Chapter 833: 833

Father and son rose, their feet lifting from the earth as they harnessed the power humming within them. Both turned back to the tree, offering it one final, lingering glance, a silent promise of the future they were about to build. With a sharp crack, the air rippled and tore apart, and they vanished into the distance.

Their figures vanished from the mountaintop, leaving only a lingering distortion in the air. Viridrigon stood alone, his gaze tracking the two as they dwindled into distant specks against the horizon.

“Isn’t it time you made an appearance?” Viridrigon murmured, his voice deeper and serious as he turned his attention toward the tree.

For a heartbeat, there was only the wind. Then, from the shimmering shadow behind the trunk, Siren emerged. She moved with a haunting grace, her fingers tracing the textured bark. She closed her eyes, drawing a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the intoxicating, otherworldly perfume radiating from the branches.

Viridrigon watched her with keen, unblinking interest. Behind his composed expression lay a deep-seated caution, he was acutely aware of the raw volatile power she wielded and the origin from which she hailed.

He remained silent, letting her be, though his eyes never left her. He watched, fascinated and wary, as her hand began to glow, turning translucent and ethereal. With a slow, deliberate motion, she plunged her fingers into the solid wood of the tree. The bark rippled like water under her touch. She withdrew her hand, and in her palm, she pulled forth a spectral phantom of the tree.

Siren gazed at the spectral fragment in her hand, it was the final, missing keystone required to complete her emerging realm. Within that shimmering silhouette lay one of the true manifestation of desire, a desire so primal and potent that it could rewrite the very biology of those who birthed it. She knew, with intoxicating certainty, that the path to the sixth tier now rested within her grasp.

She cast a sultry, calculated look toward the dragon, arching her back as she pressed the spectral tree against the center of her exposed bosom. As the phantom essence merged into her, vibrating through her skin and sinking into her core, she bit her lip, challenging him with her gaze. Yet, Viridrigon remained an immovable presence, his expression did not flicker, his pulse did not quicken.

“I never expected him to come to you,” Siren murmured, her voice a silk-wrapped as she began to pace toward him. “That you would be the one he entrusted with this tree… Truly, he is the perfect man I have chosen for myself.”

She stopped just inches from him, her aura of command clashing against his. “Have you nothing to say?” she pressed, her tone dripping with mock curiosity.

Viridrigon didn’t even blink. He kept his gaze fixed on her, his voice steady and detached. “His matters with you are of no concern to me,” the dragon replied coolly. “I am merely a friend who helped another, when I could.”

Siren paused, her eyes narrowing as she studied him, but her frustration remained contained. With a flick of her wrist, her form dissipated into a swirl of mist, leaving behind only the lingering, sweet scent of her presence. “Boring,” she whispered, her voice echoing in the empty air as she vanished.

She was gone, and yet, from the moment of her arrival to her departure, she had failed to stir even a flicker of desire or emotion in the dragon. For a being whose very essence was forged from the raw heat of human passion, this was more than a rejection, it was an affront, a sting of impotence that reminded her all too sharply of her limitations when faced with beings of true, ancient power. The failure did not discourage her, it only hardened her resolve for the path she has taken.

“Isn’t she a lively one?” The voice rumbled up from the earth itself. Moments after the mist had cleared, the soil at Viridrigon’s feet began to churn. A small, vibrant plant erupted from the ground, twisting and thickening until it solidified into the hunched, bark-skinned form of an old looking treant draped in white green robe.

Viridrigon looked down at the newcomer, a long, weary sigh escaping his throat. “Is it a good thing or a bad thing for me, I wonder,” the dragon murmured, “Now that I am suddenly becoming so… popular?”

Osisi fixed his gaze on the dragon, then shifted his eyes toward the radiant tree. “You are bound to become popular when you find yourself in alignment with a thief, and when a stolen seed is nutured under your care,” he saied with a smirk.

Viridrigon stiffened, a sigh escaping his chest. “So, that is what it was. I could never quite decipher the nature of the material, only that it possessed the sheer density required to bear the dark god’s power.” He paused, his expression one of measured introspection as he watched Osisi approach the tree. “It seems I may have unintentionally offended you ?”

Osisi didn’t answer immediately. He moved closer, his hands reaching out to pat the bark. The tree, as if recognizing its kin, let out a soft, humming vibration, its branches curling down to gently coil around the treant’s wooden frame.

Osisi shook his head, a faint, rustling sound followed. “On the contrary, I should thank you. It was unexpected, but I have gained a child and you helped it sprout. To the best of my knowledge, you plan on overwatching its growth”

The treant looked back at the dragon, his eyes unreadable. “The question remains, Viridrigon as you nurture this stolen seed, do you realize you are not just gardening, but actively participating in the shifting of the world’s gravity?”

“I will do my best,” Viridrigon replied, his voice measured and serious. “But I can promise nothing once the Dark Gods are revived. Once that threshold is crossed, the trajectory of its existence and how the elves manage the shadows that come with their heritage will be theirs alone to bear.”

“Elves,” Osisi murmured, tasting the word as if it was knew yet fitting. “So that is what they shall be called. I look forward to seeing them emerge and discovering what they might contribute to this world of ours.”

Viridrigon remained silent, his gaze fixed on the shifting patterns of light within the leaves. Nearby, Osisi studied the tree for a moment, he caught a glimpse of his own path forward, his purpose clarified by the life now pulsing before him.

Osisi finally turned away from the tree, his wooden joints creaking softly. “I am currently on a journey across the mortal realm, seeking to understand the changing face of this age,” he said, fixing his gaze on the dragon. “If you do not mind the company, would you show me what has become of this area?”

A wine bottle appeared in Osisi’s hand. “I will make it worth your time,” he said with a smile.

Seeing the bottle, Viridrigon gestured and it flew into his hand. He opened the cap, took a sniff with his eyes closed, and looked at Osisi. “How many of these do you have?”

“Enough,” was Osisi’s response.

Viridrigon gestured for him to follow.

In Mahu’s realm, a quiet stillness hung in the air as Ikenga sat on the ground between her legs. Her fingers moved with practiced grace, skillfully rebraiding his hair while his gaze remained fixed on the large, shimmering projection floating before them. It displayed the chaotic, unfolding events of the mortal world, though Ikenga found his attention drifting, he hardly spent any time in his own domain these days, moving instead between Mahu’s sanctuary and the realm of Keles, where his newborn son resided.

Mahu had allowed him only a few months of reprieve following the child’s birth before summoning him, and Ikenga arrived feeling a heavy, lingering uncertainty about where they stood in their relationship.

Their reunion had been far from gentle, a stinging slap from Mahu had greeted him on the very first day he came to her realm. He knew, in truth, that the fault was his. His initial appearance before her had been careless, his posture and expression broadcasting a dismissive, impatient air that suggested he was merely there to finish a chore and be done with it.

That initial display had painted him as entirely unrepentant, as if he viewed her hurt as an inconvenience or an irrational grievance. Her words at his action stung more than he allowed himself to believe “Have I become so distasteful in your eyes that I would resolve to forcing you into my bed?”

The sting of that question lingered, fundamentally altering Ikenga’s behavior. The tension that once defined their interactions had dissolved, replaced by a calming patient presence. He no longer treated his visits as a penance, instead, he lingered by her side, finally allowing himself to observe how much Mahu had changed and grown during his long absences.

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