God's Tree-Chapter 212: The One Who Returned

Argolaith walked through starlight.

The path from the realm of the Galaxy Maker back to Morgoth was not a road—it was a thought. A ribbon of space that curled between dimensions like a bridge woven from memory and will.

With each step, he felt it.

A quiet spark.

Not fire. Not light.

But magic.

His own.

Still faint. Still waiting. But real.

It pulsed behind his ribs like a second heartbeat, a whisper of stars long silent, now learning how to sing again.

He did not rush.

He let each step settle into the soil of reality.

Because what awaited him now was not a trial.

It was continuation.

And for the first time in countless lifetimes, he walked not as a seeker—

But as himself.

When the veil finally thinned and dissolved behind him, the light of the void melted away.

And Morgoth returned.

Not as he left it.

But as it had always been.

Endless skies. Cold grass brushing his boots. Air tinged with faint magic, heavy with distance and silence.

And there—

Just a few paces ahead—

Sat a figure in a chair made of woven branches and blackened steel.

A teacup in hand. Violet steam curling from it.

Vaerith.

The Reaper Beast.

Still humanoid, still inhuman. Golden eyes glinting beneath a dark, formless hood. Skin like obsidian veined with soft light. His clawed fingers rested lightly on the rim of the cup as if this were a garden, not the threshold to one of the most dangerous realms in existence.

Argolaith paused.

Then smiled.

"Tea again?"

Vaerith took a slow sip.

"Naturally."

A breeze passed. The world was calm.

Then Argolaith asked, "How long has it been?"

The question hung in the air—not just about time, but about returning.

Vaerith tilted his head, golden eyes never blinking.

"A little over a year."

Argolaith blinked, then let out a slow breath.

One year.

After lifetimes.

After pain and peace and war and wonder.

He laughed softly—quiet, but full.

"That's… not bad."

Vaerith set his cup down on the armrest of the chair.

"You've changed."

Argolaith nodded.

"So have you."

Vaerith snorted. "I added lemon."

Another pause. Another breeze.

The two stood—one seated, one standing—on the edge of realms, where memory and matter danced together beneath pale skies.

Argolaith looked down at his hands.

Magic still slumbered there, gentle and curious.

Not ready. Not yet.

But soon.

And when it did awaken—

It would see not just with eyes.

But with truth.

He turned toward the mountains on the horizon.

Toward the land he once walked with calloused feet and aching heart.

Toward Kaelred.

Malakar.

Home.

He stepped forward.

And the spark pulsed in his chest.

Not burning.

But becoming.

Argolaith walked alone beneath the wide sky.

The wind was gentle. The road uneven. The world felt… smaller than it once did, as if the path of stars had changed how gravity sat upon his shoulders.

But he did not mind.

With each step, he could feel it—the spark of magic in his blood, faint but growing.

Not fire. Not lightning. Not any element he could name.

But potential.

He sensed its rhythm like a second pulse, a quiet current beneath his breath. It would take time to master—discipline, thought, focus—but that's what he had now.

One year.

That's all that remained before the Grand Magic Academy opened its gates.

One year to prepare.

To sharpen his body.

To shape his mind.

To let his magic unfold.

And he would use every moment of it.

The city rose over the ridge by afternoon, its stone towers jagged against the sun. Smoke curled from chimneys. Flags rustled in the breeze. The same walls he had passed through more than a year ago stood firm—silent witnesses to the realm's edge.

Argolaith exhaled softly.

The last time he had seen this place, he had no magic.

Just questions.

And the will to walk into the unknown.

Now, he had returned.

Two guards stood at the gate.

One leaned lazily on a spear. The other chewed on a strip of dried meat, their helmets slanted to block the sun.

When they saw him approaching…

They froze.

The spear clattered to the ground.

The jerky fell from the guard's lips.

They stood straight—no longer as sentries, but as witnesses.

One of them whispered, barely audible:

"It's him…"

The other's voice cracked:

"The one who went past the Veil."

Argolaith stopped a few paces from the gate.

He said nothing.

Just looked at them.

Not with pride.

But with presence.

He could feel their disbelief.

Their awe.

Their questions.

And their unspoken fear—not of him, but of what his return meant.

Because no one had ever come back from the lands beyond Morgoth.

Not the gilded champions.

Not the orichalcum-ranked wanderers.

Not the arrogant, the brave, the mad.

No one.

Except him.

One of the guards cleared his throat.

"P—pardon me, traveler… Are you…?"

Argolaith nodded once.

And the wind seemed to still.

The other guard opened the gates without another word.

The city did not yet know.

But soon… it would.

That the void had given something back.

And it walked in silence.

With magic in its veins.

He entered the city as he had left it—alone, unnoticed by most.

But the world had changed.

And he had changed more.

In one year's time, he would walk the steps of the Grand Magic Academy.

But for now…

He would train.

He would listen to his magic.

And he would become ready.

Argolaith didn't linger in the streets.

He walked with purpose, hood drawn low, his boots tapping softly on the stone roads of the city. The murmurs hadn't spread yet—his arrival still fresh, still secret—but he knew it wouldn't stay that way for long.

He passed through alleys, markets, the quiet plazas just waking with morning.

And made his way to the Adventurers' Guild.

The same one where his presence had once caused mugs to fall and warriors to faint.

This time, he entered in silence.

The chatter of the guildhall stilled—not all at once, but in waves. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed. Words faltered mid-sentence.

He said nothing.

Just walked to the counter.

The woman behind the desk was new.

Younger. Brighter-eyed. Her uniform crisp and sleeves rolled neatly. She looked up, smiling professionally—until she saw his face.

And froze.

He gave her a polite nod.

"I need a room," he said. "Something private. I'll be staying for some time to train."

She blinked quickly. "Y-yes, of course… ah, do you have an identification badge?"

Argolaith reached into his coat and pulled out the Mithril-rank token—its surface engraved with his name and the guild's eternal flame seal, shimmering faintly with its own magic signature.

The girl's eyes widened.

Then… widened more.

She swallowed.

"Sir… y-you're Mithril-ranked." Her voice lowered, suddenly aware. "And… you're that Mithril-ranked."

Argolaith raised an eyebrow, calm. "Is that a problem?"

"N-not at all!" she stammered, shaking her head quickly. "We actually have… elite rooms on the third floor. Reserved for Adamantite and higher." She glanced around, voice soft. "But for you, I think we can… make an exception."

He gave a faint smile.

"Thank you."

The third floor of the guild was quiet.

Not because it was empty, but because it was respected. Only the most powerful adventurers were permitted here. The ones whose names were carved into stone. The ones who never asked for recognition—but whose very presence altered the air.

Argolaith chose a room at the end of the hall.

It was simple, but large.

A small training chamber in the back.

A bed carved of darkwood and soft hide.

And a kitchen, with a rune-etched stove and shelves lined with rare herbs, spices, and preserved ingredients.

He stepped in, shut the door, and let out a breath.

Peace.

He set his storage ring on the counter and pulled out a few items.

A cut of saint beast meat—rich with energy, carefully wrapped.

Bundles of voidroot, embergrass, and soul pepper.

A flask of mineral broth he had prepared before leaving the Galaxy Maker's realm.

He didn't cook for survival.

Not anymore.

He cooked to center himself.

The pan hissed softly as meat kissed flame. Spices lifted into the air, carried by steam and memory. He stirred with steady hands, letting the scents build and settle around him.

When the stew was done, he sat at the table—alone—and ate in silence.

He could feel it.

The magic, stirring beneath his skin like a tide beneath the sand.

Waiting.

After his meal, he rose.

He went to the back room.

Removed his coat.

Stepped onto the runed floor.

Sat cross-legged.

And closed his eyes.

The spark answered.

Quietly.

But unmistakably.

It was time to train.