The morning air tasted different.
Lin Moyan lay on his back in the soft loam, watching dust motes dance in shafts of golden sunlight that had no business existing in the Verdant Abyss. His chest ached where the seed had buried itself deep, its roots now woven through his ribs like silver thread through fabric. The pain came in waves—not the sharp sting of fresh wounds, but the dull throb of something settling into place.
Haiyu's shadow fell across him. Her transformed wrist glimmered in the new light, the vines beneath her skin pulsing gently. When she offered him a hand, her fingers felt warmer than human flesh had any right to be.
"Up," she signed with her free hand. "The trees are watching."
Moyan let her pull him upright. His muscles protested—every movement sent strange twinges through tissue that wasn't entirely his own anymore. The clearing around them had changed. Where twisted jungle once stood, orderly rows of saplings now grew, their bark smooth and pale as bone. Their leaves shimmered when the wind touched them, producing a sound like distant wind chimes.
Jian Luo crouched by a nearby stream, his taloned fingers skimming the water's surface. The webbing between his fingers had receded slightly, but his eyes still glowed that unsettling amber. He glanced up as they approached.
"Water's clean," he said. "Actually clean. Not 'clean for the Abyss' clean." He flicked droplets at Moyan with a smirk. "Tastes like mountain spring with a hint of existential dread."
Moyan knelt beside him. His reflection stared back—a face he barely recognized. The roots under his skin had spread during the night, tracing delicate patterns along his jawline and throat. When he touched them, they hummed against his fingertips.
Haiyu's hands moved in quick signs. "The old paths are gone. The Sect's ruins..." She gestured east, where only a field of young trees stood.
"Gone," Jian Luo finished for her. "Or buried. Or eaten. Hard to say with sentient plant worlds."
Moyan's chest pulsed. The seed's roots twitched in response to something unseen. A memory-not-his-own flickered at the edge of his consciousness—a great network spreading beneath them, connecting every silver-barked tree in the newborn forest.
"We should—"
The first note cut him off.
It came from nowhere and everywhere at once—a single, pure tone that vibrated through the earth and up through the soles of their feet. The saplings shivered in unison, their leaves chiming in response.
Jian Luo was on his feet instantly, claws extended. "What fresh hell is this?"
The second note joined the first, then a third. Not music—not exactly. Something older. The air itself seemed to thicken around each sound, giving them weight and texture.
Haiyu tilted her head, her nostrils flaring. She signed one word: "Breathing."
Moyan understood suddenly. "It's the trees. They're..."
The network beneath them pulsed—a vast, interconnected system stretching farther than his enhanced senses could trace. And at its heart, something was waking.
The song grew louder.
Not from the saplings.
From below.
The ground between them bulged suddenly, earth cracking as something forced its way to the surface. Jian Luo yanked Moyan back as the soil erupted, sending clods of dirt and root fragments flying.
What emerged wasn't a plant.
Not entirely.
The figure stood roughly human-shaped, its body composed of woven roots and shimmering bark. Where a face should have been, there was only smooth wood—no mouth, no eyes, just the barest suggestion of features beneath the surface. Its hands ended in delicate tendrils that moved with eerie precision.
It tilted its head—if that smooth curve could be called a head—and the song shifted. The notes formed something almost like speech:
"Wardens."
The word resonated in Moyan's bones. The roots beneath his skin burned in recognition.
Jian Luo's claws clicked together. "Okay, I take it back. This is the fresh hell."
The figure raised one tendril-tipped hand. The song changed again, the notes painting images in the air—a great tree splitting open, roots spreading like veins through the earth, silver seeds raining down.
Haiyu stepped forward, her transformed wrist outstretched. The vines beneath her skin glowed in response to the creature's song. When she signed, her movements were slow, deliberate:
"You tend the new growth."
The figure inclined its head. A new series of notes spilled forth, these carrying a different weight—urgency, warning. The roots at its feet twitched, forming patterns in the soil too quickly for Moyan to follow.
The seed in his chest pulsed violently. A wave of understanding crashed over him:
"They're not the first."
The song cut off abruptly. The root-figure went perfectly still.
Then the ground shook.
Not the gentle tremor of growing roots—this was something massive moving beneath them. The saplings swayed dangerously, their roots tearing free from the soil as the earth buckled.
Jian Luo grabbed Haiyu's arm. "Time to go!"
Moyan didn't move. The roots in his chest pulled him downward, toward the epicenter of the disturbance. The song hadn't been a greeting.
It had been a warning.
The ground split open ten paces away, revealing a yawning chasm. From its depths rose a sound Moyan had hoped never to hear again—the wet, grinding noise of roots moving against stone.
Something was climbing out.
Something old.
The root-creature's song turned frantic, its notes sharp as broken glass. It grabbed Moyan's wrist with surprising strength, its tendrils weaving around his forearm in a mimicry of his own root-scars.
The message came through the contact, bypassing language entirely:
The new growth was vulnerable.
The old things were waking.
And the Wardens—the true Wardens—were needed once more.
The first grasping tendril emerged from the fissure, thicker than a man's thigh and glistening with black ichor. The song of the trees turned to a scream.
Moyan met Jian Luo's glowing eyes. The older boy grinned, all sharp teeth and resigned amusement.
"Should've known it wouldn't be that easy."
Haiyu already had her daggers drawn, the vines in her wrist extending to wrap around the hilts.
Moyan felt the roots in his chest tighten in anticipation. The seed's voice—if it could be called a voice—whispered through his blood:
*The first song was never meant to end.*
As the thing from below pulled itself free of the earth, Moyan understood at last what they'd truly awakened.
Not a new beginning.
A cycle.
The first true note of the Verdant Abyss's rebirth rang out across the clearing—not from the trees, not from the root-creature, but from the monstrous shape now standing before them, its many limbs unfolding like a nightmare given form.
And Moyan, his roots singing in harmony with the world's pain, stepped forward to meet it.