Chapter 10 – Bitter Bloom

Ashroot was quieter than usual.

Yuzu noticed it the moment they returned from the Crimson Orchard. The air felt denser. Not just with tension, but with something… expectant. Like the entire village was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

That something might be him.

He hadn't slept.

Each time he closed his eyes, he was back in the orchard — not walking, but falling, spiraling through trees made of taste and time. The fruit he'd taken from the bleeding tree still sat in his satchel, wrapped in a strip of spirit-cloth. It pulsed faintly when touched. And even when left alone, he could feel it — like a splinter of truth lodged behind his heart.

By morning, he was already outside, standing barefoot in the frost-dusted garden near the Shed. The cold bit at his skin, but he welcomed it. It was honest.

Mira found him there.

"You didn't eat."

"I wasn't hungry."

"You're lying," she said simply.

He didn't argue.

She sat beside him on the damp stones. Her spirits hovered lazily in the chill, flickering like guttered candles.

"They'll come soon," she said after a long pause. "More Watchers. The one yesterday wasn't alone."

Yuzu didn't respond.

Instead, he unwrapped the fruit — the one the tree had given him — and held it in his palm.

"You want to know what they're hiding?" Mira asked.

"I want to know what I'm hiding."

She studied him for a moment. "That's the most dangerous flavor."

"I know."

And he bit it.

The fruit was dry. Dusty. It didn't burst like the Primordial had, or sizzle like Vesca's did when he tasted her aura. This one crumbled on his tongue like old parchment and ash.

Then the world peeled away.

He was in his orchard.

But it had changed again.

The tree at the center now wore thorns.

Not decorative — defensive. Its branches curled inward, like it was protecting something. Beneath its roots, something glowed — buried, alive. He tried to move closer, but the air turned bitter, almost metallic. The sigil on his hand flared, reacting violently.

Then he heard it.

A second heartbeat.

Not his.

And not the tree's.

Something else was inside him.

A voice, not the same as the Primordial, not the orchard's, not even the Burned Gardener's. This one was younger. Raw. Close.

"You weren't supposed to wake up yet," it said.

Yuzu turned, but saw nothing.

"Who are you?" he asked.

But the orchard cracked.

And he was falling again — deeper this time. Past layers of his own soul, past memory, past even the dreams he hadn't dared to name.

Then, silence.

He woke gasping in the garden.

Mira knelt beside him, eyes wide.

"You were gone," she whispered.

He sat up, heart hammering. "There's something else in me."

"More than one spirit?"

"No… not a spirit. A seed."

Mira's expression darkened.

"They planted something in me," he said. "Before I even came to the Academy. Maybe before I was born."

She was silent for a long moment. Then: "The Council?"

"Or worse."

From behind them, a figure approached.

The old man from the Archive. Still blindfolded. Still weaving his thread of fruit fiber.

"You cracked the first lie," he said without preamble. "Now you taste the second."

Yuzu stood, unsteady. "What second lie?"

"That you're the only one."

The words hit him harder than expected.

"There are more?" he asked.

The old man nodded once. "The Primordial isn't just a fruit. It's a cycle. You're not its first Harvester. But you might be its last."

Yuzu's breath caught. "What happened to the others?"

The old man didn't answer. Just turned and walked back into the mist.

That afternoon, a scout arrived from the edge of Ashroot, panting, blood on her sleeves.

"They're coming," she said. "Five Watchers. One of them has a Bloombrand."

Mira swore. "That means Council authority."

Yuzu stood slowly. "Then I guess we find out if I'm ready."

The village prepared for battle, but there was no rallying cry, no banners.

Ashroot didn't fight loud.

They laid traps in the roots, whispered to the thorns, fed the soil with memories. Spirits were concealed, not summoned. Power was hidden, not declared.

By nightfall, the first Watcher entered.

Alone. Pale armor. No spirit visible.

Yuzu stepped into the square.

The Watcher smiled.

"Kaien Yuzu," he said, as if reading from a script. "By order of the High Bloom, you are to be taken into Council custody."

"No."

"No?"

Yuzu's eyes narrowed. "You don't get to name me anymore."

The Watcher raised a hand. "Then you will be pruned."

Behind him, the sigil on his chest ignited.

Yuzu didn't wait.

He activated Flavor Pulse, tasted the Watcher's aura. Bitter citrus. Hardened. Sharp. But too clean. Artificial.

He struck low, slipping past the initial burst of defense, and—

[Partial Harvest — Activated]

A flash of flavor.

Something cracked.

The Watcher staggered — not from pain, but from confusion.

"You—what are you—?"

Yuzu pressed his palm to the Watcher's sigil.

And tasted the lie.

The spirit wasn't alive.

It was manufactured.

Grown in a lab, bonded through grafting and memory-forged threads.

Synthetic.

The Council hadn't just silenced wild spirits — they had started creating their own.

Yuzu recoiled.

The Watcher collapsed.

Mira joined him moments later, eyes wild. "What happened?"

"They've been replacing them," he said, voice hollow. "The ones who fail. The ones who break. They grow new spirits… and force them in."

"They're building a fruit army."

"No," Yuzu said, slowly, the taste still fresh in his mouth.

"They're building me."

He looked down at his hand.

At the swirling sigil.

And realized:

This wasn't a fight between old and new.

It was a harvest.

And everyone was ripe.