Void Tree Chronicles

Wes exhaled, tension bleeding out of him as he settled into the nothingness.

He had almost lost himself. Almost become nothing.

But he hadn't.

A grin tugged at his lips. He wondered how the Void-Eyed Man would feel knowing their final battle had actually saved him.

The bastard had pushed him past every limit, forced him to the edge of destruction, and in doing so, had unknowingly awakened the very Mana Law Ideal that had allowed him to survive the void.

Poetic.

Wes chuckled into the black.

He had no idea how long he'd been here—but he was still here. That was all that mattered.

With a sigh, he stretched, arms folding behind his head as he let himself drift. When was the last time he'd done nothing?

Ironic, considering he was surrounded by nothing.

His gaze drifted down to his left palm, fingers tracing over the half-seal etched into his skin. The intricate markings pulsed faintly, as if humming with a presence that stretched beyond even this abyss.

She was still there.

His smile softened.

Violet eyes.Ash-colored skin.White hair.

Even here, in the heart of the void, the connection remained unbroken.

If not for the orcs, he never would have met her.

Hell, if not for the orcs, he wouldn't have survived. Being traded to them had been the only reason he was still breathing.

Earth had only grown more dangerous after that.

The first surge had changed everything. A couple of years after he'd joined the orcs, the membrane's restrictions lifted, and the world became even more brutal.

King and his men abandoned the base—and the civilians.

Most of them didn't make it.

Wes sighed.

And just like that, his mind drifted back—

To the day he woke up in the orc stronghold after being traded by king.

Wes remembered coming to.

His body felt heavy, limbs sluggish—like he'd been dragged out of some deep, dreamless void.

How long had he been out?

Three days, apparently. Long enough that he had no memory of the journey here. Just blackness.

Now, he was here.

He lay on a crude woven mat, rough fibers pressing into his back. The Gor'tesh.

That was what they called him.

It meant "Unproven." A title with no respect, no worth. Because to them, he was nothing. And nothing was entitled to nothing.

Before mana came to Earth, a mat like this would have been miserable—the stiff fibers digging into his skin, every lump in the packed dirt beneath pressing into his back.

But now?

Now, it was fine.

After the last year, after everything he'd endured, this was nothing.

More importantly, it was warm.

A damp cloth pressed against his forehead, the coolness contrasting with the warmth of the mat.

The hand holding it lifted the cloth away, dipping it into a bowl of water before pressing it back onto his skin.

"You're awake."

The voice was rough, tired.

Wes blinked sluggishly, his vision sharpening as he turned his head toward the speaker.

A man—mid-forties, with a fading hairline and a semi-bald head, what little hair remained thin and patchy. His skin was a dull, sun-darkened tan, worn from time and exposure. His eyes, a washed-out gray, looked at Wes with a weary, knowing expression.

He wore simple, crudely-stitched animal skin clothing, stiff at the edges from repeated use. The rough texture looked uncomfortable, but the way he wore it—like he didn't even notice—told Wes it was all he'd had for a while.

Under normal circumstances, Wes wouldn't have looked twice at a man like him. Too average. Too unremarkable.

But here?

Here, he was the first familiar thing in an unfamiliar world.

Wes shifted, his muscles stiff as he pushed himself up. The mat scratched against his skin, but compared to sleeping in the dirt, in the cold, in worse places, this wasn't bad.

His head throbbed, but his eyes slowly adjusted to the dim, earthy light of the hall.

And that's when he saw them.

The others.

It was large, wide enough to fit at least a hundred mats, all laid out in organized rows. And on every mat, a kid around his age.

Boys. Girls. About a hundred of them.

None of them moved.

Some were sitting, others lying down, but there was no talking. No whispers.

His eyes flicked to the mat next to him.

Xavier.

They locked eyes.

Neither spoke.

"Rest time."

Wes turned toward the voice.

The man—Peter Hemingway, he'd learn later—exhaled, rubbing his tired face before leaning back against his knees.

"No talking to anyone except a servant. Lots of that until your real training starts." He gave a slight shrug. "Waiting for the rest of the recruits to show up."

Peter must have caught his expression because he let out a small chuckle—dry, humorless.

He looked around, as if gathering his bearings, before continuing.

"Most of the orcs are still older teenagers, you know."

Wes frowned.

Peter sighed. "They're not weak, if that's what you're thinking. They deliberately delayed their cultivation—just enough—to enter a world like Earth, a world new to mana."

Wes narrowed his eyes slightly. "Why?"

Peter exhaled, rubbing at the thin stubble along his jaw. "Surges don't just bring danger, kid. They bring opportunity. Apparently only the uncultivated beasts and races can enter... for now, the orcs said that will change with each surge."

Wes didn't interrupt. He just waited.

Peter continued. "Earth is a newborn mana world," he said, nodding toward the ceiling. "It's only just awakened. That means it's full of raw, untapped potential. The right kind of person could grow here in ways they never could back home."

Delayed cultivation.

Waiting until they were here, on Earth, to start.

It was a gamble. A big one.

But one with massive rewards.

Peter rubbed at his stubble. "They're serious about it. It's not just a bunch of kids playing at war. They have a plan. A long one."

Wes didn't speak. He just listened.

Then, Peter shifted, looking a little more tired. "You're wondering why I'm here, huh?"

Wes gave a slight nod.

Peter sighed. "The orcs learned English from us—people like me. When they had a good enough grasp of it, they gave us a choice."

He met Wes's gaze. "Serve—or leave."

Wes stared at him. "…And you stayed?"

Peter let out a dry chuckle. "I was working late at the office when everything went to hell. No family left. Nowhere to go. I figured if I was going to be stuck here, I might as well stay alive."

His voice wasn't bitter. Just practical.

Wes hesitated before asking, "What about the others?"

Peter's face darkened slightly. "Some didn't have a choice. The ones with nowhere to go, no one waiting for them, they stayed because it was better than dying out there."

The silence stretched between them.

Wes had the sinking feeling he was one of those people now.

Peter sighed, shaking his head. "Twenty years."

Wes frowned. "What?"

"That's how long I have to serve." Peter leaned back. "Twenty years, and I get some rights. Not quite an orc, but not just a servant anymore. If the stronghold lasts that long."

There was no certainty in his voice. Just practicality.

The orcs weren't guaranteeing survival.

They were preparing for war.

Peter studied Wes for a long moment before speaking again. "Earth's about to change. A lot. The surge is coming. Around a year and half or two years, before the membrane weakens enough to bring more threats the orcs said."

Even then, the orcs' numbers would be limited.

The portal only opened during periodic resets. A trickle of reinforcements. Not an army.

So what was the plan?

Simple.

Hide. Train. Grow strong.

For three years they would hermit up and reinforce their base and reemerge with an army.

And that's when Wes learned why he was really here.

He was one of their "recruits."