The Guardian's Wrath

The wind howled past Sylvanor's ears as he raced through the undergrowth, each stride propelling him forward like a phantom of the woods. Rakshak ran beside him—his massive, earthen form thudding with the weight of the forest itself. Leaves whipped around them, branches clawing at their limbs like desperate hands.

"She's moving fast… coming toward us—but… wait…" Rakshak's voice halted, bark-like face contorting in alarm. His hand shot out, grabbing Sylvanor by the shoulder.

"They caught her. Near the southern lake."

Sylvanor's breath caught in his chest. His pulse roared in his ears.

Memories surged—shadows of chains, firelit betrayal, the cold silence of exile. A child's cry echoing across time.

Not again.Not this child.Not under his watch.

He pushed forward, faster now. Trees blurred. The ancient spirits of the forest stirred, their whispers weaving through the leaves.

"They're moving her," Rakshak said, eyes glowing with inner flame as he listened through the roots and leaves. "She's tied. One man's too close. Breathing wrong. The others… they're watching, but only for threats—not for honor."

Sylvanor's jaw tightened. His knuckles blanched around the hilt of his blade.

The air grew colder, denser. Around him, the forest reacted—branches twitching, roots curling, the skies above dimming beneath fast-gathering clouds.

A low growl escaped his throat, more beast than man.

"If what I'm thinking is true…" His voice trembled with rage, a storm barely contained. "They'll pay in blood."

He stopped atop a mossy rise and let the fury burst free. A scream ripped from his soul, primal and piercing—echoing through the woods like the howl of an ancient god.

"YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HER!"

The cry summoned a shiver from the trees themselves. Animals scattered. The wind shifted. Somewhere, the lake rippled without cause.

The Guardian of the Forest had awakened. And wrath followed in his wake.

"Symbiotic Harvest!"

Sylvanor thrust his hand forward, palm pressed to the moss-covered earth. The forest answered.

Two ancient trees convulsed—bark splitting, branches twisting unnaturally. With agonizing groans, they tore themselves free of the soil, their roots coiling into legs, their trunks warping into broad, humanoid forms. Golems of bark and vine rose, glowing with the primal green of Sylvanor's will.

Their eyes burned with forest light—silent wrath given shape.

They surged forward beside him, thundering across the forest floor like living siege engines.

Images shattered through Sylvanor's mind like lightning through a storm-split tree:His father's eyes, wide and unseeing.The cold words of the tribunal.The iron scent of exile.The child's scream echoing across lifetimes.

"Not again," he whispered, voice cracking beneath the weight of memory."I will not let another innocent suffer."

He pushed harder, faster—until the trees parted before him like curtains drawn by fury.

They burst through the treeline—and then he saw it.

The girl.Maybe ten winters old. Her clothes torn. Eyes wide with terror.Bound by forest vines—his forest vines—cruelly severed and used against her.

One man knelt close, a hand stretched toward her. His eyes glinted—not with concern, but intent.

The others stood alert, blades unsheathed, forming a loose circle. Expecting beasts. Bandits. Not him.

They were wrong.

Sylvanor's voice dropped to a growl as he drew his blade. It shimmered with a green-gold edge, alive with forest wrath.

"You trespass on sacred ground," he said, his voice a cold wind through dead leaves."And you dare defile it… with this."

The nearest soldier turned—eyes widening just before a golem's vine-laced fist hurled him across the clearing like a twig.

The Guardian had arrived.And no blade could stop what was coming.

His fury boiled over—raw and unstoppable.

Sylvanor raised his arms to the sky, voice ringing like thunder through the trees:

"Thornfortification!"

Green light flared around him. The ground pulsed, the forest responded. Thick vines burst from his forearms, spiraling up into serrated gauntlets of living thorns. The air crackled with power, and every heartbeat screamed vengeance.

He didn't pause. Didn't speak again. Only moved—with the speed of a storm wind through leaves.

The nearest bandit, the one reaching for the girl, barely had time to turn before Sylvanor struck.

His fist—wrapped in nature's fury—collided with the man's chest.

BOOM.

The vines detonated on impact, a burst of thorny force sending the bandit hurtling backward like a ragdoll. He slammed into a tree with a crack of bone and bark, blood fanning across the trunk like a grim signature.

The man slumped, lifeless.

Sylvanor didn't look back.

"Next," he hissed, eyes burning.

The golems thundered in behind him, their vine-limbs lashing out, grabbing swords, shattering shields.

The forest itself seemed to rage.

He wasn't just defending the girl—he was unleashing judgment.

The clearing erupted into chaos.

"W-What is that?!" one bandit screamed, stumbling back as the towering golems surged forward—walking vengeance of bark and vine.

Another tried to raise his blade, but a wooden fist smashed into him like a battering ram, sending him crashing through a bush with a cry of pain.

"He's not human!"

Sylvanor stood firm between the girl and her would-be captors, thorns still flaring from his gauntlets, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of fury. Leaves and embers swirled around him, drawn by the magic still crackling in the air.

The bandits hesitated—but Rakshak did not.

With a bellow that shook the branches, the forest giant leapt into the fray. His arm extended, bark splitting open to reveal a jagged wooden spear, grown straight from his own body. He swung it like a tempest, cutting through two men in one wide arc, knocking them flat.

"Cowards!" Rakshak roared. "You desecrate her roots and think to flee?!"

Steel met vine. Screams echoed. The forest joined the fight—roots snaring ankles, branches smacking weapons from hands, the earth itself seeming to pulse with judgment.

The bandits were no longer fighting. They were surviving—terrified, disoriented, and rapidly losing.

"He's a forest demon!" one cried, voice cracking with terror as he fell to his knees.

Another turned to run—but a golem stepped in his path, eyes glowing, fist raised.

Amid the storm, Sylvanor knelt beside the girl.

She was trembling, lips pale, but her eyes—though wide with fear—still held a spark of hope.

His expression softened.

With a single touch of his glowing hand, the vines that bound her crumbled to dust, as though recognizing their true master.

"You're safe now," Sylvanor whispered.

She threw herself into his arms, sobbing. He held her gently, protectively, shielding her with his own body as another explosion of vines erupted behind them.

He stood slowly, gaze lifting to the remaining bandits—three still on their feet, bloodied, cornered, shaking.

His eyes burned with green fire.

He took one step forward.

"You hunted the wrong forest."