“Demands the gardener, or he hangs them,” the scout gasped, swaying in the doorway. The memory of Liena’s missing face, the hope Zenta kept feeding him, turned sour. He was the gardener. His hope had a price, and that price was now the lives of Ligo’s people. “Four foragers?” Ilze’s voice was a low growl, her hand already on the hilt of a hunting blade tucked into her belt. Her eyes, usually so sharp and appraising, were narrowed to slits of fury. Zenta stepped forward, her ancient face etched with a familiar weariness. “Gatis Vinter. He has no patience for subtlety. What are his numbers, scout?” The man swallowed, still breathless. “Maybe twenty. But they’re… changed. Their skin looks like bark, and their blades hum with a sickly green light.” “A defiled blessing,” Zenta said, her gaze distant. “He’s found a way to weaponize the Grove’s tainted energy.” Arvis’s mind raced, not with fear, but with a sudden, sharp clarity. Gatis had dropped a blighted seed near the palisade. Now he was creating more. An army of monster-plants, perhaps, wielded by men twisted by their power. “We need to know what he’s doing,” Arvis said, looking at Ilze. “And where.” Ilze nodded. “He’d take them to his camp. The old Thicket of Whispers, probably. He renamed it the ‘Poisoned Orchard’ for dramatic effect.” Her mouth curled. “Arvis, stay here. If he knows you’re gone, he’ll kill them faster.” “No.” Arvis met her gaze, his resolve hardening. “I’m the gardener. He wants me. But he doesn’t know what I can do. Not really. I’m coming with you.” Ilze studied him for a long moment, a flicker of grudging respect in her eyes. “Fine. But you follow my lead. One sound, one mistake, and we’re both dead. And so are the captives.” Under the cover of a moonless night, they moved like wraiths through the tangled brush, the air growing thick with the metallic tang of blight and the faint, sweet scent of decay. The copse, once a peaceful ring of ancient, gnarled trees, was now a grotesque mockery. Gnarled thorn-vines, thick as a man’s arm, crawled along the ground, studded with glowing, pustular pods. Crude shelters of hide and scavenged timber circled a central, ruined clearing. They found Gatis’s camp – the Poisoned Orchard – by the cacophony of guttural shouts and the unnatural glow of the blighted flora. It was even worse than Ilze had described. A pulsing, green light emanated from the center of the clearing, where a gnarled, sickly-green tree pulsed with malevolent energy. Beneath it, a figure was bound: a dryad, her bark-like skin mottled with black, her leafy hair withered and brittle. Her eyes, usually deep pools of emerald, were dull with despair as a burly Vanguard member, his own skin showing patches of bark, forced her hand onto a cluster of small, unripe fruits. As her fingers touched them, they shriveled, then burst into seeds that glowed with the same sickly green light before they were hastily collected. [World Event: Corrupted Grove Detected. Gatis Vinter is attempting to cultivate 'Blightseed' as a weapon. Reward for disruption: Arbiter’s Favor (Minor).] Arvis swallowed bile. Gatis wasn’t just exploiting System resources; he was torturing a sentient being to mass-produce his monsters. The depth of his cruelty was breathtaking. “He’s making an army,” Arvis said under his breath, throat tight. Ilze pulled him deeper into the shadows. “Stay focused. We need to find the captives.” They moved silently through the camp, dodging patrols and stepping over slumbering, bark-skinned warriors. They found the hostages tethered near a roaring bonfire, their faces pale with fear. Ilze’s eyes scanned each one, a desperate urgency in her movements. Then she stopped, a sharp intake of breath. One of the women, a young scout named Rina, wore a silver pendant around her neck. It was a simple, oval piece, engraved with a twisting vine motif. Ilze knew that pendant. It had belonged to her younger sister, lost years ago during the initial chaos of Veridia’s arrival, presumed dead. Ilze's face contorted, a silent scream of recognition and anguish. She moved, swift and low, to Rina’s side, pressing a finger to her lips for silence. “Where did you get that?” Ilze breathed, her voice raspy, indicating the pendant. Rina’s eyes darted nervously to the Vanguard guards, then back to Ilze. “One of Vinter’s men,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “He was bragging. Said he took it from a… a quiet settlement, near the Western Peaks. Said they were all just… easy pickings.” Ilze’s hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white. Western Peaks. That was where her family had tried to make a stand. The hostage wasn't her sister, but the trinket, the location, the casual cruelty of the story—it all aligned. A cold, burning certainty settled in Ilze’s gut. The Vanguard had been there. Her sister might be gone, but the men who had done this were still alive. Ilze had a name, or at least a faction. A purpose, beyond just protecting Arvis. Arvis saw the raw, exposed grief and fury on Ilze’s face. He knew that silver piece wasn't just metal to her. It was a piece of her past, a lead. He placed a hand on her shoulder, a silent gesture of support. “We need to find out more,” Ilze said, her voice strained, but her resolve firm. “Vinter’s tent. He keeps records.” They circled the camp, finally locating a larger, more elaborate tent pitched a short distance from the corrupted dryad tree. It was guarded, but the guards were slumped against the canvas, their barks-skin faces slack with exhaustion or a drugged stupor. Ilze silently dispatched them with two swift, precise movements of her blade, no more than blurs in the dim light. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of stale rations and a faint metallic tang. Crude maps were tacked to the tent walls, charting the spread of the Blightseed. A rough wooden table held a half-eaten meal, a flask of potent spirits, and a thick, leather-bound journal. Arvis’s eyes fell on it instantly. This was what they needed. He flipped it open, the pages filled with Gatis’s scrawling, agitated script. It wasn’t a chronicle of conquests, but a desperate, panicked rant. Arvis read aloud, his voice low: “‘The Arbiter comes. The Reckoning is upon us. They say it cannot be fought, cannot be harmed. Lies! All lies! There must be a way! They’re just weak, the old fools, too scared to try. But I… I will not yield to oblivion. The Weaver, this ‘Kalnins,’ he can make the Fountfruit, yes. He can empower men. Make them strong. Unkillable. An army of gods. Yes, an army of gods to face the entity. To tear it apart, piece by bloody piece. He will do it, or I will make him. For humanity. For *my* survival. It’s the only way.’” [System Alert: Gatis Vinter’s 'Kill the Arbiter' Protocol Discovered. Probability of success: 0.00000001%. Entertainment Value: High. Proceed?] Arvis stared at the entry, a chilling realization settling over him. Gatis wasn’t just a simple tyrant. He was terrified. He believed the Final Reckoning was an invasion to be repelled by force, and he saw Arvis’s subtle skill as a weapon to be commandeered, turned into a blunt instrument of war. He wasn't trying to exploit Arvis for petty gains; he was trying to save the world, in his own brutal, misguided way. He aimed to slay the entity, not release it. “He’s insane,” Ilze hissed, her face pale. “He thinks he can fight an unkillable god with Fountfruit-empowered brutes.” “He doesn’t understand,” Arvis said, his voice barely audible. “He sees a hammer where he needs a needle. He’ll doom us all.” A shadow fell across the tent entrance. A deep, resonant voice cut through the tense silence. “Looking for something?”

The Poisoned Orchard