God's Tree-Chapter 136: The Outcast of Light

The Hollow Bastion hummed with a silence that was too deliberate, too sharp. As if sound itself feared to linger. The chamber's cold was no longer merely physical—it was woven into the stone, the walls, the very air they breathed.

Zolgrich stood before them once more, the green flames in his eyes dimmed but unwavering, casting faint shadows that writhed across the curved walls of the throne chamber.

Argolaith stood with arms crossed, eyes steady, the weight of all he'd learned pressing on his shoulders like a second cloak.

And yet, one question still burned in his mind—something personal, something that had lingered beneath the stories and warnings.

"What was it like?"

Zolgrich turned his gaze toward him. The flames in his eyes narrowed slightly.

Argolaith didn't blink. "Becoming the first lich. The first of your kind. What did it take?"

For a long moment, the Bastion held its breath. Then—

Zolgrich raised a single hand. And the space between them shifted.

Green light coiled from his fingers, rising into the air like threads of woven fire. They twisted into form, shaping themselves into an illusion of ancient memory—a forest of silver-leafed trees beneath a sky lit by twin moons.

At the center of the illusion stood a young elf—tall, lean, cloaked in gray, his face quiet and unreadable.

Zolgrich's voice echoed through the chamber, deeper now, laced with memory.

"I was born into the great forest of Selavarn, among the high elves of the Luminous Court. All children of that lineage are born attuned to the life magic of the earth—light, healing, communion with nature."

The illusion showed tall elven figures dressed in robes of woven gold and green, walking through cities built into the trees themselves. They whispered to flowers, shaped wood with their voices, and called birds from the sky.

Zolgrich's voice hardened.

"All… but one."

The illusion shifted. The young elf now stood in a sunlit grove surrounded by other elven children. They all had their hands raised, light swirling from their palms—warm, golden, alive.

Except for one.

The young Zolgrich held up his hands, and what came forth was not light—

But shadow.

A flicker of black and green.

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The other children shrieked. The instructors stepped back in fear.

"Where they called on the sun, I summoned the void. Where they healed, I drained. My magic did not sing—it whispered."

Kaelred whispered under his breath, "They must've loved that."

Zolgrich did not smile. "They called me a curse. Said I had been touched by the forgotten ones. A black-blooded mistake."

The illusion darkened, showing Zolgrich standing alone on the edge of the city, overlooking a forest wrapped in mist. His shoulders were hunched.

"I was cast out before I came of age. Forbidden from touching the sacred trees, barred from communion with the Heartwood, denied entry to the Temple of Names. Even my parents refused to speak to me."

Malakar's gaze flickered faintly, but he said nothing.

The image shifted again—now showing Zolgrich wandering through ruins of stone half-swallowed by earth, studying bones beneath ancient monoliths.

"But my magic… it spoke to things they feared. Not rot or decay. Not mere death. But memory. Persistence. The soul's echo."

He walked through tombs and forgotten places, talking to the dead, learning from the silence they left behind.

"Where their magic gave life, mine asked: why does life end? Why does it decay? And… can it be undone?"

Zolgrich's voice dropped to a low murmur.

"It took me over a thousand years to even understand what I was. Another thousand to survive it. And many thousands more before I succeeded."

The illusion showed countless scenes: Zolgrich battling ancient creatures in forgotten lands, experimenting with runes carved into flesh and soul, watching cities rise and fall as he stood alone beneath the stars.

"I had no guide. No mentor. I had only failure… and time."

Kaelred crossed his arms. "And eventually, what? You just stopped dying?"

Zolgrich's flames flared slightly. "No. I died. Many times. And each time, I brought myself back. Not through spell, but through structure. Layer by layer. Soul by soul."

He extended a hand, and the illusion reshaped into a diagram—a web of magic and bones, blood and names, all anchored by a single rune burning in the center.

"Lichdom is not immortality. It is sacrifice. You give up your warmth, your joy, your voice, your skin… until nothing remains but purpose."

The illusion faded slowly, leaving only silence in its wake.

Zolgrich stepped back, his skeletal hands folding in front of him.

"So, you ask what it was like to become the first lich?"

He turned toward Argolaith.

"It was agony. And it was freedom. And it was the only path I had left."

Argolaith stood firm, eyes never leaving the ancient being. "And would you do it again?"

The green flames flickered.

"Yes."

The silence in the Hollow Bastion after Zolgrich's final words was heavy—not oppressive, but absolute.

The kind of stillness that followed ancient truth, when there was nothing left to say and everything left to feel.

The cold in the chamber had stopped biting, not because it had warmed, but because those who stood within had grown used to it.

Argolaith, Kaelred, Malakar, and Thae'Zirak stood before the First Lich, not as enemies nor students, but as something far more rare in Zolgrich's long unlife—visitors who had not crumbled under the weight of his presence.

And for that, it seemed, he had prepared gifts.

Zolgrich turned first to Argolaith. With a slow motion, he raised one hand toward the back of the chamber. The shadows parted, revealing a pedestal of black stone. Upon it rested a single book, bound in dusky leather too ancient to date. It looked untouched by time. Not a tear in its cover, not a speck of dust on its spine.

Zolgrich beckoned it forward with a curl of his skeletal fingers, and the book floated through the air and landed in Argolaith's hands.

It was warm.

Not magical. Not ominous. Just… comforting.

Argolaith opened the cover. The first page was inscribed in a script older than any he had ever seen. But the next page…

"Wait… is this… a stew?"

He flipped another page.

"Spiced cave basil omelet."

Another.

"Bitter root-roasted marrow over glazed stonefruit?"

Kaelred blinked. "He gave you a recipe book?"

Argolaith slowly looked up. "This is all food."

Zolgrich's flames flickered with something not quite a smile.

"Even those who carry the world must eat."

Argolaith closed the book gently. He didn't fully understand it yet—but he didn't laugh. Something told him it would matter later.

Next, Zolgrich turned to Kaelred.

The lich raised his hand, and from the floor rose a pair of dark leather boots—elegant in design, but clearly practical, worn by travel rather than ceremony. They floated toward Kaelred, who accepted them with raised brows.

"I'm guessing they're not just for fashion?"

Zolgrich answered in that deep, timeless voice: "They will never wear out, regardless of terrain or time. They will never grow wet. They will always smell faintly of wild herbs, no matter what filth you walk through."

Kaelred blinked, then grinned. "So, immortal boots that smell like soup?"

He held one up and sniffed. "Yeah… that's basil. Maybe thyme. I take it back. This is the greatest gift I've ever received."

He pulled off his old boots without a second thought. "Finally. Goodbye, swamp-stink."

Argolaith chuckled under his breath. Even Malakar's mouth twitched.