Magus Reborn-Chapter 209. Green triumphs caution

Bishop Maurice felt a headache blooming behind his eyes.

Count Arzan sat before him—young, powerful, and far too cunning for the bishop’s liking. It wasn’t that the man had done anything wrong, per se. He was just the type Maurice despised dealing with, ambitious, unshakable, and untouchable.

The kind of man who had climbed the noble ladder too quickly. A Count now, after besting a Duke in a fief war. A powerful Mage, no less.

Maurice had hoped the King would clip the boy’s wings after the whole brother-killing incident. But even that hadn’t been enough. The King might punish him. Might. But men like Arzan Kellius had a way of surviving such things—and worse, rising higher from them.

That made him dangerous.

And the bishop knew it. And he wasn’t ready to take any risk. In fact, offending this man was the furthest thing he wanted. All he knew, the man was going to find himself seated higher among the nobility, making right friends in the capital and even getting the Pope's attention.

Still, Maurice really, really wanted to tell him to leave.

The bastard had interrupted his reading—right when the Dragon Rider and the Seeress were finally about to kiss. Maurice had been waiting six volumes for that moment.

Just then, this upstart Count had to barge into his hall with a straight face and asked for a small army. To enter Vanderfall. The cursed land. The plague lands. A country swallowed whole. It wasn’t brave. It was suicidal.

It was the kind of thing that earned you a heretic’s brand if you dragged paladins and priests into it. The kind of thing that got you excommunicated.

He opened his mouth to reject him. To say, “No, my lord, I don't have the authority.” To explain that whatever half-baked solution Arzan had found, it wasn’t worth the lives it would cost.

But something about the Count's gaze made the words catch in his throat. Unlike the Count, Bishop Maurice could run.

He could flee to the capital and let the Archine Tower or the royal family deal with the plague. That had been the plan ever since he’d first heard whispers of the corruption crawling toward the border. He hadn’t wanted to fight a plague—especially not one that turned people into those wretched demonic weavers.

So, he told himself he’d just hear the young Count out. Nod, smile, and find a polite way to decline. But then the bastard had said the words that had made his heart skip a beat.

“Just think about it. If you’re the one who helped lead the effort to stop the plague. If it’s your name that ends up etched into the sermons, spoken by survivors, praised in every other cathedral from here to the capital… how do you think that’ll affect your standing in the Church?”

And that—that—had made Maurice pause.

Because he did know.

A successful purge? Of Vanderfall? Saints above, that would be historic. It would mean promotion. A new title. Relocation to the capital, with real influence. Better quarters. Better wine. An easier life.

Even in The Dragon Rider’s Beloved, the main character had earned a title and the princess’s affection after rescuing plague victims. That whole chapter had made Maurice tear up—twice. And they had only just started— No. No, this wasn’t a storybook.

This was real. And agreeing with the Count would mean spending the Church’s strength. Paladins. Clerics. Lives. He wasn’t even sure the Church would allow it.

But... they should.

The rumors were clear—the Pope was tearing his hair out, what little remained of it, over the loss of holy sites and personnel in Vanderfall. The Church’s influence had taken a beating even in Lancephil. Something had to be done. This might actually fix it.

But then, of course, he’d be the one standing at the center of it. The one who either rose or burned with it. And Maurice wasn’t sure which was more likely. Not every kind of responsibility was a blessing. Some made you an Archbishop. Others got your head impaled on a weaver’s claw.

He stared at the Count again and finally spoke.

“Count Arzan,” he said, “you need to understand—the plague is too dangerous. From what I’ve been told, everyone who enters ends up corrupted. Even those who escape don’t last. It eats at them, until they—” he paused, grimacing, “until they turn. Or take their own lives.”

Arzan didn’t flinch.

“Then they don’t walk into it,” he said.

Maurice blinked. “They’re not birds, my lord. The goddess did not give us wings.”

“They don’t have to fly,” Arzan replied. “They just don’t have to go in as clerics. Normal robes, boots, gloves—they’re useless. Dead mana seeps through anything untreated. You want to enter and survive? You need full-body armor. Enchanted. Layered. Sealed. There are materials it can’t corrupt as fast. That buys us time. And if corruption does occur…”

He hesitated—but only for a second.

“I’ll handle it. Personally. I give you my word.”

Maurice’s eyes widened. “How?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

The bishop stared at him.

“You understand secrecy,” Arzan said. “Some things are better left unspoken.”

Maurice nodded. Reluctantly. He did understand, but he still felt like he was staring at a noose, one that was slowly being lowered around his neck. But the Count… looked so damn confident. And more importantly—he’d delivered results before.

Maurice wasn’t a fool. He didn’t trust people easily. Hell, he didn’t like people. But he respected competence. And if things started to go wrong… well, the Church could always pull back. Arzan wasn’t their superior. He could only ask for aid.

That gave him just enough space to breathe. Just enough space to consider saying yes. The bishop eyed the Count carefully.

“How long,” he asked, “until you can deal with the plague?”

Arzan didn’t miss a beat. “Roughly two weeks,” he said. “That’s to reach the core and neutralize the root of the corruption. We’ll be moving constantly. Minimal rest. Even at night, we’ll take short shifts but stay mobile. I don’t plan on letting us linger anywhere too long.”

Maurice nodded. That made sense. He couldn’t imagine anyone willingly sleeping in the same spot inside Vanderfall more than once.

“And how confident are you?” he asked, this time watching the Count’s expression more closely. He expected a flicker of hesitation. Even the slightest doubt. But Arzan simply answered, calm as ever.

“I’m fairly confident,” he said. “We won’t be able to cleanse all of Vanderfall, but we can halt its spread. That’s our true goal.”

Maurice leaned back slightly, fingers steepling. That was enough. The Church wasn’t looking for miracles—just containment. And so far, the Count was checking all the right boxes. Still, he asked more questions.

The army’s composition. The threats expected within the plague lands. Methods to counter the corruption, shield the clerics, and treat those exposed.

And with each answer, the bishop felt the same nagging truth sink deeper, Arzan had done his homework. Thoroughly. This wasn’t a desperate gamble—this was a calculated move. Maurice didn’t like it. He didn’t like being outmaneuvered. But he liked being left behind even less.

The Church would be satisfied with this much. Maurice might even earn his long-desired promotion. But… he wondered if he could squeeze a little more out of this. People, in his eyes, were like a brimming coin pouch—if you were clever, you could always take just a bit more before they noticed. After hearing everything, he leaned forward, offering a generous smile.

“I think your preparations are quite solid,” he said, voice pleasant. “I believe the Church would be more than willing to send aid. Some of our clerics and paladins would be honored to assist in such a mission.”

Arzan’s lips curved into a faint smile.

But Maurice wasn’t finished.

“Of course,” he continued, tone tightening just a fraction, “I’m not sure how many we’ll be able to provide. Not right away, anyway. This is still a developing plan, not yet an official doctrine. It would take considerable… effort on my part to gather the right support, you understand.”

He waited. Expecting the usual reaction. Tension, a bribe offer, perhaps a veiled threat masked in courtesy. Instead, Arzan smiled wider.

“It’s alright,” he said with a subtle sigh in his tone. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you too much.”

Maurice blinked.

“Before coming here, I sent a letter to Bishop Carridan in Veyrin,” the Count added. “If you’re unable to provide assistance, I’m fairly certain he can pull together a sizeable force from the Church there.”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The bishop’s smile vanished.

Carridan.

Of course it was him. That silver-tongued bastard.

The goddess’s temple in Veyrin had flourished under Carridan's leadership—and now that Veyrin was practically under Arzan’s thumb, it made perfect sense. Carridan could do it.

But had the letter really been sent? Or was this just a bluff?

Maurice stared at the Count, trying to read beneath the words. But Arzan’s expression didn’t flicker. He looked calm, he looked polish—the type of demeanor a politician had. And worse, the type to remember slights.

If Maurice refused now and the purge succeeded under Carridan’s banner, all credit would go to him. And Bishop Maurice would be left with nothing but regret and the ruins of a missed opportunity.

No, he thought bitterly. I’m not letting that bastard take the glory. Not this time.

“Actually…” Bishop Maurice straightened suddenly, offering a warm smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Now that I think about it, I might be able to gather a decent number of people. It’ll take calling in a few personal favors, of course, but if it's to stand against the plague that’s taken so many lives…” He gave a gracious nod, folding his hands as if burdened by virtue. “Then I’ll do my utmost.”

He gave a little chuckle, light and dismissive. “There’s no need to bother Bishop Carridan. I’ve heard he’s quite busy with the reconstruction efforts in Veyrin. Especially after your generous donations.”

Arzan inclined his head slightly.

“I’m glad to hear you’re offering such support to this cause,” he said. “Once you have a number on how many you can spare, send them to the estate. We’ll be departing soon.”

Then he paused. Just long enough to let the silence draw a thread of unease before he added,

“Thank you, Bishop. I can only rely on your thoughtfulness in difficult times like these.”

The words were pleasant. Even appreciative. But Maurice heard what wasn’t said just as clearly. He was being boxed in. The Count had laid the trap neatly—left him only one path that wouldn’t make him look weak or replaceable. Internally, he sighed. As if I had a choice.

Outwardly, he smiled, the very picture of a holy man eager to serve.

“Yes, yes… of course. May the Goddess guide our hands,” he said smoothly.

But as Arzan turned to leave, the bishop’s eyes lingered on his back. This better work, he thought. If not, I’ll be the one pushing good men to their deaths. And for the first time in a long while, Bishop Maurice felt the weight of a future that wasn’t entirely in his hands.

***

Wind stirred the air, rustling through brittle, blackened leaves that clung to the treant’s limbs. It felt each gust like a memory, brushing past the huge figure of rot and silence, standing unmoving upon a field of ash and dead soil. The land beneath its roots had once been green—alive—but that was before it had awakened, before its presence had sunk into the marrow of the earth and remade it in its own image.

Now the earth cracked and steamed with quiet corruption. And from that cracked earth, its roots spread like veins—feeding, expanding, claiming.

Small fiends skittered up and down its massive trunk, their clawed limbs scraping bark that pulsed faintly with unnatural energy. They were mindless things—born of pestilence and death—but they clung to the treant as if it were a god. To them, it was.

Around it, the air was thick with decay. Weavers, once-men twisted into impossible shapes, sat in reverence. Their hollow faces lifted toward the treant, blank eyes wide with worship. Bigger fiends—stronger beasts whose flesh had been warped by corruption—rested at its feet like hounds at the side of a master.

They were his children now. Once feral, once free, now made perfect.

Once cursed with limitation, now blessed with purpose.

They had been remade by the treant’s influence, touched by its roots, molded by the essence of death itself. Now they stood guard, silent and waiting, ready to tear apart anything that dared come close to the heart of the plague.

And they would not be the last.

Even now, deep below the surface, its roots continued to spread—a slow, implacable crawl of black tendrils that threaded through stone and clay, poisoning everything they touched. Grass died. Trees withered. Small animals that once burrowed now screamed in silence as their bodies were broken and reborn. The treant saw it all through those roots.

It felt everything. Every single thing.

In the north, it watched the humans run. Desperate. Weak. Their minds filled with panic as they tried to flee his spreading dominion. But they would not escape. No one ever did. They would fall. Sooner or later. And when they did, they would join the weavers.

In the west, his roots pressed through jagged mountain stone. There, fire licked the edges of his growth—natural heat, perhaps from deep fissures or long-slumbering volcanoes. It hurt. The fire hurt. But it did not stop it. Pain was temporary. Its will was not. Beasts roamed those slopes, and already some had been taken. Not by force—by inevitability.

In the east, its roots had stretched to the continent’s edge. Beyond them lay the ocean—vast, endless, unknowable. It stirred something inside, an unfamiliar curiosity. But it was not ready for the sea. Not yet. One day, perhaps, it would send his roots beneath those waves and claim even that domain. But today was not that day.

No.

Today, its attention turned south.

It saw something there. A great human settlement. Alive, bustling. Full of scared, fragile beings clinging to stone walls and firelight. A city. A prize.

A nest of future servants. its roots were already beneath its outskirts. Watching. Listening. Slowly bleeding poison into its foundations.

But then—Pain erupted.

A flash of it, hot and sudden, tore through his senses. One of his roots burned. Severed. Destroyed. Through it, he saw a man. A human Mage, casting flame. Fire rained down upon his tendrils—intentionally, not accidental. And when the roots regrew, the man burned them again. Over and over.

It hurt.

It angered.

Its branches quaked, limbs groaning like a dying forest. The fiends perched upon the massive treant shrieked and fled, terrified of the ancient fury awakening beneath them.

The man was gone now, already vanished into the safety of his stone walls. But others remained. More humans, moving in groups, finding the roots and burning them. They thought they could stop it. They were wrong.

It poured power into the earth, forcing its roots to surge forward—faster, thicker, stronger. The ground twisted. Rocks cracked. New tendrils burst from the soil, black and pulsing.

The humans hesitated. He felt their surprise. But they did not stop. They pressed on.

And that was when the treant understood: it could not keep this up. Not like this. Not with them burning its limbs faster than it could regrow. Not without sacrifice.

So it reached inward, tapping into the pulse that connected him to every corrupted beast, every twisted man, every loyal servant that drank of his rot.

And he gave them one command.

Move! Kill!

A single thought.

Immediately, the weavers and fiends around him stirred, rising from their stillness like puppets pulled by invisible strings. They did not question. They did not speak. Their bodies rippled with readiness.

With crazed howls and chittering cries, they launched southward—dozens, then hundreds—running through the blighted plains and charred forests, straight toward the human city.

Let them burn the roots.

Let them fight.

In the end, they would all kneel.

Whether in flame, in death, or in perfect, rotting silence.

***

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