Chapter 35

Outside the cottage, however, Divina's neighbour had gathered.

Farmhands with dirt-streaked faces, carpenters with sawdust in their hair, and mothers holding infants close—all stood frozen, eyes fixed on the sky where the beacon had pierced the clouds. Even the nearby beastkin and dwarven labourers paused their work, ears twitching, weapons half-drawn out of habit.

Some knelt, whispering prayers. Others clutched each other, afraid. Most just stared, breath held in collective silence.

I stepped onto the porch with Kael and Sylphy at my side. The light had faded, but the air still crackled with residual magic. The villagers turned to us as one.

"She's alive," I said, raising my voice. "And she's been blessed. The forest tried to take her, but the old magic chose her instead."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Elvie and Ella pushed through the front, both flushed and panting. "Is it true? She's really alive?" Ella asked.

"Yes," Sylphy confirmed. "But she needs rest. This... wasn't an ordinary sickness. It was a test."

I stepped down into the crowd. "What you saw—what you felt—that was the power of the Divine Tree. And it answered because she's one of us. A protector has awakened. This village is under its shield now. From now on, I will employ her and the little boy as gardeners in the manor."

The crowd stirred again, this time with tentative hope. A few villagers began clapping. More followed. Before long, there were cheers. Not wild or raucous, but steady. Grateful. Fear still lingered in their eyes, but so did something stronger—faith.

Then, the wind shifted.

Kael's hand dropped to his sword.

Sylphy turned toward the sky.

I looked up.

Something moved above the treetops—fast. Too fast to be natural.

A shimmer of silver light streaked across the clouds, then circled back, hovering over the village like a watchful hawk. It was shaped like a large winged creature, but not one made of flesh and bone. It was formed of pure mana, translucent and radiant, wings spread wide like sails made of lightning.

"A sky warden..." Sylphy whispered. "I thought they were extinct."

"No," Kael growled. "They were bound. To the leyline guardians."

The creature let out a low hum—a resonant, vibrating sound that settled deep in our bones. The villagers dropped to their knees. A few covered their ears.

Really? A guardian? It looked like a little bird to me.

Then the warden turned its head toward the forest—toward the south—and released a sharp, echoing screech.

"A warning," Ella murmured.

I turned slowly to Sylphy. "It sensed something."

Her expression darkened. "Something approaching."

The warden flared once more, then vanished in a burst of light, like a falling star.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Kael looked at me. "Whoever, or whatever, was drawn by that beacon—they're coming."

I looked toward the horizon, where the forest met the mountains. The air was too still now. Too quiet.

"We have three days," Igor said quietly, as if the knowledge had simply rooted itself in his mind.

I frowned. "Three days for what?"

"Three days before they arrive."

"Who?"

"Someone..."

What the hell was wrong with these people?

Sylphy didn't question it. "Then we prepare, my lord."

Kael stepped forward, his voice low. "And if they're not coming for peace?"

She looked at me as I glanced back at the cottage, where the Divina still lay, her druidic mark glowing faintly.

"Then they'll learn this village isn't just some patch of dirt anymore," I said. "It's protected. And we'll fight to keep it that way."

Or whatever, really. The system just told me to employ a gardener.

Later that afternoon, as the village buzzed with nervous energy and quiet murmurs of prophecy and magic, a distant horn echoed through the hills.

Kael, still on edge, immediately turned his gaze toward the main road. "That's not one of ours."

"No," I said slowly, already walking toward the village gate. "But it is familiar."

Moments later, the clattering of hooves reached our ears. A small but elegant procession crested the hill—a line of black and silver carriages, flanked by mounted guards in polished armour. The sigil on their banners shimmered in the wind: a silver boar beneath a laurel tree.

Baron Weslin.

Kael's brows drew together. "Is that Felix's lord? What's he doing here?"

"Hopefully not threatening us," Sylphy muttered.

"Of course not; he is our friend." But I already suspected otherwise. Baron Weslin was smart, yet he was also a cunning man, yes—but not foolish. And he wasn't the type to ride into danger without purpose.

The carriages stopped just outside the market. Villagers peered from behind tents and crates, whispering.

Did the news from my territory reach my old friend?

The lead guard dismounted and opened the central carriage door. Out stepped Baron Weslin himself—a tall, sharp-featured man in a deep navy cloak, eyes like flint and a beard peppered with silver. He walked with the casual authority of a man used to being obeyed.

But behind him came the real surprise—his wife, Baroness Mireille, wrapped in soft furs with bright, calculating eyes, and two children: a boy of perhaps ten with unruly dark curls and a girl just a few years younger, her hand clutching her mother's tightly.

They had brought their entire family.

"Dirk Robinson, my friend," the Baron greeted, removing one glove and offering his hand. "You've made quite a storm. Word of a divine beacon travels faster than you'd think, not to mention your majestic town."

I took his hand, noting the strength in his grip. "Baron Weslin. I didn't expect the nobility to come riding into my small and meagre land."

"Meager? You are still so humble. The magical gate entrance and the walls alone are high-grade treasure infused with mana." He smiled faintly. "Well, when a piece of land blessed by the Divine Tree sends a signal visible across three provinces, I get curious. When I hear the land belongs to a man who's been quietly feeding the poor and rebuilding a region most lords have abandoned—I get interested."

How the hell did he know about the divine tree beacon?

Sylphy crossed her arms. "And when you bring your children to a place that might be attacked in three days?"

Baron Weslin looked at her, unfazed. "I find that when one aligns with something sacred, it's best to bring your blood close to it. Just in case the tides turn."

Mireille stepped forward, her eyes meeting mine. "We've brought supplies. Medicine. Tools. Even a handful of trusted mages. We wish to help."

Kael raised an eyebrow. "Out of the goodness of your hearts?"

Weslin chuckled. "Out of the recognition that something ancient and powerful has returned—and whoever stands closest to it survives. Maybe even thrives."

"Thank you, my lord." I replied with a small smile.

"Where is Felix?"

"He was busy training my new guards," I replied as I studied him. Maybe it was Felix who reported what happened here. Of course the baron meant no harm; after all, he was the one who helped me last year, but I heard rumours and all. I just can't trust him fully for now. He was being honest—in his own calculating way.

I nodded. "Then welcome, Baron Weslin. You'll find we don't have palaces or servants here. But we do have land that grows stronger every day. And people worth protecting."

The Baron smiled thinly. "That's more than most kingdoms can claim."

As villagers gathered to watch the Baron's retinue unload crates of supplies and shimmering mana lamps, I stepped back beside Sylphy and Kael.

"Keep your eyes on his guards," I murmured.

"Already counting their blades," Kael replied.

Sylphy tilted her head. "He's not just here to help. He's investing. Hoping this becomes more than a village."

"Then let's give him a return on that investment," I said. "Let's show him what we're building."

Behind us, the wind stirred, brushing through the gardens. A faint green shimmer lit the edge of the forest—magic still alive and watching.

And somewhere, far off in the south, that approaching force was still coming.

That night, as the village settled into a wary quiet and the fires burnt low in the temporary marketplace, I found Baron Weslin seated beneath the old lantern tree at the edge of the garden, sipping warm spiced wine. His wife and children had retired to their tented quarters near the main road, surrounded by a subtle but vigilant ring of guards.

He was alone—but I knew better than to think he was unprotected.

"You don't strike me as the type to sit under trees and admire stars," I said, stepping beside him.

Weslin didn't look at me right away. "I don't. But this one feels... old. Familiar."

He glanced at the trunk—scarred, but vibrant with life. Mana flowed through its roots now, ever since the Divine Tree charm had been buried nearby. The leaves shimmered faintly even in the dark.

"I know you heard about the rumours, but that was all wrong. I've never supported those renegades who attacked some of the villages in my territory. It was outrageous," he said after a pause.

"Glad to hear that, Lord Weslin. Thank you for coming over. I'm still new to the kingdom's politics," I honestly answered.

"Dirk Robinson. The man who came from nowhere built a thriving farm out of cursed land and pays his workers like nobles. People said you were a fool. I thought you were a gambler."

"And now?" I asked.

"Now I think you're something rarer." He finally looked at me. "A missing piece of something ancient. Someone not meant for this era—but sent here anyway."

I didn't respond, but the Guardian Screen pulsed faintly in my mind, as if acknowledging the truth in his words.

Weslin continued, "Three months ago, I bought an old druidic manuscript at a black-market auction. It spoke of a 'Verdant Spark'—a soul born outside the leyline but bound to its revival. A foreign thread in the weave of realms. The prophecy said he'd come with magic foreign to our world... and awaken a land thought dead."

I stared at him.

"You think that's me."

"I know it is," he replied calmly. "Because the moment the Divine Tree fragment responded to you... the leylines beneath my estate shifted. Do you understand what that means?"

"That you're standing on borrowed magic," I said. "Same as me."

Weslin chuckled. "Exactly."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You've awoken something powerful here, Dirk. And while the nobles squabble for crumbs in their gilded halls, we could reshape the future. Not just for a village. But for the entire kingdom."

"And what would you ask in return?" I asked.

He looked up, expression unreadable.

"When the time comes, and the old bloodlines come knocking—when the king sends his war mages and the churches cry heresy—I want my family under your protection. I want my son raised in this new world you're building."

He stood slowly, cloak rustling. "And in exchange, I'll ensure you're never alone in the fight. My men. My coin. My reach in court. All of it."

I watched him walk away beneath the moonlight.

He was dangerous—but useful.

A nobleman with hidden knowledge of the leyline, a protective streak for his children, and enough ambition to back a prophecy he barely understood.

But in the shadows of the garden, where the Divine Tree's light touched only faintly, I whispered to myself:

"He knows more than he's letting on."

And somewhere, deep beneath the roots, something old stirred in agreement.