God's Tree-Chapter 174: The Trial of the Perfect Lie

The moment they stepped onto the path, the wind changed.

It carried whispers.

Not in words—but in feelings.

Regret.

Betrayal.

Fear.

Each gust pressed memories into their ears, as though the canyon itself was mourning.

They moved in single file. Argolaith led, his eyes locked on the twisting path ahead. Malakar followed silently, one hand wrapped in shadow, sensing the ebb and flow of unseen forces.

Kaelred grumbled under his breath but kept close, twin daggers loose at his hips. Thae'Zirak shrank to a shadow-drake and glided beside the wall, wings whispering against the stone.

The deeper they went, the stronger the whispers grew.

And then—

They stopped.

All at once.

The silence was immediate and absolute.

Then a voice, clear and unbroken, echoed from the canyon floor.

"You've come far, Argolaith."

Argolaith halted.

His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.

Kaelred stepped closer. "Please tell me you don't recognize that voice."

Argolaith didn't answer.

Because he didn't recognize it.

But the voice recognized him.

They reached the base of the canyon, where a vast circle of flat stone opened like a forgotten arena. In the center stood a figure—tall, humanoid, but entirely wrapped in bands of obsidian and threadbare cloth. Its face was hidden beneath a cracked porcelain mask etched with sigils that shimmered like starlight.

Its eyes glowed a pale white through the mask.

"Welcome," it said. "I have waited for you for a long, long time."

Kaelred's hand dropped to a dagger. "And you are?"

The being tilted its head. "I am the one who speaks for the stone. The Sentinel of the Folded Roots."

Malakar's voice dropped to a hiss. "Impossible. They were wiped out before the first kingdom rose."

The Sentinel turned toward him. "You are correct, lich. And yet… I remain."

Argolaith stepped forward slowly. "Are you the guardian of the fourth tree?"

"I am its memory," the Sentinel said. "And you—" it turned its gaze back to Argolaith, "—are its blood."

The air tightened.

The canyon trembled, dust falling from the walls above.

"Only one who carries three drops may stand here," the Sentinel said. "And only one who walks with will may take the next step."

Argolaith drew his blade.

"I'm not turning back."

"I know," the Sentinel said. "That is why I waited."

The ground around the arena circle lit with glowing sigils—runes old as the stars, burning in pale gold and white.

Malakar stepped back. "This is a memory-bound trial. If you fail, your mind will shatter long before your body does."

Kaelred muttered, "Why is it always mind-shattering things with you?"

Argolaith nodded once and stepped into the circle.

The runes flared.

The world spun.

And suddenly—

He was alone.

The light swallowed him whole.

One moment, Argolaith stood within the glowing circle of runes, sword in hand, his friends just steps behind him. The next, he was nowhere. No wind, no ground, no sky—just a weightless silence pressing against his skin.

Then—

The world reassembled.

But it was not the canyon.

It was Seminah.

The sun hung low and golden above the rooftops. The air was fresh, the scent of pine and fresh bread drifting through the narrow lanes. A soft breeze stirred the leaves along the familiar cobblestone path leading to the market square.

Argolaith blinked.

He was standing in front of his cabin. It looked untouched—just as it had years ago. No rune burned on his arm. No scar from ancient trees. No sense of urgency or weight from otherworldly destinies.

And he wasn't wearing his armor.

Just a simple tunic, travel-worn but clean, and boots caked in dried mud.

He stared at his hands.

No calluses from endless sword drills. No burn marks from cooking over wildwood fires. Just smooth, unmarked skin.

"What is this…" he muttered.

The door to his cabin creaked open.

A voice called out cheerfully.

"Argolaith! You're going to be late!"

He turned sharply.

And froze.

A man stood in the doorway. Tall, with a calm, weathered face, dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, and a smile that radiated gentle authority.

It was Athos.

But… younger. Stronger. No cane. No slouched posture.

"Athos?" Argolaith said slowly.

The man laughed. "Of course it's me. Honestly, you look like you've seen a ghost."

Argolaith stared, mouth dry. "Where… what is this?"

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you hit your head again chopping wood."

He chuckled and stepped back inside. "Hurry up. The tea's getting cold."

Argolaith stepped forward slowly. The world felt real. The breeze. The smells. Even the ground beneath his feet carried weight. But his rune didn't burn. His storage ring didn't hum with lifeblood.

Something was wrong.

And then he heard it.

Children laughing.

He turned toward the village path, and saw villagers—people he hadn't seen in years, some long dead—walking the streets like nothing had ever gone wrong. Men traded goods in the square. Women swept their porches. A blacksmith hammered at the forge.

And walking up the lane toward him was—

Kaelred.

But not the Kaelred he knew.

This Kaelred was clean-shaven, well-dressed, carrying a basket of herbs and waving casually.

"Morning, lazybones!" he called. "Come on! You promised we'd practice today!"

Argolaith stepped back.

Kaelred frowned. "You alright?"

"You're not real."

Kaelred tilted his head. "Wow. Rude. I woke up early for you, and this is what I get?"

"I'm in a trial," Argolaith said under his breath. "This is an illusion."

The world didn't respond.

Everything continued as if nothing had been said.

Argolaith walked into town slowly.

Everything was… perfect.

Too perfect.

The bakery had fresh loaves. The blacksmith's bellows rang in rhythm. The fountain at the square's center still worked, and no child cried, no house leaned, no shadow ever fell too long.

The world wasn't just peaceful.

It was crafted to be exactly what he'd always wanted.

No death.

No war.

No lifeblood.

No trees.

Just Seminah. Frozen in a perfect moment.

And everyone he loved was safe.

A voice echoed in his mind—not spoken aloud, but drifting through the cracks of thought:

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"What if you never left?"

"What if you never had to carry the weight?"

"Would you still walk away?"

Argolaith clenched his fists.

The rune on his arm flared—for just a moment.

He wasn't ready to answer.

Not yet.

But he knew this wasn't real.

And the trial had only just begun.