God’s Tree

Argolaith stepped onto the vast plateau with cautious determination. The high altitude land stretched before him like an arena carved from ancient stone.

A place where the raw power of the mountain met the ambition of those brave enough to seek its secrets. As he surveyed the area, he noticed that few people had gathered there.

The small crowd that did occupy the plateau exuded a violent auras; their expressions were hardened, and their weapons were unsheathed, many still dripping with fresh blood.

Their eyes burned with a fierce intensity, and it was clear that they had endured countless battles in pursuit of the mountain's knowledge that was hidden in the ancient ruins.

Argolaith's gaze shifted from one roughened face to another as he murmured under his breath.

"Well, this is a rather unsavory bunch… They're all old enough to have already found their Five Trees and claim their magic, I suppose."

He eyed their scarred arms and grim expressions. "I wonder what kinds of magic they have, though—they don't seem like the type I can just ask about, not without earning my keep."

Before he could ponder further, the charged atmosphere on the plateau shifted as Lysara—the enigmatic trial master—appeared at its center.

She seemed to materialize from the very mists that clung to the blood stained ground.

With a grin playing upon her lips and eyes that shimmered with hidden knowledge, she addressed the assembled trial takers.

"Welcome, contestants," Lysara announced, her voice echoing over the barren expanse.

"It appears the moment has come for the next trial." Her tone was both inviting and foreboding.

"For this trial, you will fight against one another, and only the last one standing shall be allowed to continue upward. Those who fall will be banished from the mountain, dead or alive."

A murmur ran through the violent group, and Argolaith's heart began to pound in his chest as the gravity of the situation sank in.

Mortal combat! The thought of clashing steel against magic, of pitting his wits and strength against those seasoned by years of trials, sent a shiver down his spine.

His mind raced with questions, and he couldn't help but ask aloud, "Um, Miss Lysara, I don't have magic yet. Does that mean my opponents can use their magic against me?"

Lysara's eyes softened ever so slightly, though the smile on her face remained enigmatic.

"Oh, Argolaith, it is good to see you have reached this far. Yes, they may use any means at their disposal to beat you—and the same applies to you."

"You must learn that survival here is not won by spell alone, but by will, skill, and determination."

Her words hung in the cold air as the assembled warriors grumbled and eyed one another warily.

"Well then," Lysara continued, "you will have twenty minutes to prepare before the trial begins."

With that, she vanished as swiftly as she had appeared, leaving the combatants to their uncertain fates.

Left alone amid the tension of the unsavory group, Argolaith exhaled slowly and turned his attention to his storage ring.

He needed to gather strength if he were to survive what lay ahead.

From within the ring, he withdrew a steak that he hade prepared previously from the first primordial beast he had slain on the mountain, trophy that now served as both sustenance and a reminder of his capability.

"That smells good," he murmured, though there was a note of urgency in his voice. "I need to be quick—I don't have much time.

I should also make a salad with some magic herbs that boost stamina and regeneration. That way, I'll stand a better chance in the fight."

He began to work with methodical precision. In the solitude of a sheltered nook on the plateau.

Argolaith arranged his ingredients on a flat stone, using a small, enchanted knife to chop vibrant, luminescent herbs and roots that glowed faintly with residual magic.

The herbs, carefully plucked from the wild slopes below earlier in his journey, were known for their restorative properties.

As he sliced and diced, the air filled with a pungent aroma—a heady mixture of earth and enchantment. Soon enough, he lit a small fire using dry twigs and kindling he had collected, placing his pan over the flickering flames.

He drizzled a bit of troll fat—its savory richness a welcome contrast to the rawness of the wild ingredients—into the pan and added the steak, letting it sizzle and release its meaty aroma.

"This will do nicely," he murmured, his voice steady despite the mounting tension. "Time to eat before the trial begins."

As Argolaith ate, his opponents—who had been preoccupied with devouring their own meager rations of jerky and oats—began to take notice.

One of the more rugged fighters, a burly man with scars crossing his weathered face, leaned forward. "Hey, kid," he called out in a gruff tone, "can I try one of those herbs?"

Argolaith raised an eyebrow but smiled politely, rummaging through his storage ring until he found a small bundle of the softer magic herb he had used in his salad.

"Here you go," he said, handing it over. "This one is on the softer side—it should be easy to chew."

The man accepted it with a rough nod, and without a word, bit down. A sudden, sharp crunch shattered the uneasy silence as his teeth crunched through the herb's fibrous, magic imbued structure.

In an instant, the man's face contorted in pain as most of his teeth shattered with a crisp, disconcerting sound.

The surrounding fighters recoiled, their eyes widening in shock and fear.

A moment of bitter laughter mixed with grim expressions rippled through the unsavory crowd, and Argolaith, blissfully unaware of the full horror of what had just occurred, continued eating his carefully prepared salad.

After finishing his meal, he cleaned his dishes and placed them back into his storage ring with deliberate care.

"Well then," he said to himself, a mix of satisfaction and resolve in his tone, "that was a good salad. I should be good to fight for several hours at full strength now."

As the twenty-minute preparation period drew to a close, the atmosphere on the plateau grew heavy with anticipation.

The group of fighters, now noticeably more aggressive and restless, began to form a loose circle. The air pulsed with raw energy as the last seconds ticked away.

Every fighter's gaze was fixed on the center of the plateau, waiting for Lysara to reappear and initiate the trial.

When the silence became almost unbearable, Lysara reappeared, this time standing atop a raised platform of stone that had seemingly appeared from nowhere.

Her eyes shone with a steely light as she addressed the contestants. "The time has come," she declared, her voice resonant and commanding.

"For this trial, you will engage in mortal combat. The last one standing will be deemed worthy to continue upward, while those defeated will be banished from the mountain—dead or alive."

"Let it be known that the mountain does not tolerate weakness, and only the strong shall claim its ancient knowledge."

A murmur of discontent and defiance rose from the crowd, but the gravity of her words soon silenced any protest.

Argolaith's heart hammered in his chest as he prepared for the inevitable battle.

The thought of fighting against opponents who not only possessed combat experience but also wielded magic was dizzying. Doubt mingled with determination in his mind.

"Miss Lysara," he managed to call out, his voice trembling slightly despite his resolve, "if I don't yet have magic, does that mean my opponent can use theirs to overwhelm me?"

Lysara's smile was both gentle and pitiless. "Yes, Argolaith," she replied evenly.

"They may use every tool at their disposal, and you are allowed the same. It is not your lack of magic that defines your worth—it is your heart, your skill, and your will to survive that will see you through."

Her words both comforted and unsettled him. He knew that every warrior here was fighting not just for survival but for the promise of the mountain's knowledge—a power that was as treacherous as it was magnificent.

With a final nod from Lysara, the trial began.

The unsavory group clashed in a cacophony of grunts, shouts, and the clash of weapons against hardened steel and enchanted defenses.

Argolaith found himself circling a particularly fierce opponent—a middle-aged man with a twisted scar running down one side of his face and eyes that burned with bitter ambition.

The man's sword glinted dangerously in the low light as he advanced.

Argolaith raised his own weapon and met the man's challenge head-on. The duel was swift and brutal, a dance of calculated strikes and desperate parries.

Sparks flew as steel met steel, and for every blow that Argolaith delivered, his opponent countered with vicious ferocity.

The ground beneath them was soon stained with splatters of blood, a grim testament to the stakes of the trial.

The crowd around them roared with excitement and fear, their eyes flickering between the combatants as if the outcome would determine their own fate.

Amid the chaos, Argolaith's thoughts momentarily returned to his meal—the savory salad and the bittersweet satisfaction of nourishment that had prepared him for this moment.

He steeled his mind, recalling Lysara's words, and let his training guide him.