God's Tree-Chapter 202: The Test Of Worlds

The first world descended in silence.

It rotated gently, trailing luminous ribbons of mist that shimmered with the colors of forgotten starlight. From a distance, it looked peaceful—green forests, distant mountains, rivers that bent in slow, lazy curves.

But as Argolaith stepped onto its surface, he knew.

It was hollow.

Not in form, but in spirit.

The people were there—hundreds of them. Scattered across open fields, clustered near the riverbanks, some huddled beneath the ancient trees. They moved, breathed, even murmured—but their eyes held nothing.

No purpose.

No fear.

No curiosity.

Just… motion.

As though they had been left half-made.

Argolaith stood still for a long moment, watching them.

Then he walked into their midst.

They didn't shy away.

They didn't greet him.

They simply stepped aside, blank-faced and quiet, as if part of the wind.

He sat in the grass.

And waited.

He spoke to them with no expectation of reply.

Told them stories from Morgoth. Of Kaelred and Malakar. Of fire and snow and the trials beneath the trees. Of ruined cities and fragrant stews. Of learning to laugh, even when the road was long and cruel.

No one answered.

But someone listened.

On the fifth day, a child sat near him. Not looking at him—just near. Listening.

By the second week, others gathered in small clusters. Not because they were told to, but because something stirred—something fragile and unfamiliar.

Interest.

He began to teach.

Not spells or swordplay. Not yet.

But words.

Names.

Emotion.

He asked questions. They didn't always answer. But some began to tilt their heads when he spoke. Their brows furrowed, lips twitched—signs of thought beginning to form.

He sang songs.

Badly. But it made them laugh.

And when they laughed, they cried. Because something inside them broke open—and let feeling in for the first time.

He built simple shelters with them. Planted seeds. Crafted small fires and carved symbols into stone.

He told one of them, "That's your name now," and watched a man blink like he had just woken up from a thousand-year dream.

Years passed.

Fifteen.

Fifty.

One hundred.

He taught them art. Music. Logic. History—drawn from memory and shaped into myths they could carry.

He taught them how to argue without hatred, how to work with hands that had never held tools.

He showed them fire and shadow. Pain and joy. Purpose.

They built homes. Villages. Cities.

And on the day a young girl approached him and said, with clear, bright eyes:

"Will you tell us about the stars again?"

He knew.

This world was ready.

The Heartroot called to him again.

The world shimmered around him, golden at the edges.

The people waved—many smiling, some weeping, none blank.

He didn't say goodbye.

He simply stepped into the light.

And the second world began to descend.

The Heartroot pulsed.

Its branches flexed through space, brushing across stars and memory. Planets drifted along its orbit like forgotten thoughts. And at its core, the tree that held the shattered fragments of existence watched.

It had never known time in the way mortals did.

But now… it felt it.

Argolaith's first trial—meant to be one of many—had taken longer than it anticipated. The world had needed so much. And the boy—no, the soul—had not rushed. He had taught with care, with love, with purpose.

One hundred and twenty-seven years had passed within the void.

And that was only one world.

There were nine hundred and ninety-nine left.

The Heartroot stirred in its ancient depths, its awareness stretching across the void. The burden it carried could no longer be denied.

It would take more than centuries.

It would take ages.

But it also felt something it hadn't known in eons—

Hope.

And so, the second world descended.

Argolaith stood once again on the invisible path, hands clasped behind his back, watching the new planet spiral downward.

This one was darker. frёeweɓηovel.coɱ

Its shape less round, more jagged—scarred mountains jutted upward like broken teeth, and vast canyons split the continents like the wounds of a dying god. Lightning crackled over ash-covered forests. Storms never ceased.

But what chilled him wasn't the land.

It was the presence he felt from it.

Where the first world had been blank and empty—this one was angry.

Twisted.

He stepped forward, and the void lifted him.

The world struck him the moment he landed.

Not physically. Emotionally.

Hatred simmered in the air. The wind carried not dust—but screams. The ground beneath his boots trembled, and the sky never cleared. This place had a history—one written in betrayal, cruelty, and blood.

He walked through ruins—not just of cities, but of civilizations.

And then he saw them.

The people.

Not blank like the first world. No, these people had awareness—but it was poisoned.

They fought among themselves with jagged weapons. They hoarded scraps. They carved symbols into their skin, not for meaning, but for identity born of pain.

When they saw Argolaith, they did not smile.

They attacked.

He did not draw his sword.

Instead, he dodged, disarmed, and knocked them down—never lethal. When they kept coming, he let them hit him, until they realized he would not fight back the way they expected.

He spoke.

They spat at him.

He returned the next day.

And the next.

He built a fire in the ruins.

They watched.

He cooked a meal from the untouched roots beneath the ash.

One approached. Ate. Said nothing.

A week passed.

Then two came.

Then five.

They didn't speak. They didn't thank him.

But they stopped attacking.

Argolaith spent years in silence among them.

He taught not through stories, but through example.

He repaired their broken shelters.

Buried their dead.

Protected their young when the storms worsened.

Some began to listen.

Others resisted, calling him a deceiver, a shadow-walker sent to weaken them.

One tried to poison him.

He drank the cup anyway.

And lived.

They whispered after that.

Words like ghost, god, madman.

But none of them stopped watching.

Decades passed.

He taught them to read—not for beauty, but for survival.

How to write names, how to pass messages, how to mark safe ground.

He told stories of places that had never seen war.

Of people who helped without price.

Of trees that held together the bones of broken skies.

They didn't believe him.

Not at first.

But they listened.

And when the first child of their tribe refused to pick up a blade—

That's when he knew.

It had begun.

The Heartroot pulsed once more.

And it understood.

This trial would not take hundreds of years.

It would take thousands.

And yet it did not stop him.

Because for the first time in all the eons it had existed, someone was walking its branches not to take, but to heal.