God's Tree-Chapter 194: The Gate Before Dawn

The wasteland unfolded like a wound beneath the gray sky.

For three days, Argolaith walked with relentless focus, each step carving a deeper line through the dust. His breath had become smoke. His body moved with a quiet rhythm, hardened by cold and solitude. The vision of the Tree of the Unseen pulled at him still, invisible but ever-present—a gravity at the edge of his soul.

But the land did not yield easily.

On the fourth morning, the air changed.

The wind went still.

The mist clung tighter to the earth.

And the silence sharpened, no longer lifeless—watchful.

Argolaith stopped at the crest of a broken ridge.

Below him, the wasteland curved into a blackened basin, wide and deep. Its floor was cracked and riddled with charred roots—scars from something long buried and recently awakened.

And in the center of it stood a beast.

Massive.

Still.

Breathing.

Its hide was layered with iridescent scales, each one etched with runes that shimmered like molten steel. It had the body of a lion, the wings of a mountain hawk, and a long, barbed tail that twitched with dormant fury. Four great horns curled from its skull like a crown of death.

A Saint Beast.

One that had not fallen to time.

It raised its head slowly, eyes like twin suns narrowing upon him.

Argolaith's heart clenched.

He stepped forward anyway.

The beast leapt with no warning—

A blur of weight and fury that shattered stone and kicked up a storm of ash.

Argolaith rolled aside, barely avoiding the first strike, his boots skidding across the basin's rim.

A claw gouged the ground where he had stood, carving deep into the blackened soil.

He sprang upright, drawing his sword in one clean motion.

The Saint Beast roared.

It was a sound that cracked the air and rattled the bones—a force of ancient judgment.

Argolaith charged forward.

The blade gleamed as it struck the beast's wing—sparks erupted, but the edge only carved halfway through before the Saint Beast twisted, slamming a shoulder into him.

The impact sent Argolaith flying.

He crashed against a half-buried stone, the breath knocked clean from his lungs. Pain rippled across his back.

But he rose again.

He spat blood.

And ran straight at the monster.

Their clash lit the sky with dust and light—Argolaith ducked under a tail strike, spun, and plunged his blade into the soft flesh under its ribs. The beast shrieked, twisted, and sank its claws into the earth, trying to rip him free.

But Argolaith held on.

He climbed its side like a storm, slashing along the spine, his blade dragging fire behind it.

The beast thrashed and roared, wings battering the wind, until it flung itself backward in a brutal arc.

Argolaith was thrown clear.

He tumbled through the dust, rolled to his feet, and hurled one of his explosive glyph-tags into the air—

It detonated above the beast's eye, searing light and flame into its vision.

The Saint Beast howled, staggering.

Argolaith lunged through the smoke, vaulted up its flank, and drove his sword into its neck.

It slammed down onto the earth.

Twitching.

Dying.

The runes across its body flickered violently, then dimmed.

He held his position a moment longer, blade still embedded, until the beast gave one final shudder—and stilled.

The silence returned.

He slid off its side, breathing hard, body screaming in pain.

His cloak was torn. His skin burned. His muscles trembled.

But he was alive.

He stepped back, raised a hand, and opened his storage ring.

The beast's body shimmered—shrunk—compressed into glowing particles, and vanished into the void.

Even in death, it would serve.

He let out a breath and wiped sweat from his brow, staring up at the unmoving sky.

"Don't send me another one of those," he muttered hoarsely.

The next three days passed without incident.

The land began to change again—fewer ridges, more open plateaus. The wind carried strange scents: oil, metal, smoke, spices. Life.

And finally, just before dusk on the seventh day, he saw it.

A city.

It rose like a fortress from the broken stone—towers of gray and green metal, walls etched with glowing lines of runic defense, and spires crowned with flickering lanterns.

It was not beautiful.

It was useful—sturdy, weather-worn, built by survivors, not dreamers.

Argolaith approached the gates with a cautious pace, exhaustion settling into his bones again.

But as he reached the outer walls, he found the iron gates shut tight.

A guard leaned over the battlements, torch in hand.

"We're closed for the night," the woman called down, her voice clipped and sharp. "Come back in the morning."

"I just need to pass through," Argolaith said.

The guard laughed without humor. "So does everyone. Rules are rules."

Argolaith stepped back, eyeing the battlements, then the sealed gate.

He could force it—maybe.

But it would raise alarms. Waste time. Cost energy.

He sighed and turned away, settling against the shadowed side of a crumbled wall near the gate.

The firelight of the city flickered softly in the distance, casting golden threads into the cold dark.

Tomorrow, he would see what the market held.

Tonight, he would rest.

And dream of stars.

Dawn broke over the city in a smear of cold gold and bruised gray.

Argolaith stood patiently outside the gates, arms folded, the early wind tugging at the edge of his cloak. As the sun rose, the towering iron doors creaked open with a mechanical groan, revealing a small squad of guards waiting just inside.

Their leader stepped forward, a stern-faced woman clad in reinforced black leather etched with faint blue sigils.

"State your name and origin," she said, holding a polished obsidian rod that pulsed with magic.

"Argolaith," he replied evenly. "Born in the far valleys. I'm headed beyond the lands of Morgoth."

She raised a brow but didn't comment. Instead, she held up the rod, and the tip glowed softly.

"Hold still. This will confirm that you are human and that you carry no immediate ill will toward the city or its people."

Argolaith nodded.

A pulse of light washed over him—gentle, cold, searching.

The rod glowed a steady white.

"He's clean," the guard murmured. Then she paused, narrowing her eyes. "Where did you say you were headed?"

"Beyond Morgoth," he said again.

The guards exchanged glances.

Then came the laughter.

It wasn't cruel—just incredulous.

"Good luck with that," said one of the younger men, shaking his head. "This is the last city you'll see in this world, stranger. Everyone who walks past that edge dies. No maps. No roads. Just… oblivion."

But the leader wasn't smiling.

She stepped closer and lowered her voice.

"You should know—most believe the land ends there. A bottomless void. But that's not the truth." Her gaze darkened. "The land beyond Morgoth is a sealed realm. A place not recorded on any known charts. A place the gods themselves abandoned."

Argolaith met her eyes.

"That's where I'm going."

She stared a moment longer, then nodded slowly.

"You're either a fool or something worse. But the gates are open. Go in peace."

He entered without another word.