CHAPTER 140: ROOTS AND ECHOES

Yes, it was no longer news. Yes, two months had passed since Korrath’s fall. Yes, two months had passed since the walls of New Chicago trembled and its heart was torn apart.

It’s been two months since the world changed to the inhabitants of the ruins of New Chicago and the Forgotten Atlanta Expanse.

The expanse was no longer as forgotten though, now it had a foundation. A foundation that could lead to a potentially thriving economy.

It was not new news any longer, but to those who lived inside it, who experienced it, the experience felt fresh every day like it started just yesterday.

Children could run and play carefreely in the streets again without fear of being consumed by a wandering Behemorph. Parents could go to work again without fear of being ambushed by a Behemorph.

A semblance of order was established in the once forgotten city.

Life in the Rootsite... was liberating.

To most of the people who now inhabitated Clayton’s territory, this was the first time in their while lives that they experienced a life so tranquil. A life so safe, so straightforward, so free... it was too good to be true, it felt like a dream.

And once again, it was a new day in the paradise of Clayton’s domain. Not exactly a paradise, but to the civilians, living in Clayton’s territory was the closest thing to paradise in the past 2 months.

Morning sunlight filtered through a canopy of vines that wove like curtains between half-collapsed buildings. The city, once nothing but steel and ash now pulsed with green.

Moss covered broken highways. Fruit-bearing creepers coiled around lampposts. Cracked sidewalks sprouted gardens of ember-grain that shimmered faintly in the light.

The Rootsite breathed like a living body.

Merchants shouted their wares across the central market square. Mushroom caps as wide as shields sizzled on iron pans. Fungus fruits stacked high in baskets glowed faintly, their sweet smell mixing with the earthy musk of root-fed soil. Civilians haggled, laughed, and most importantly, they lived.

It was a new morning, and trust them, children chased each other across the streets, vines stretching down from balconies to catch them when they stumbled.

Their laughter rang where once only the grinding roar of Korrath’s machines had echoed.

A family sat near the fountain, vines spilling water clear enough to drink. The father leaned close to his children, voice soft but proud. "You’re safe now," he told them. "The Verdant Lord protects us."

The little boy looked up with wide eyes. "The one who killed the metal monster?"

The man smiled knowingly; he nodded. "Yes, Clayton Hunt, our Verdant Lord of Atlanta and Chicago."

The words carried like a promise.

Across the civilian corners to the Awakened core, beyond the markets, the Awakened trained in the barracks garden.

Once again, Torren drilled a squad of Initiates in formation, his Pyreaxe balanced across his shoulders like a weight he barely noticed. He barked orders with the ease of a man who had fought a hundred wars and intended to fight a hundred more. The recruits moved with clumsy feet but fierce eyes.

"Again!" Torren roared. "You think the Behemorphs care if you’re tired? You think a Verdant Lord waits for your breath? Move, damn it, MOVE!"

Nearby, Veyra stood before a line of archers. Her new Mythprint bow gleamed in the light, vines wrapped tight around bone that hummed faintly with power. She loosed arrow after arrow into the target line, each shot detonating in a burst of light. The Initiates mimicked her, though their arrows clattered wildly.

"Focus on the draw," she said coolly. "Don’t think about hitting. Think about letting the arrow go where it already wants to go."

Kaelin lingered at the edge, shadows curling at his feet like restless smoke. A half-dozen scouts knelt before him, eyes wide as he showed them how to vanish into darkness.

"Shadow is not cover," Kaelin said, his voice low. "It’s a knife. You cut with it. You bleed with it. If you treat it like a shield, you’re already dead."

Across the yard, Soren ran drills with young fighters, Emberblade flashing like a strip of fire. He was strict, quieter than Torren but no less harsh. Each swing of his blade was measured, every mistake punished with a sharp word.

"Discipline keeps you alive," he told them flatly. "Talent gets you killed. Learn to hold the line."

Lorn walked between all of them, not as a fighter but as a guide. His vines stretched softly to soothe aching muscles, his hands glowing with calm light. He taught medicine as much as healing, passing herbs and bandages to civilians as easily as he mended wounds for soldiers.

Even Harrick and Mirra had taken roles. Harrick drilled spear users with steady precision, while Mirra organized the healers, teaching them to use roots to patch wounds and stave off infection.

This was no longer just a band of survivors. It was a living force, trained and growing every day.

Clayton walked the Rootsite with quiet steps.

He wore no crown, no robes. His bark armor was simple, fused into his skin. Regalia rested across his back, glowing faintly with his Aspect’s pulse.

Civilians bowed when he passed, some murmuring "Verdant King" under their breath. Children stared wide-eyed in awe, and even Awakened straightened their stances. Clayton’s acts were legend, but he never lingered.

He inspected market stalls, checking the quality of food. He spoke with guards about supply routes. He sparred with Initiates until sweat coated his skin, then taught them how to recover faster.

To him, rulership was not about being seen on a throne. It was about being there, in the mud and roots, where people actually lived.

One evening, a group of farmers stopped him at the irrigation canals. They bowed nervously, holding out a basket of ember-grain.

"For you, Lord Clayton," one said. "Our thanks."

Clayton shook his head, pushing it back gently. "Feed your families first."

The man hesitated. "But..."

Clayton looked at him, his eyes steady. "I eat when you eat. That’s the deal."

The farmer’s hands trembled. Then he nodded, tears pricking his eyes.

Clayton walked on.

Beyond the Rootsite, news of Korrath’s death continued spreading even after 2 months to the few places that didn’t know about it before. Traders from the west brought whispers of Verdant Cities already shaken.

"The Lord of New Chicago is dead," they said in hushed tones. "Killed by another Verdant Lord."

In some enclaves, the story spread as hope: "If Korrath can fall, maybe the others can too." In others, it spread as fear: "A new tyrant rises. Better to watch him before he grows too strong."

Nomadic clans carried the story farther, their tales painting Clayton as either a liberator or a looming threat.

Even the Ironblood Remnants whispered of him, their Null Crown forges burning hotter. The Verdant Apostates muttered, some calling him a traitor to the green, others calling him the promised Wild King from Below.

The world was watching. And for the first time, Clayton’s name carried weight far beyond his Rootsite.

Not everyone in the Rootsite was comfortable though. Even with all the evidence before them, in taverns and side alleys, some civilians still whispered in fear.

"If he killed Korrath, what’s stopping him from becoming the same? He commands the city now. The machines obey him, what if he uses them against us?"

"Verdant Lords always turn. Always."

Others argued the opposite. "He’s nothing like Korrath. He walks among us. He eats the same food we eat. He bleeds with us. He’s the only reason we’re alive."

Clayton heard these whispers when he passed through the streets at night. He never stopped them, he never punished them.

Trust could not be forced. It could only be grown.

At the top of the Verdant Spire, Clayton stood alone at night. The Heartseed pulsed faintly behind him, roots glowing in the dark like veins of emerald fire.

The city below slept, lit by soft green blossoms and the hum of bioluminescence. But Clayton did not sleep.

Every night, he meditated. Every night, he pushed Regalia’s thorns deeper into the fabric of his Dominion. Every night, he trained, tested, prepared.

Because he felt it.

The Genesis Protocols had not ended. The whispers grew stronger with each passing week, echoing in his chest like a second heartbeat.

The Third Trial was coming.

And unlike Korrath, who had drowned himself in comfort and tyranny, Clayton sharpened himself with each day. He stockpiled roots, planned escape routes, and drilled his people relentlessly. He kept his Sporelinks close and his circle tighter still.

The Genesis Protocols wanted to test him again. And when they came, he swore he would not only pass, he would uncover their truth.

Clayton leaned on the balcony rail, eyes locked on the horizon.

The city below thrived. The people lived. The Rootsite grew stronger every day. But beneath it all, the hum of the Protocols gnawed at him.

A whisper only he seemed to hear.

The next trial is waiting.

Clayton’s eyes narrowed, his jaw set.

"The world thinks Korrath’s death was the end," he said quietly. "But it was only the start."

The Heartseed pulsed once, hard, like a war drum.

Trial III loomed on the horizon, and he was ready.