North of the Duskwight Lands, far from the trade routes and the strongholds of the great tribes, stretched a region the natives called the Desert of Souls.
For the people living on this side of the Lumyst River—where the landscape was little more than cracked gray earth—to label a place a barren desert where nothing could grow, it had to be something beyond merely inhospitable.
The Underworld Barbarians might inhabit harsh, barely fertile lands, but they were still nourished by the Lumyst River. On this side, the river contained no Life Lumyst, but the Spirit Lumyst flowing within it was genuine. After millions of years, humans, beasts, and even plants had adapted their very morphology to draw from that energy, imperfect though it was.
Growing anything here remained difficult, but the meager harvests were enough to keep them alive. Barely.
This place was different.
It was one of the rare regions the Lumyst River did not reach. Worse still, whatever faint traces of Spirit Lumyst drifted toward it seemed to be siphoned away by some unknown phenomenon.
The earth lay cracked like skin deprived of water for centuries, pale veins running through it where barely a whisper of vitality flowed. Ghostly silhouettes occasionally wandered between the blunted ridges before quickly retreating, as if even the dead found the place unwelcoming.
The air hung heavy, as though the world had been rinsed of color and promise alike. Nothing truly grew. Nothing thrived. The few twisted shrubs that survived did so out of sheer stubbornness.
To complete the picture, the sky remained perpetually smothered beneath black clouds that hid both sun and moon. The climate was erratic, prone to cataclysmic tornadoes that periodically erased any attempt to establish a lasting refuge.
A Spirit Lumyst cultivator who lingered here too long would see their path end in stagnation, unable to advance. As for the wandering souls that roamed this half of the continent, the scarcity of energy could cause them to deteriorate—and eventually dissipate entirely.
Hence the name.
Despite these horrific conditions, nomadic tribes, criminals, refugees, and recluses were not uncommon. It was the one place no one bothered to search. There was nothing to take, nothing to steal—and merely crossing the region was enough to repel all but the truly desperate.
Then, a few weeks ago, something changed.
No omen. No crack splitting the sky. No tremor.
A tree appeared.
A white tree.
Its smooth, pale trunk rose like an ivory pillar amid the dead lands, and its broad, majestic leaves shimmered with a deep auburn hue—almost surreal in such a drained landscape. The moment it took root, the earth around it began to transform. Grass pierced through the gray crust. Plants sprouted. Shrubs followed. Then fruit-bearing trees.
Within days, an oasis had emerged in the heart of the Duskwight Lands.
A miracle.
Melkree.
Once a naive Dryad leading a small faction in an insignificant Oracle Shelter, she had long since abandoned responsibility and rediscovered her carefree nature as nothing more than a tree planted at the heart of Jake’s Floating Island. Over the past four years, no matter the conflicts, Digestor invasions, or even Pyrrakles’ betrayal, the island of the Myrtharian Nerds’ leader had remained untouched.
The Fyekrant Tree Dryad had enjoyed a long, peaceful reprieve.
Until the Fifth Ordeal began.
The moment she appeared here, nearby tribes gathered almost immediately. Wandering Barbarians, Soulmancers exiled for unspeakable crimes or fleeing retaliation, simple refugees escaping conscription and war... all wanted control of the area.
All wanted to understand the origin of the phenomenon.
Some saw it as a sign from the spirits. Others as a blessing fallen from the heavens. A few, more perceptive, suspected a curse in disguise.
At the center of it all, Melkree did not move. She chose stillness.
From the instant she materialized at the start of the Ordeal—surrounded by wary soldiers and suspicious natives—she withdrew into her vegetal form. Dormant. Passive. Harmless in appearance. She allowed eyes to scrutinize her, blades to brush her bark, Soulmancers to probe her internal structure.
She waited.
It did not take long for the tribes to realize the tree was neither hostile nor corrupted. More than that—its bark held rare medicinal properties. Its sap could be refined into healing salves. Its dense, flexible wood made exceptional bows. Under its influence, crops flourished where nothing had grown before.
So terms were set.
Protection against monsters. A steady supply of water. Respect for her trunk and root core.
In exchange, she offered life.
Melkree found the arrangement agreeable. After all, it closely mirrored her role on Jake’s island.
Gradually, equilibrium formed. The tribes guarded her like treasure. Some worshiped her as a sacred entity. Others regarded her as a strategic asset. Melkree herself never sought dominion. She simply did what she did best: grow, nourish, sustain.
Her main Ordeal mission had been completed long ago. Several side quests as well.
From a System standpoint, everything was... fine.
But the truth was darker.
The Duskwight Lands did not suit her. Not at all!
The soil was poor. Nutrients scarce. Vitality nearly nonexistent. Each day she had to extend her roots farther for diminishing returns. She weakened slowly—even while enriching the environment around her.
Fortunately, she was not alone.
Like every member of Jake’s faction, she benefited from the Faction Passive. It strengthened her resilience and, over time, allowed her to adapt to nearly any environment imaginable. After days of exhausting effort spreading her roots in all directions, she located a tributary of the Lumyst River.
The first immersion—her first Lumyst baptism—nearly killed her. But like any tree, she was stubborn.
After losing tons of sap and layers of bark, she managed to adapt to the water—at least where her roots drew from it.
The next challenge was far worse: extracting sustenance from water devoid of vitality, rich instead in a spiritual nature fundamentally incompatible with a plant-based existence like hers.
Yet with the Faction Passive and her strong lifeforce, her body and soul endured. She adapted.
Her roots mutated. Her absorption refined. Her metabolism optimized. And she grew.
Exponentially.
Her trunk thickened. Her canopy spread wide. Her auburn crown soon dominated the surrounding landscape—like a lesser Anthace.
Impressive to the natives. Insignificant... at the scale of the continent.