Sign Of The Infernal Root

Days passed under the unrelenting shadow of tension. The second wave of demonic assaults may have been repelled, but Yggraeth had yet to draw an easy breath. The Middle Trunk, the layer of the world that supported most life, was now lined with Warden outposts holding vigil without end. Each night, faint screams from the depths of Hellroots traveled through the World Tree's roots, barely audible even up in the Canopy.

At the Warden Academy, routine went on as usual—lectures, physical training, and Arcana evaluations for every cadet. Yet the air was thick with unease. Even the Novitiates who had only just begun their training could sense the tension, though most were too young to truly grasp what it meant.

For Aren, every distant alarm from below felt like a nail driven into his chest. Each whispered rumor of a new rift opening in the Middle Trunk dragged him back to Lynden: Lyra's terrified face, Finn's scream, and Marin calling his name one last time. His nights were haunted by nightmares, and each time he woke, the Silent Mark on his left hand pulsed, as if responding to something deep below.

Kael and Thalen tried to talk to him, and even Elira—who usually kept her distance—occasionally cast him a hesitant glance, as if she wanted to say something. But Aren only answered with a brief nod or stony silence. No words could erase the crushing guilt he carried.

That morning, after an exhausting physical class, Serin Elthrae summoned Aren. The elf instructor, with her long black hair, stood on one of the Academy's high balconies, where the colossal branches of the Canopy stretched like living bridges. From this height, the Middle Trunk spread below them like another world, shrouded in mist that wove between the massive roots.

"You seem more troubled lately," Serin said without turning.

Aren stood stiffly a few paces behind her, his gaze lowered. "I… just want to know more about them. About the demons. About what we're really facing."

Serin turned to him slowly. "What is it you want to know?"

"Everything," Aren replied quickly, louder than he intended. "Why do they keep coming? Do they… never stop?"

Serin's gaze lingered on the Silent Mark pulsing faintly on Aren's hand before she sighed. "Very well. You want to know about demons? Then listen."

She pointed downward, toward the unseen world beneath the Middle Trunk. "Demons come from the depths of Hellroots, a place even the World Tree's light hesitates to reach. They have a rigid hierarchy, their power increasing the deeper in the roots they dwell."

Lesser Demons – mindless beasts that exist only to destroy, swarming in every wave.

Greater Demons – commanders of small units, wielding greater intelligence and dark Arcana.

High Demons – true generals of the Hellroot legions. Their appearance usually marks a major wave.

Arcdemons – the apex sovereigns, true lords of Hellroots.

"The last Arcdemon was seen hundreds of years ago, during the First War," Serin continued. "Since the Great Seal was forged, none of them have broken through. All recent waves have been led only by High Demons."

Aren clenched his fists. "Then… if an Arcdemon returns… will this world be destroyed?"

"Not just destroyed," Serin said flatly. "Yggraeth itself would become part of Hellroots."

Aren fell silent, and Serin's voice softened. "In the First War, our world was saved by the Seven Heroes. They came from many races—human, elf, dwarf, beastkin, and others. They forged the Great Seal with the blood of the World Tree itself."

"Now, their legacy is carried by the Primarchs, the mightiest beings of each race. They are not bound by politics; they move only when the world stands at the brink of ruin."

She named them one by one:

Archon Valen, human, bearer of the Aetherblade.

Seltharion, elf, attuned to the sacred song of the Eversong.

Khargrim Stonefist, dwarf, keeper of the Hammer of the Deep.

Ma'Rok Bloodfang, beastkin, the legendary alpha.

Vyrrakos the Eternal, last of the draconic-blooded race.

"Even among the Wardens, few have ever seen them," Serin added. "They are the world's final pillars."

Aren bit his lip. "Then… this Silent Mark… what does it have to do with them?"

Serin studied him for a long moment, as if searching his face for an answer. "I don't know. Until you arrived out of nowhere, it was just a legend—a tale of an ancient power that could consume demon souls. Perhaps it is one of our last hopes when the world teeters on the edge of annihilation."

Aren remained silent. Within that silence, the Silent Mark throbbed sharply, as if in answer to Serin's words.

"Listen to me, Aren," Serin said firmly. "This power isn't yours alone. Every demon soul you absorb will strengthen you, but each one will also try to consume you from within. If you lose control, you could become the breach they use to break the Seal."

Back at the Academy, Aren tried to resume his routine, but the world's looming anxiety never left him.

At lunch, he sat with Kael, Thalen, and Elira in the dining hall as always. Kael devoured his portion cheerfully, Thalen stuck to his usual all-meat plate, and Elira ate her small, neatly arranged noble's serving. Aren, by contrast, always requested a large portion. To a boy who had grown up in an orphanage, Academy meals were a luxury he never left unfinished.

Elira eyed his plate, arching an eyebrow. "You eat as though you'll never be full."

Aren didn't reply, only stared at his food. Kael chuckled. "Why are you always surprised, Elira? Aren rarely had proper meals before this."

Elira huffed and looked away, though a moment later her expression softened. She could never fully understand the world beyond the noble circles where she had been raised.

A few days later, new reports rocked the Academy: the rift near Lynden had not fully stabilized. Wardens on the frontlines warned that a third wave might be imminent.

That same night, Aren stood on his dorm balcony, gazing toward the distant Middle Trunk. The Silent Mark on his hand pulsed violently, its rhythm echoing the faint screams carried through the World Tree's roots.

I have to become stronger… before they come again, he thought, clutching the pendant at his neck.

Far off, a faint flare of light pulsed across the Canopy's sky—a sign that something was stirring below.

The shadow of the third wave loomed larger, and in the depths of Hellroots, greater powers were turning their gaze upon the world. Aren knew his time was running out, and the coming battle might mark the beginning of something far worse than he could ever imagine.