In certain places, now and then, a shallow pale-blue pool blooms like a bruise on the earth.

Its size never keeps; wherever it appears, it seeps in and fills any hollow like rain in thirsty soil.

If someone has luck like a tailwind and courage like iron, and passes through without dying, he crosses a threshold like mist.

He then steps into the cradle of beginnings, where the purest energy lies like a spring under ice.

It is a power from the dawn of this world, with no divide of holy or demonic, no names of mana or Battle Aura.

It is only energy, bare as wind and bright as dew.

The pale-blue pool is fickle in time, brief as a dragonfly’s shadow skimming a pond.

So almost no one ever sees it, like a hidden star behind cloud.

Even if they see it, few dare enter, and even if they enter, few return like fish to river.

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This place is a special space woven from only energy, like silk with no threads of matter.

No living thing breathes here, no air stirs here, not even a strand of sunlight falls like dust.

The whole space hangs like a drifting island in the cosmos, steeped in lilac mists like twilight smoke.

It resembles the One Place like a reflection in still water, yet differs like moonlight to frost.

At the very center, a blue sapling only shoulder-high takes root in a heap of purple energy like a nest.

There is no wind here, yet it sways like grass dreaming of spring rain.

Energy streams along its twigs like running veins, and blue light seeps through its skin like glow through jade.

Its branches seem to breathe, swelling and shrinking with a rhythm like the tide on a quiet shore.

No one knows how many years it has stood, drifting slowly with the energy clump beneath it like a boat on a purple sea.

When the power inside swells to bursting like a ripened fruit, the sapling suddenly goes still like a heart between beats.

Its rise and fall of energy ceases like a stilled drum, and the inflow around it halts like a frozen river.

Its trunk loses luster and dims like embers to ash, becoming common deadwood fixed like a stake in earth.

Yet something differs; its body begins to surge with growth like bamboo after rain.

It grows like centuries in a blink, crown reaching upward like a spear of sky, trunk thickening like a mountain’s root.

It grows until a human at its foot is smaller than a leaf like a tiny moth against a sail.

Only then does it stop, a towering giant that looks ordinary as wood, only vast as a sky-pillared peak.

At some moment, the space is opened like a shell pried by a knife.

A face-blurred figure steps in, slow as a shadow but heavy as fate.

The special energy on him makes the space reject him like a body spitting a thorn.

He shows a bitter smile like winter sun, scratches his head, and speaks with a helpless sigh like wind over reeds: “Don’t be so hostile to me. I did save you then. Don’t you know gratitude?”

He still tears the surrounding energy like cloth with sheer force, and strolls in like a man through tall grass.

He lays a hand on the colossal trunk like a palm on an old friend, and breathes out a long sigh like smoke.

“See, that’s better,” he murmurs, and then he rises to the root cluster like a hawk to a cliff.

He reaches out both hands and snaps off two surplus branches like dry bones, branches that no longer carried the World Tree’s life-signal like a cut-off song.

He smiles, pats the bark like calming a horse, says nothing, and his body fades like dew at dawn.

The two roots he broke vanish with him like footprints swallowed by tide.

The whole space begins to mend itself like skin knitting, until it is as it was like a circle closing.

Again, no one knows how many years drift past like petals on a slow river.

The giant shrinks again like mountains in mist, returning to a sapling bright with life like a fresh shoot.

It keeps wandering this boundless world like a lantern on a dark lake, serene and steady.

One moment, the sapling senses the branches the stranger once took, like a scent on wind, and it leaves this space for a time like a bird from nest.

That was the only time it ever left here, brief as a summer storm.

It soon returns, looking displeased like clouded water after rain.

So it goes for countless years like grains of sand, and the sapling becomes a giant again like thunder grown visible.

But this giant looks sickly, like yellowed leaves in autumn wind, clearly touched by that mysterious one’s hand like stain on silk.

Perhaps because after taking the two branches, that one did many things like ripples spreading in a pond.

Ages roll by again like stars wheeling, and the space is opened once more like a sealed jar unstoppered.

This time, a handsome man leads a young girl by the hand like a spring stream guiding a reed.

The girl picks up a branch the sapling had once cast away like a shed antler, and later it becomes a Holy Sword like frost forged to light.

The handsome man carries a seed brimming with life like a heartbeat, and he leaves here like a traveler with fire.

What it became, the sapling does not know, like a tree blind to birdsong beyond; it only knows the taken seed still lives well like moss in shade.

After many more years, the giant shrinks again like a bell-note fading, and while it drifts, it finds the seed that was taken has returned like a child to door.

It is overjoyed like rain on parched earth, and gifts it a once-discarded branch fierce for attack like a fang.

That branch is forged into the Demon Sword Ashill, sharp as night wind on steel.

Yet the man’s face shows little joy, like moonlight without warmth, and the sapling is at a loss like a deer in fog.

Is this not what he wanted, it wonders like a pond asking the sky.

Even the one at the end of all time needed its branches to work his will like oars to cross a sea; why does this junior look so troubled like a storm in a cup?

The sapling does not understand, but the man still bows with deep respect like a reed to wind, and departs like a fading bell.

The sapling falls ill, perhaps because billions of years ago it left to help that one like a root torn from soil.

It finds its vigor ebbing like a slow leak from a jar, and its green dims like dusk.

That person appears again before it like a ghost into moonlight, but this time he seems emptied of memory like a book with blank pages.

He does not recognize the sapling, and even speaks threats like knives, cold and flat.

The sapling cannot fathom it, so it throws him out with one palm like a wave tossing a pebble, and he cannot withstand it like straw in gale.

The sapling feels helpless like a healer without herbs, and returns to its drifting routine like a cloud on the wind.

Then another little one appears before it like a spark in dark, and the sapling is startled like a bird at a bell.

Is this place something anyone can find now, it wonders like a spring worried by feet?

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“You people have this kind of thing in the sea?” Eli points at the pool like a spear, a frown creasing like ripples.

This place was murky black like soot, and now a basin-sized pit ahead holds a pale-blue light veil that brightens the water like dawn.

Eli smacks his lips like tasting bitter tea, disbelief tugging his voice like a snagged net: “Honestly… how do I even say this. It shouldn’t be here.”

“Uh… I don’t get it. Was there a pond here before?” Grashe’s brows knit like tangled kelp.

With a place this strange, how could our fathers miss it, he thinks like surf under thunder; but in front of this guy, fewer words are safer like a turtle’s shell.

Eli hadn’t really meant to ask him, just a reflex tossed like a pebble, and he keeps moving like a shadow.

He steps close and stares at the blue water like a mirror, another frown drawing tight like a bow.

Grashe yawns like a lazy tide, tired from the run like a fish against current. “Big bro, is this the place you wanted?”

Eli nods without looking back like a statue, voice low as mist. “Yeah… I just don’t quite get it…”

“What?”

“Nothing…” Eli sighs like a winded bellows.

He takes out the Seed of Life from his chest like a candle from a sleeve, its trembling thrum like a heartbeat saying he’s close to the legendary World Tree.

By this look, he thinks, the World Tree is much like the Elf Race’s Tree of Life, twin in nature like two springs in one vale.

Both live in special places, special spaces like hidden gardens behind veils.

While Eli’s thoughts drift like leaves, he sees the blue spring start to thin like smoke.

His mouth twitches like a nicked line. “Oh, come on. Don’t you dare vanish on me!”

He doesn’t stop to think, doesn’t warn Grashe, and dives headfirst like a kingfisher into glass.

Grashe freezes like a stunned crab, watching Eli charge into a spot that looks shallow as a puddle yet swallows like a whirlpool.

Then he vanishes, clean as a candle snuffed.

Grashe blinks like an owl, realizes it’s a doorway to another world like a gate in fog, and bolts toward it like a darting fish.

He doesn’t expect a shape faster than him to slice past like lightning, claws of intent sharp as spears.

Too late—the blue pool has already vanished after Eli, like a tide pulled by moon.

The figure that shot past slams into the pit like a meteor, blasting the little hole into a gaping crater like a wound.

Grashe stares at the giant crab before him like a man at a mountain, stunned again. “Dad???”

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“Uh… ah…” Eli feels the massive pressure of energy press in like a vice, pain blooming like fire under skin.

His eyes flush blood-red like embers, and his body reddens from overload like iron in a forge.

He drags in a breath like a drowning man, then releases his astral energy in full, a flood against a flood like river meeting sea.

A few streaks of light sweep over his head like shooting stars, and the world’s weight eases like a storm blowing past.

He pants like a spent runner, parts of his body swelling like bruised fruit.

He wipes the cold sweat from his brow like dew, and rallies his inner power to mend the damage like thread through a tear.

Seeing him in this state, the little blue-veined tree appears before Eli like a lantern in fog, delicate yet bright.

It extends a branch and taps his head like a knuckle on a bell.

A force akin to Eli’s own pours in like warm water, easing his injuries like hands smoothing knots.

Eli’s eyes go wide like moons. “This… this???”