“It’s evolving!”
High above the mountain, the four Saint‑tier evolvers hovering over the Rooted Spirit Tree felt the shift at the sa mont.The trunk was withering from the top down—its first step toward becoming a Panlong Root.
Marcus Langford, the retired Saint from Muke, spoke with urgency.
“Everyone, stop holding back. If it reaches Tier‑5, none of us will be able to contain it.”
The others nodded grimly.Trump cards were unleashed—techniques powerful enough to flatten cities—while each Saint kept a wary eye out for Filthsoil operatives.
Below, Evan couldn’t see the battle above, but he felt the change.The tree’s evolutionary energy was condensing at its base, thickening like molten light.
Then—
A thunderous explosion shook the chamber.
The green glow dimd.The roots froze mid‑air.
The Saints had interrupted the evolution.
Quentin saw his opening.
He sprinted toward the trunk, mouth open, ready to bite again.
Evan panicked.
“Quentin!”
No reaction.
He tried the only thing that worked.
“Johnny! I’m Johnny!”
Quentin froze mid‑step.
Evan exhaled sharply.He couldn’t let Quentin drink more tree marrow.If Quentin regained full sanity, Evan was dead.
He leapt down from the tunnel and charged the trunk, aiming to get there first.
But the bark Quentin had bitten earlier had already regenerated.Evan punched it—nothing.He activated Ant Strength and Needle Strike, piercing a tiny hole.
A thin stream of glowing green liquid sprayed out like a leaking faucet.
Tree marrow.
Evan grabbed his pill bottle—he’d dumped the pills into his pocket earlier—and tried to collect as much as he could for Yvonne.
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He managed only a few drops before Quentin shoved him aside.
The mont the tree marrow hit the air, Quentin’s instincts took over.He lunged forward and caught the stream directly in his mouth.
The effect was imdiate.
His eyes sharpened.Focused.Cold.
Sanity.
He slamd a fist into the trunk, punching a hole large enough to expose the hollow interior.
The impact jolted the Rooted Spirit Tree awake.Its roots twitched, then writhed violently.
Evan scrambled back into the shadows.
But Quentin didn’t panic.
He raised a hand.A swirl of black mist gathered in his palm.
He pressed it gently against the tree’s base.
The entire Rooted Spirit Tree shuddered—then slowed.Its roots moved as if underwater, sluggish and delayed.
A temporal distortion.A control technique.
Evan stared.
Quentin wasn’t just sane—he was terrifying.
Quentin turned his head slowly, eyes locking onto Evan.For a heartbeat, Evan felt the killing intent of a Saint‑tier predator.
Quentin rembered.
He rembered everything.
And he wanted Evan dead.
But not yet.
He needed to finish the tree first.
He summoned a portable extractor from his ebony storage ring—sleek, high‑grade, far superior to anything Evan had ever seen.
Evan’s eyes burned with envy.
A real spatial ring.
He ntally slapped himself.This was not the ti to covet loot.
Quentin plunged the extractor’s needle into the trunk.It began siphoning the tree’s evolutionary essence.
Spirit plants could be harvested, but their extracts weren’t directly usable by humans.Still, draining the essence would kill the tree.
And that was Quentin’s goal.
Above the mountain, the four Saints hovered around the half‑withered trunk.
Reginald Pierce, the Grand Judge of Muke, spoke first.
“Dean Amida, your ntal illusion was crucial. Without it, we couldn’t have disrupted the evolution.”
Amida smiled modestly.
“I only provided support. Your Disintegration Ray dealt the real damage.”
Yeh Muni added, “We must enter the root chamber now and sever its life source before it recovers.”
“Agreed.”
They prepared to descend—
A cold wind swept across the treetops.
A voice echoed through the forest.
“Since everyone’s sharing the spoils… shouldn’t Filthsoil get a portion too?”
All four Saints stiffened.
Amida’s ntal power surged outward.
“A rat from the gutter dares show himself?”
A shadow shifted behind a tree.A man in a pristine white suit stepped out, smiling pleasantly.
Silas Whitlock.
Reginald Pierce’s expression hardened.
“Silas Whitlock. Filthsoil only sent you? Then prepare to die here.”
Silas chuckled softly.
“Old friends shouldn’t be so tense. I only ca to chat.”
He looked relaxed, but his guard was razor‑sharp.He had planned to wait until the Saints entered the root chamber, then steal whatever he could.
But monts earlier, he had received a secret transmission from Quentin:
“I’m at the bottom. Collecting the prize. Stall them.”
Silas’s eyes glead.
If Quentin was sane enough to send orders…Then he was alive.And dangerous.
And Silas Whitlock would buy him all the ti he needed.
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