Sign Of The Infernal Root

The sky of the Canopy always looked different from that of the Middle Trunk. Sunlight filtering through the colossal leaves of the World Tree scattered like a golden veil, illuminating the living-wood pathways and towering crystal spires. Yet to Aren, this world felt no brighter than the ruins of Lynden. Days had passed since he first arrived at the Sanctum of Yggraeth, but every time he closed his eyes, the screams of Lyra, Finn, and Marin still haunted him.

He often woke in the middle of the night, gasping for air, feeling the Silent Mark on his left hand throb painfully as if mocking him. Why now? Why did this power awaken only when everything was already gone? The question echoed endlessly in his mind, never finding an answer.

That morning, Serin Elthrae awaited him in the outer courtyard of the Sanctum. The long-haired, black-haired elf woman stood tall, her body clad in a uniform bearing the emblem of the World Tree and the Wardens' mantle, her face neutral yet her eyes sharply observing Aren.

"Awake already?" she asked curtly. Aren merely nodded. "Today you begin your training at the Wardens' Academy. Follow me."

Aren trailed behind her across a wooden bridge connecting the Sanctum to the Canopy's academy district. Below, the Middle Trunk stretched endlessly like another world, its root-bridges and scattered towns faintly visible through the mist. Aren couldn't suppress a shiver of awe, yet beneath it lingered the gnawing emptiness in his heart.

Serin seemed to read his thoughts. "You are no longer the child of Lynden, Aren. You are now a cadet of the Wardens' Academy. This place will test whether you are worthy of wielding that power… or be destroyed by it."

The Wardens' Academy stood proudly upon one of the Canopy's main branches—a sprawling training complex of practice towers, combat arenas, and Arcana lecture halls. At its entrance stood a colossal statue of the First Warden, the figure who had led the Last Alliance in the war against the Infernal Root.

Serin explained the structure of training:

Cadet Ranks:

Novitiate – beginners learning survival basics,team works,and discipline.

Initiate – cadets starting to study basic specializations.

Adept – intermediate cadets,more advanced ,tested in Arcana control and combat techniques.

Vanguard – senior cadets often deployed to the Middle Trunk for real missions.

Warden Trainee – the final stage before becoming a full-fledged Warden.

"Normally," Serin said, "children your age wouldn't even qualify for Novitiate. But your power far exceeds that. Even so, I'm registering you as a Novitiate. You need to start from the beginning, so you don't end up killing yourself… or someone else."

Two primary paths awaited every cadet:

Close Combat Class: the art of physical combat and weapon mastery.

Arcana Class: control of magical energy, mastery of spells, and Arcana theory.

Aren listened silently. The words killing someone else echoed in his mind, a bitter reminder of the tragedy of Lynden.

His first day began with an evaluation in the Close Combat Class. The training arena teemed with cadets of various races, most older and far larger than Aren. The instructor, a burly beastkin named Varrik, raised a skeptical brow at him.

"This kid?" he muttered. "Serin, are you sure?"

"Just test him," Serin replied curtly.

Varrik nodded and pointed to an Initiate-level cadet named Korran, a ten-year-old human with an athletic build. "Your opponent is Korran. Simple rule: knock him down."

Other cadets whispered, some chuckling at Aren's small frame. But the moment the whistle blew, everything changed. Korran lunged first with a straight punch, but Aren dodged, his movements quicker than the others could follow. In one fluid motion, Aren pivoted and sent Korran sprawling onto the ground.

The arena fell silent. Varrik frowned in disbelief. "Again."

The second match lasted longer but ended the same way. Aren relied on instinct and the physical strength granted by the demon souls he had absorbed. Though victorious, his expression remained hollow, as if the win meant nothing.

In the Arcana Class, the outcome was different. The Silent Mark granted Aren immense power, yet every attempt to channel Arcana erupted into uncontrollable surges. A minor blast shattered several training crystals, sending the instructor and cadets stumbling back in fear.

Serin warned coldly, "That power isn't yours alone, Aren. It also belongs to the demons whose souls you've taken. Fail to control it, and they will control you."

After training, Aren sat alone at the academy courtyard's edge, staring at his left hand and clutching his pendant. The Silent Mark's pulse clouded his thoughts. Suddenly, a boy his age, with messy brown hair and bright, eager eyes, plopped down beside him.

"What you did in the arena earlier was amazing," he said cheerfully. "I'm Kael Draven. You must be Aren, right?"

Aren didn't respond. Kael pressed on, undeterred. "You're the one the Wardens rescued from the Middle Trunk, yeah? I heard you've got some weird mark on your hand."

Aren shot him a sharp glare, and Kael flinched with a sheepish grin. "Okay, okay. I won't ask if you don't want to talk. But if you ever need a friend, just call me, alright?"

Kael ran off before Aren could reply. For reasons he couldn't explain, Aren didn't find the boy's presence bothersome.

That night, in the Novitiate dormitory, Aren lay restless. Each time he shut his eyes, Lyra, Finn, and Marin's faces returned—followed by the demons' mocking laughter from the Lynden massacre, haunting him still. He clutched the metal pendant at his neck tightly.

"Why did this power awaken only when everyone was gone?" It was the question he asked over and over.

The Silent Mark throbbed, and for a moment, faint voices from the demon souls whispered in his mind—tempting him with greater power if only he surrendered.

Aren ground his teeth and resisted. "No… I won't become like you… Damn it, I'll hunt you down to your very roots."

Outside, the Canopy's night breeze carried the scent of the World Tree's resin. Aren stood on the dormitory balcony, his blank gaze piercing the darkness. The Silent Mark glimmered faintly on his hand, casting a pale reflection across his face.

One thing was certain: each demon soul he absorbed made him stronger, but at the cost of eroding a part of himself. Unless he learned how it worked and mastered control, the tragedy of Lynden would only be the beginning of a far greater calamity.

Aren clenched his hand. "If this power is what keeps me alive," he whispered, "then I'll learn to control it… before I lose myself entirely."