Chapter 17: Kings Walk Among Trees

Soon, the young man spoke. 

"Master Ryan, I did not get the opportunity to introduce myself. I am Anos Jira, the Crown Prince of the Jira Kingdom." 

Ryan blinked, slightly taken aback. A flicker of surprise crossed his face. He wasn't sure how to respond—formally? Casually?—so he simply extended his hand. The two men exchanged a brief handshake, firm but unceremonious, their palms meeting in a gesture heavy with unspoken recognition. Ryan never imagined that the lost Crown Prince of the Jira Kingdom would be traveling with the World Tree itself. 

The weight of that realization sank in like cold water on skin. 

He remembered what Maya and Artisan had told him about the current state of the kingdom. The images resurfaced: banners torn by wind, cities wrapped in smoke, bloodied fields where honour clashed with desperation. A war was raging with the Sony Kingdom. The thought unsettled him, gnawing at the back of his mind. 

He glanced across the carriage at the elf of the World Tree. Her presence still carried an air of serene mysticism. Draped in light-green silks that shimmered with every breath of air, she sat with the calmness of an ancient forest. And yet, something gnawed at his thoughts—how was she here, so far from the tree? 

Then, understanding dawned like sunlight breaking through fog. 

She was the World Tree. Her essence, her spirit, her life—had travelled with her. The entire surrounding aura of the tree came with her, humming in the space like invisible vines wrapping around them all. A quiet, pulsing force radiated from her presence, as if nature itself listened when she breathed. 

Everyone else seemed to underestimate the true depth of the World Tree's healing power, its divinity veiled behind its elegant stillness. But Ryan remembered—the elf had emerged from every battle untouched. Not even Oliver, with all his might, had managed to inflict the slightest wound. That alone spoke volumes. 

That was the true power of the World Tree—untouchable, unwavering, eternal. 

Now that Ryan had met the Crown Prince, his path forward felt more certain. It was as if an unseen door had quietly unlocked. 

His gaze drifted toward Samuel, who sat in a shadowed corner, gazing through the carriage window. Outside, hills rolled past, bathed in golden light and dust. The soft creak of wood and the occasional groan of the wheels underscored the quiet. 

Ryan asked, "You're coming with us, Samuel?" 

Samuel turned his head slowly, the fading light reflecting off his eyes, unreadable and deep. He replied with a question of his own, voice low and thoughtful. 

"Should I come with you?" 

Ryan held his gaze and responded with quiet understanding, "It's up to you." 

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Samuel's mouth. 

"Then I'm taking my leave, guys. It was wonderful meeting you all." 

Then, without warning, his body leaned back—and the wall behind him rippled like liquid glass. A faint rush of wind followed, and Samuel was pulled inward, the space folding around him. There was no sound, no flash—just the surreal image of him being swallowed by the wood itself, as if it had always been waiting for him. 

He vanished. 

The carriage fell silent. 

Everyone stared, eyes wide, fixed on the spot where Samuel had just been. There was no trace of him—only the memory of his presence, still warm in the air, and the faint shimmer of magic that faded like breath on a mirror. 

Ryan wanted to test out his new body, to feel its strength in motion, to stretch its limits—but the moment wasn't right. The cramped interior of the moving carriage offered no space for exertion. Outside, the landscape blurred past—dense green woodlands and rolling hills bathed in the gold of late afternoon sun, the wheels humming steadily over the dirt road. According to what he'd learned from the Crown Prince, they were heading toward the capital of Jira and would arrive within a few hours. 

His thoughts drifted to the war with the Sony Kingdom. With the Crown Prince present, along with sacred-level experts whose aura could shake mountains—not to mention the silent, divine presence of the World Tree—the battle ahead was no small skirmish. It was shaping into a clash of titans, where power and faith were measured in sacred fire and ancient roots. Both kingdoms, he imagined, stood like colossal beasts, nostrils flaring, strength rippling beneath their skin. But if Ryan had to judge, Jira held the advantage. The World Tree wasn't just an ally—it was a force of nature cloaked in serenity, its healing and divine power whispering promise and protection through the very air. 

As he sat in the carriage, Ryan could feel it—a deep trust humming through the space like the low thrum of a heartbeat. Everyone in that cabin trusted him with their lives. And yet, none of them had dared to ask the question that weighed visibly in their eyes: What had happened during the fight? Where had that red aura come from? 

Their silence hung heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks. 

Ryan, meanwhile, felt hollow at his core. There was an eerie emptiness where once his soul power had surged like a raging river. Now it felt like a drained vessel—quiet, still, aching. As if he'd lost something vast and vital without even realizing it. 

Now calm, he revisited the memory of the battle. It became clearer—he hadn't simply blacked out. He had surrendered. Or rather, been overtaken—his consciousness drowned by the will and memories of the body's previous owner. That forgotten soul had risen in defiance, driven by a singular purpose: to protect Maya, no matter the cost. That resolve had blazed like a wildfire, scorching through Ryan's control. 

A month had passed since he'd been reincarnated into this body. Yet even now, the foreign spirit lingered in every breath and reflex. It was like living inside a house filled with someone else's memories. He needed to merge their wills—to grasp the intentions threading through his blood and bend them to his own purpose. 

And still, he thought of his past. There had been a time when no one dared approach him. No one could touch him. He had stood above them all, untouchable as a god. And now? 

Now, he inhabited the fragile frame of a young man who had once been nothing. No strength. No prestige. And yet—that very body had commanded him, pulled his strings with the ease of a puppeteer's flicked fingers. 

Ryan wasn't sure whether to cry at the irony or laugh at the absurdity. 

The Capital of Jira 

The carriages entered the capital of Jira after presenting the royal emblem to the guards. No questions were asked—the heavy iron gates, weathered and creaking on rusted hinges, swung open in silence. One by one, the carriages rolled into the heart of the city, their wheels clattering softly against the cobblestones, the sound echoing through the still air like distant drumbeats. 

Harian looked around, and a knot formed in his chest. The capital was in ruin. Once-proud streets were now littered with debris and filth. The air carried a stale, sour stench—of rotting food, unwashed bodies, and something else... a quiet despair that clung like fog. People lined the roads, some crouched in doorways, others sprawled beneath torn cloth awnings, their hands outstretched, eyes hollow. The gaunt faces of beggars watched the procession with a dull, resigned hunger. 

Shops remained open, but their wooden stalls were chipped and faded, barely clinging to the remnants of structure. Wicker baskets held shriveled fruits, their skins mottled brown and soft with decay. Flies buzzed lazily in the warm air. Still, the shopkeepers stood there, arms folded or wringing nervously, offering the rotten goods with forced smiles, because there was nothing else to sell. The war had closed every trade route. Fresh goods, like hope, no longer came to the city. 

The capital had become a ghost of itself—unsustainable, crumbling, drained of its lifeblood. Once the vibrant hub of trade and the crown jewel of the kingdom's economy, it now stood as a broken shell. The war hadn't just paused the flow of commerce—it had turned it to ash, choking every vein of prosperity. 

It wasn't only Harian who felt the weight of the city's fall. Even the Crown Prince, seated rigidly inside the carriage, gazed out the window in silence. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on every shattered storefront, every child digging through refuse, every pair of trembling hands. 

Jira, once a city of gold and silk, now crawled in ash and misery. The laughter that used to fill its plazas was gone, replaced by silence and the low murmur of desperation. The scent of decay hung in the air like a warning. The people still moved, still sold, still begged—but behind every gesture was the same haunted look. As if the soul of the city had been taken, leaving only shadows behind. 

The war was not just destroying the capital of Jira from the outside. 

It was hollowing it out from within. 

They went directly to the royal castle of the Jira Kingdom. The towering structure loomed ahead, carved from obsidian-black stone that gleamed faintly in the sun like a sleeping beast draped in shadows. Its tall spires pierced the sky, and crimson banners flapped in the wind, bearing the golden crest of Jira—a roaring lion clutching a blade. Guards in polished armor lined the entrance, eyes sharp, spears gleaming. 

Everyone who questioned or tried to halt their progress was swiftly silenced the moment the Crown Prince raised the royal emblem. Etched in gold and sapphire, it caught the light like fire trapped in glass. With each flash of the insignia, soldiers stepped aside in rigid silence. Authority hung around it like a tangible force—cold, heavy, unquestionable. 

Ryan couldn't help but ache for such power. His gaze lingered on the emblem, its shine reflecting in his eyes. How easy it would be, he thought, to move through the world with such silent command—to shield those he cared about with nothing more than a symbol held aloft. 

As they passed through the towering gates and into the heart of the castle, the air shifted. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Marble pillars lined the grand corridor, each carved with ancient victories. Torches crackled along the stone walls, casting dancing shadows that seemed to whisper of conflict and pride. 

A storm was already brewing in the throne room. 

The great hall echoed with raised voices. Words clashed like swords, each laced with fire. The court was split into two: one faction urging peace, their faces tight with worry and fatigue; the other pushing for total war, their eyes burning with fervor and pride. Velvet robes rustled. Rings slammed against wooden desks. The scent of wax, sweat, and the faint iron tang of old blood filled the air. 

The young king of Jira, seated on a high throne carved from darkwood and inlaid with silver veins, watched with a rigid jaw. Draped in royal crimson and gold, he sat with the sharp stillness of a blade before a strike. His allegiance was clear—he stood with the war-hungry, eager to carve Jira's name into the bones of the world. And because he stood with them, his verdict would shape the kingdom's fate. They would bet everything on the battlefield—and aim to win. 

Yet still, the debate raged, each word stoking the fire higher. 

Then, as if the air itself had tensed, a sudden commotion at the back of the hall turned all heads. A guard burst through the doors, boots thudding hard against the polished floor. His breath came in sharp gasps, sweat shining on his brow as he dashed forward. The courtroom fell into stunned silence as he reached the dais and dropped to his knees before the king with a loud thud that echoed like a drumbeat. 

Everyone knew in that instant—this was no routine message. To interrupt a royal session, especially during such a heated debate, meant the news was of the utmost urgency. A misjudgment could lead to exile, or worse. The gravity of his arrival hung like a blade above his bowed head. 

Speculation rippled across the hall. Whispers slithered between ministers. Had another command post fallen? Had the enemy advanced again? Had the front line collapsed? 

All eyes turned to the kneeling guard. The hall held its breath. Even the torches seemed to flicker less brightly. 

Then, silence thickened, as if the world paused to listen. 

The guard lifted his head. 

"Your Majesty," he said, voice steady despite the weight behind the words, "the Crown Prince has returned."