Chapter 99: Chapter 99: A New Mission

The journey back to Vaelith felt infinitely longer than the first time Dayat had traversed the Great Root Paths of Verdia. The royal carriage, an opulent vessel of carved White-Wood pulled by four magnificent Verdant Stags, glided across the forest floor with a supernatural smoothness, slicing through the heavy morning mists. Yet, the physical tranquility of the ride was a sharp contrast to the chaotic storm brewing in Dayat’s mind.

He leaned back against the plush, silk-covered cushions, staring at his fingertips. Every few seconds, a faint, erratic spark of sapphire-purple light would flicker across his skin—a warning sign from his subconscious that his manifestation energy was dangerously unstable following the intensive combat and engineering feats in Elarwyn.

On the opposite bench, Queen Verene sat with her spine as rigid as a temple pillar. Her emerald eyes were fixed on the horizon, her gaze so intense it seemed she was trying to physically pull the carriage faster toward the capital. The atmosphere inside was so silent that the distant flapping of a wild bird’s wings sounded like a series of small explosions.

Dayat glanced at Dola, who sat like a frozen statue beside him. His Bio-Synthetic assistant appeared to be undergoing a massive internal data-scrub. Her pupils were vibrating across different frequencies, sending a subtle, high-pitched hum through the seat that Dayat could feel in his own bones.

“Master… distortion… frequency detected,” Dola murmured suddenly. Her voice was not the usual clinical monotone; it was jagged and fragmented, like a radio transmission struggling through a solar storm.

Dayat sat up, alert. “Dola? You okay? Don’t tell me you’re overheating from that Elarwyn fight.”

Dola shook her head, though the movement was stilted, almost robotic in a way she usually avoided. “Negative. Systems are flagging illogical remnants within the Elarwyn necrotic data. This was never merely a poison… there is an energy signature present that is ancient. The circuit analysis suggests… Wabil… Wabil of Plague…”

Dayat stared at her, his brow furrowed in confusion. The name sounded like a ghost from a nightmare. “Wabil? What are you talking about? Who is that? Another friend of Mileon’s?”

“Mileon was a mere courier, Master. He utilized a vessel he did not comprehend,” Dola said, before her voice suddenly glitched into a burst of static. “The system error suggests a dimensional spore that bypasses both current human technology and Elven sorcery.”

She suddenly went silent, her eyes resetting to a stable, calm blue. “Apologies, Master. I experienced a momentary information surge. It is advised to dismiss these findings until we have direct observational data from the Great Root.”

Dayat took a deep breath, his gut twisting with a sense of impending doom. If Dola—the peak of Maiden-era technology—was glitching at the mere mention of this threat, then Vaelith was no longer just a city in trouble. It was a tomb waiting to be sealed.

Vaelith finally loomed ahead, but Dayat barely recognized the vibrant, organic metropolis he had left only days ago. During his first visit, Vaelith had been a pillar of blinding green light, radiating a life-force so potent the very air tasted of honey. Now, that majesty had withered into a sight that was physically painful to behold.

The World Tree, Vaelith, looked like a fallen titan being choked by the hand of death itself. The massive leaves that served as the city’s living roof were sallow and brittle, falling in a constant, mournful rain that buried the root-streets below. The Light-Bloom flowers were flickering, their glow reduced to a dim, sickly yellow, as if they were drawing their final, shallow breaths. A grey, bitter fog—the unmistakable stench of advanced necrosis—shrouded the lower districts like a funeral shroud.

As the royal carriage passed through the Root Gate, Dayat noticed a profound shift in the people. Gone were the racist whispers and the sneers of Elven superiority. Instead, the citizens stood by the roadside with faces hollowed by despair. When they saw Dayat, their eyes didn’t hold judgment—they held a desperate, pleading hope. News of his success in Elarwyn had traveled faster than the stags, transforming Dayat from a ’filthy outlander’ into their final anchor in a drowning world.

The moment the carriage came to a halt in the palace courtyard, Lunethra dismounted first, her tone barking orders at the Paladins with a sharpness he hadn’t heard before. But as Queen Verene disappeared into the inner halls to convene her generals, Lunethra suddenly grabbed Dayat’s arm, pulling him behind a gargantuan wooden pillar, away from the prying eyes of the court.

Without a word, she threw her arms around him, pulling him into a crushingly tight embrace. Her body was trembling. The facade of the arrogant, playful princess had collapsed, leaving behind a woman who was terrified of losing her home.

“Dayat… I can feel it. Vaelith is weeping. I can hear the wood screaming in the wind,” she whispered into his ear, her voice broken. “Please… don’t let my sister lose everything. Don’t let this tree die.”

Dayat stood frozen, his heart hammering. He was just about to reach out and return the embrace when Dola slid between them with a movement so smooth and polite it was impossible to resist. She separated them with a mechanical strength that brooked no argument.

“Mistress Lunethra, diplomatic protocol and public image require you to maintain a safe distance,” Dola stated flatly. “Furthermore, Master Dayat requires absolute cognitive focus for the energy audit procedure that is about to commence.”

Lunethra pulled back, wiping a stray tear from her eye with a frustrated huff. “You truly are a heartless machine, Dola.”

“I possess protocols, Mistress. They are far more stable than feelings,” Dola replied without a hint of irony.

Dayat could only shake his head. “Come on. The Queen is waiting inside. We’re burning daylight.”

They stepped into the Crystal Throne Room. Dayat had been here before, so he was no longer overwhelmed by the transparent water-crystal floors or the sheer scale of the architecture. However, his attention was immediately drawn to the roots visible beneath the floor. The Mana-flow, which usually moved like a river of clear, liquid silver, was now infested with pulsating black threads. They moved like parasitic worms, gorging themselves on the tree’s lifeblood.

Seven members of the Council of Root Guardians were already waiting. One of them stepped forward—an Elf in heavy, deep-forest green robes adorned with silver embroidery. His name was Thalmirion. His features were sharp, and his eyes radiated an intense, focused loathing for Dayat’s presence.

“So, this is the miracle you bring back, Sister-Queen?” Thalmirion’s voice sounded like the grinding of blades. “A human carrying the stench of Brassvale into our holiest sanctum? I still maintain that we should initiate the seven-day rite of purification, rather than allowing these ’dead tools’ to touch the Core Root.”

Verene took her seat, her voice sounding exhausted but iron-clad with authority. “Thalmirion, your rituals have failed three times. Elarwyn was saved by this man’s actions, not by your prayers. If you have a better way, show it now. If not, be silent and let the engineer work.”

Dayat stepped forward, dropping his tactical pack onto the crystal floor with a deliberate, echoing thud. “Master Thalmirion, I’m not here for a debate on theology. Your tree has a systemic infection. You can pray until your throat bleeds, but if this venom isn’t extracted mechanically, Vaelith will collapse in less than forty-eight hours.”

Dayat turned toward Queen Verene. “The problem here is ten times larger than Elarwyn. I can’t use portable tools. I need to build something permanent. Something industrial. I need an Industrial Mana-Neutralization Plant.”

Thalmirion sneered. “What gibberish is this? You wish to build a factory inside the palace?”

“I need a central processing station,” Dayat explained, ignoring the Councillor. “I need to hook my filtration system directly into the four primary arteries of the Core Root. But my manifestation won’t hold under this much Mana-pressure on its own. I need the strongest Mana-source in the kingdom. Queen, I need the Giant Aethera Crystal from your treasury.”

The room went cold. Dayat’s request was beyond taboo—it was borderline sacrilege. That crystal was the energy heart of the kingdom. Yet, Verene only looked at Dayat, her gaze searching for any sign of doubt. She found none.

“Bring the crystal,” Verene commanded.

Thalmirion looked ready to explode, but he withered under Lunethra’s sharp glare. Moments later, the palace guard brought forth a crystal the size of a small car, radiating a blue light so potent it filled the entire hall.

Dayat approached the crystal. He could feel the Mana pouring off it, the energy so thick it felt like it was scorching his skin. He closed his eyes, summoning every technical memory he had: industrial water treatment plants, high-pressure pump systems, and molecular chemical filters. He began to weave his imagination into the raw energy of the Aethera Crystal.

“Initializing Hybrid Manifestation: Massive Scale,” Dayat whispered.

A sapphire-purple explosion of light erupted from Dayat’s body, merging with the blinding blue glare of the crystal. Before the stunned Elves, a gargantuan structure began to take shape. Stainless steel pipes as thick as a man’s torso began to crawl and anchor themselves into strategic points on the crystal floor, piercing into the roots below. Massive centrifugal purifiers manifested, their turbines beginning to spin with a high-pitched whine, powered directly by the Aethera heart.

This was the largest manifestation Dayat had ever attempted. Every inch of steel that appeared felt like someone was ripping a nerve-ending out of his brain. Cold sweat poured down his face, soaking his denim jacket. His vision began to blur, the world spinning in nauseating circles, but he forced his mind to lock every valve, every bolt, every sensor into place.

“Dola… hold… the structure… together…” Dayat groaned, his teeth gritted so hard they felt ready to shatter.

“Master, mental load has reached 98%. Risk of permanent neural damage. Recommendation: Cease manifestation immediately!”

“SHUT UP! JUST… A LITTLE… MORE!”

With one final, violent surge of will, Dayat released his energy. BOOM! A transparent shockwave swept through the Crystal Throne Room as the Industrial Mana-Neutralization Plant locked into its final configuration. The machine began to roar—a low, rhythmic thrum of steam and turbines—as it began to suck the black threads out of the World Tree’s roots.

Dayat stood trembling before his creation. The entire hall was silent, mesmerized by the union of high technology and ancient magic. The black venom could be seen flowing through the transparent filters, being converted into harmless ash.

Dayat tried to step forward to check a pressure gauge, but his legs felt like they were made of jelly. His vision suddenly turned pitch black. The voices around him began to fade, sounding as if he were sinking to the bottom of a deep, silent ocean.

“Dayat!” Lunethra’s voice was the last thing he heard.

Dayat’s body collapsed, hitting the crystal floor with a heavy, sickening thud. Fresh blood began to trail from his nose—a sign of the catastrophic Brain-Strain caused by his god-scale manifestation. Amidst the panic of the Paladins and Lunethra’s scream, Dola dropped to her knees beside him, her eyes emitting a medical-emergency scan while the massive machine behind them continued its relentless work, starting the mission to save Vaelith over the fallen body of its creator.

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