feast.”

Dayat then pulled out a small, rectangular polymer device with a crystalline lens in the center—a Mana-Lidar Sensor. He placed it near the plant.

“And this,” Dayat continued, “is the Guardian’s Eye. It never blinks. It will monitor every breath of wind that approaches with ill intent. If someone attempts to sever this lifeline with wind-magic, this eye will scream a warning that will wake the entire district.”

The Elders watched in a heavy, expectant silence. As the session continued with hours of tedious philosophical debate and political posturing, a biological miracle began to unfold in the corner. The blackened plant began to pulse with a faint emerald light at its base. New sprouts began to emerge, tearing through the dead bark with a vitality that looked almost aggressive.

The Senior Druid stood up, walking toward the plant with slow, hesitant steps. He touched a newly unfurled leaf. His face was a mask of profound conflict. He felt as if his entire worldview was being dismantled—everything he had learned from his ancestors was being challenged by a handful of gray dust. Yet, he could not deny the life blooming beneath his fingers.

Amidst the softening atmosphere, Kancil, who had been silent until now, suddenly acted. He had been scanning the room with the sharp, cynical eyes of a street urchin. He noticed one of the Druid assistants in the corner who looked unnervingly agitated, his hand constantly fumbling with a wind-dagger at his waist. Without waiting for a command, Kancil lunged, attempting to seize the weapon.

“Hey! You’re the one, aren’t you?!” Kancil yelled.

“Kancil, wait!” Dayat shouted.

A small scuffle broke out in the corner of the hall. The Druid assistant panicked, shoving Kancil to the floor before activating a Wind-Step spell to sprint out of the hall.

“Kancil, are you okay?” Dayat helped the boy up.

“Damn it, Bang! He got away! I saw it—he had the same tool they used to cut the pipes last night!” Kancil yelled, his chest heaving.

At that exact moment, the Mana-Lidar sensor Dayat had installed at Sector 4 of the hanging fields began to emit a sharp, rhythmic beep on his wrist-comm.

“Master,” Dola’s voice cut through the chaos. “The sensor in Sector 4 has just captured a high-frequency wind anomaly. The pattern is identical to the Aeroblade attack from last night. However, this time, the energy signature is not originating from a single point.”

Dayat looked at Caelmir and the Council of Elders, who now looked confused and alert.

“They aren’t just trying to cut my pipes anymore,” Dayat said, his hand balling into a fist. “They’re planning to burn the entire hanging field to ensure Elarwyn dies with their secrets. Caelmir, I need your Paladins at Sector 4 right now!”

The Senior Druid looked at Dayat, then back at the plant he had just healed. He made a difficult, final decision. “Take the guard! Follow the outlander’s lead!”

Dayat didn’t waste another second. He sprinted out of the hall, followed by Dola, who was already initiating her combat protocols. Behind the beauty of Elarwyn, the war against sabotage had finally reached its peak.

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