Dr. Aris Thorne stood on a twisted branch of his monstrous creation. He looked down at them not as a villain facing his foes, but as a professor about to lecture an interesting class.

"Don't bother," Thorne said, his voice echoing slightly in the silence. He raised a casual finger.

Draven, who had been about to unleash a battle cry and charge, froze in place. A thick, thorny root erupted from the ground. It was black as obsidian and slick with blight. It coiled around his leg. It didn't crush or squeeze; it simply held him, its grip absolute and effortless.

"I am not here for a messy display of strength," Thorne continued, his eyes ignoring the powerful warrior and settling on Jonah. "I am here for a conversation between peers. You are the other Weaver, are you not? The boy who makes things from scraps and whispers secrets to beasts. I confess, I'm intrigued by your… basic methods."

With a flick of Thorne's wrist, the root released Draven, sinking back into the blighted ground as if it had never been there. The message was clear, delivered with casual arrogance: Thorne was in complete control of this battlefield. An attack was useless.

Jonah stepped forward, his hand resting on Maul's armored head. The massive Progeny was a low, rumbling presence at his side, its normally aggressive energy held in check by Jonah's will. "What do you want, Thorne?"

Thorne's cruel smile widened. "Want? I want to understand. I have observed your creations. The brute," he gestured dismissively to Maul, "is a fine specimen of controlled aggression. He's rough, but he gets the job done. The invisible one," he added, looking quickly at an empty spot in the air, "is very good at being sneaky. A well-crafted tool for assassination."

His eyes then fell upon the empty space beside Jonah, where he could clearly sense the powerful, peaceful presence of another creation. "But your most powerful creation… the one you keep hidden away like a precious secret… show it to me."

Jonah hesitated for a moment, then gave a reluctant mental nod. Sylva appeared into existence.

The Verdant Guardian stood in the blighted clearing, an icon of radiant life. The soul-crushing aura of the Blight-Heart Tree recoiled slightly from its gentle glow, like darkness from a flame.

Thorne stared at it, his head cocked to the side. For a long, silent moment, he was still, his curious mind slowly twisting into something else. First, it was disappointment. Then, it was a strong hatred.

He let out a short laugh. It wasn't a sound of amusement; it was the sound of judgment. "A creature of peace? A healer?" He scoffed, the sound sharp and cutting in the quiet clearing. "You were gifted with the power to shape the very foundation of life, and this is what you create? A glorified gardener? You built the most powerful tool in the world, and you commanded it to mend scraped knees? What a tragic waste of potential."

"Its purpose is to heal, not to harm," Jonah said, his voice steady.

"Heal?" Thorne spread his arms wide, a grand gesture that included the entire corrupted forest. "Life is not a wound to be healed, boy. It is a battle for dominance! A glorious, unending war where only the strongest, most ruthless designs have the right to survive. Nature is an awkward, emotional artist. It experiments. It makes errors, producing delicate, ineffective things like flowers and deer."

He patted the twisted, pulsing Blight-Heart Tree. "I… I make things better. My blight is not a sickness. It's the next step for life. It's a perfect living thing – strong, smart, and beautifully in control. It will clean this weak world and leave only a work of pure, strong power."

"You're wrong," Jonah shot back, his voice booming with a conviction born from his own painful experiences. "True strength isn't about dominating everything. It's about balance. Symbiosis. It's about creating things that help each other, not just things that destroy."

He thought of the Broodmother, of her pain, her rage, and her desperate hope for a future she would never see. "I met a creator like you once. She was twisted into a monster, forced to create weapons just to survive. But even at the end, she didn't dream of a world filled only with her own monstrous children. She dreamed of a better future. So I made a promise to her. I used her legacy to create Sylva. A healer, not another weapon."

"You're not a creator, you're a tyrant," Jonah said, his gaze unwavering, his words striking a nerve Thorne didn't know he had. "You don't want a stronger world. You just want everything to be like your blight: strong, lonely, and determined to destroy anything that's different from it."

For the first time since they had arrived, Thorne's calm mask cracked. A hint of burning anger flashed in his sharp eyes. He laughed again, but this time the sound was harsh and humorless.

"Weak emotions!" he spat. The word showed strong hate. "You promised a dying animal? That's a big mistake for a real creator. You like being weak, so you will die with that weakness."

He raised his hands high, and the air in the clearing grew thick and heavy, charged with a terrible power drawn from the corrupted land itself.

"The debate is over," Thorne declared, his voice booming not just from his mouth, but from the great tree itself. "It is time for the final move."

RUMBLE.

The ground began to shake violently. All around them, the blighted earth cracked open. Huge, thorny roots, each as thick as a man, burst from the soil, lashing out like monstrous, living whips.

SHREEEEEEK!

Many dark figures came out of the shadows by the twisted trees. These were Thorned Horrors. Their bodies were new, made from the blighted ground and twisted wood. They slowly walked forward. Their empty eyes glowed with a horrible purple light.

The Blight-Heart Tree itself seemed to awaken. The sickly purple light pulsing from its trunk intensified, and the massive, sword-like thorns on its branches began to tremble and vibrate, humming with a deadly energy.

The full power of Thorne's creation was finally unleashed. A giant wave of corrupted roots and screaming monsters surged towards them, a living storm of hate about to crush them in moments.