CHAPTER 141: WHISPERS OF A WILD KING

Over 300 years ago, the world came to an end.

Like myths and religions once speculated though, the end of the world didn’t come with judgement followed by an eternity of suffering or paradise. Or maybe, who knows? Maybe the world was now being judged.

What came with the end of the world was not eternity, what came with it was death in the form of Behemorphs that now roamed the world, disorder, and most importantly, the Genesis Protocols.

Within a single day, the world lost majority of its population. Humanity lost two continents within a year of the Genesis Protocols.

The Genesis Protocol didn’t just come alone though, something came with them. And what came with the Genesis Protocols was the Genesis Trials.

What came with the Genesis Trials? Awakened warriors came, the very first line of defense that created the only resistance that humans could pose against the rampage of the Behemorphs across the world.

When the Behemorph rampage first started, they were unstoppable. Nothing could stop them, not mundane guns, not even bombs. Only nuclear bombs posed a true lethal threat to the

Creatures born of Genesis Embers had a certain quality to them that made them unusually resilient against mundane and technological means of attack.

To kill creatures born of the Genesis Protocols, Genesis Embers was needed, and this new system was what broke the order of the world.

Instead of governments ruling the world like the old days, powers and enclaves of the new power succumbed to a new power, the power of Awakened warriors. Afterall, they were the only people that could protect mundane humans in the age of the Genesis Protocols.

And among Awakened warriors, there was a certain clique of them more powerful than all the others... the Verdant Lords, creatures born of the cruelty and crucible of the Genesis Trials, survivors among survivors, warriors among warriors.

In the new world order, Verdant Lords were the rulers. They owned Verdant Cities, they ruled entire enclaves and Verdant sites.

And in this new order, when a Verdant Lord falls, the world shakes.

The death of Korrath was not just the death of a ruler. It was a crack in the order of things. Verdant Lords were not supposed to die, they were meant to endure, rooted like mountains, eternal as the Genesis Protocols themselves.

They were the symbol of power, influence, and authority in the new world. But Korrath fell, and now the world whispered of the man who had done it.

In the east, within the emerald walls of Verdant Kadesh, three lords gathered in a chamber that pulsed with green light. Their roots wound into the floor, their eyes glowing with the power of their Aspects.

"Another upstart," one sneered.

"They call him the Wild King of Atlanta".

"The Wild King of Atlanta? Ignorant," he first Lord shook his head. "He’s just an upstart. He’s inexperienced, he won’t last. Korrath was weak. Any of us could have torn him down if we truly set our sights on him".

The second shook her head, lips curling. "Do not underestimate him. Weak or not, Korrath ruled New Chicago for decades. His lattice reached farther than yours or mine. For this Clayton to uproot him... that is not nothing."

The third was silent, staring into the roots that ran across the chamber floor.

Finally, he said, "Whether he is nothing or something, his name is now spoken and we have to respect that because that makes him dangerous. Once the world names you, it will never forget you."

...

In the north, the Verdant City of Ashveil rumbled with unease.

Its lord, a giant wrapped in bark-armor thicker than stone slammed a fist into his throne.

"Clayton Hunt," he spat, as if the name itself were poison. "A child of the wastes dares take what is mine by right? If he thinks Atlanta and Chicago will make him king, he is mistaken".

His eyes turned cold, brimming with killing intent. "He will kneel, or he will burn. That is my verdict, and it’s final!"

Across the cities, the story spread. Some Verdant Lords laughed, dismissing him as an upstart whose roots would soon rot.

Others marked his name carefully, adding it to the map of powers they must one day face. Afterall, the nature of Verdant Lords naturally pit them against each other since they could grow stronger even without rising to a new rank by predating on each other.

The world of Verdant Lords had gained a new player.

...

Ironblood Remnants...

Far from the green cities, deep inside blackened foundries, the Ironblood Remnants sharpened their blades. Their forges glowed with Null-fire, the air heavy with the stink of oil and ash.

A commander in rusted armor spoke before the war council. His voice was harsh, cut like steel against steel.

"Korrath is dead. Clayton Hunt holds Atlanta and New Chicago."

A ripple went through the chamber. Fear, anger, and hunger. Afterall, this was not the first time that the Ironblood Remnants heard the name, Clayton Hunt.

"He grows too fast," the commander continued. "Korrath was the balance. He fed the war. With him gone, the roots spread unchecked. If this Clayton continues, he will be the end of us all."

A soldier growled from the side. "Then we end him first."

The commander slammed a fist against the iron table. "Not yet. Watch him. Study him. When the time is right, we strike."

The forge roared, sparks flying like stars.

...

And then, there were the Apostates.

Among twisted groves where flesh and leaf fused into nightmare, they debated with fevered eyes. Some snarled, calling Clayton a traitor.

"He bears the Verdant Tyranny, yet refuses the full embrace," one hissed. "He resists the Protocols. He is false, he is filth."

But others fell to their knees, trembling as they spoke.

"The Wild King from Below," they whispered. "The promised one. The root reborn. He survived the Origin for over 300 years," their voice trembled with reverence. "He comes to lead us into the Final Bloom."

The sects argued. Voices rose. Roots cracked through the ground.

And for the first time in years, the Apostates did not argue over themselves, they argued over Clayton Hunt.

...

The ripples also spread through the nomadic clans and small enclaves.

Out in the wastes, where no walls stood and no Lords ruled, the story spread fastest of all. Campfires crackled under broken skies.

Nomads whispered his name with reverence.

"They say Atlanta is green again," one woman told her daughter, holding her close by the fire. "They say New Chicago grows gardens instead of gears."

The child’s eyes widened. "Can we go there?"

The woman smiled faintly, her face lined with hardship. "If we can reach him, we will be safe."

And so, families began to move. Whole clans shifted south, chasing the rumor of a Lord who was not cruel. A Lord who did not drain but gave.

Clayton Hunt was becoming a legend far beyond his walls.

...

Inside the Rootsite...

The whispers reached Atlanta and New Chicago through traders and refugees. In the Rootsite taverns, civilians argued heatedly.

"He’s nothing like Korrath," a woman said, slamming her mug down. "He walks among us, he eats our food, he fights with us. Don’t you see? He’s different!"

But across from her, a gaunt man shook his head. "Different now. But power changes all. Verdant Lords always turn, always!"

At the market square, an Awakened Initiate puffed out his chest. "Do you hear them? They call him Verdant King! Verdant King of Atlanta and Chicago!" His eyes glowed with pride.

Another frowned, gripping his weapon tighter. "If the world knows his name, the world will come. And we will bleed for it."

Clayton heard these voices. He listened, but he did not silence them.

Trust could not be forced. It had to grow.

One night, Clayton gathered his closest for another council meeting.

Torren leaned against his Pyreaxe, smirking. "They’re whispering about you, boss. Some call you savior, others call you the next tyrant."

Veyra crossed her arms. "They’re not wrong to fear. Korrath ruled with chains. The world has only known Verdant Lords who strangle. For you to do different? It’s unthinkable."

Kaelin chuckled from the shadows. "Good. Let them underestimate us. Easier to slip a knife in the dark when your enemy thinks you’re soft."

Lorn spoke gently, her healer’s eyes steady. "Whispers are seeds; some grow weeds, some grow flowers. What matters is how you tend them."

Clayton listened to them all. Then he spoke, voice quiet but unshakable.

"Let them whisper. The more they whisper, the more they show themselves. And when the time comes, we’ll see who truly rules."

The others nodded, their faith rooted deep.

Later that night, Clayton stood alone at the top of the Verdant Spire.

The Heartseed pulsed behind him, glowing veins of green running through the tower like blood through a heart. The city below glittered with bioluminescent vines. But Clayton did not look at the city, rather, he looked inward.

He heard it again, the whisper, the hum... the call.

The Genesis Protocols.

They spoke louder now, clearer, as if the whole world’s eyes on him had stirred them awake. The Third Trial begins soon.

The words echoed in his core, his Heartseed beating faster.

Clayton opened his eyes; emerald fire burned in them.

"Let them whisper," he said softly. "I’ll make them remember."