Chapter 4: Chapter 4: First Night Tide
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The silence after the ancient man's words was worse than the screaming had been. At least the screaming had been honest. This was the quiet of a held breath, of a world waiting to see what I would do with what I'd just learned.
I stood there in the wreckage of the clearing. The black tree had collapsed into itself, leaving behind a stump that looked almost... normal. The kind of stump you'd find in any forest back home. The wrong seed lay at my feet, cracked open, its true heart exposed. It glowed faintly — not with menace, but with something like patience. Like it had been waiting a very long time for someone to peel back the lie.
The rooster stirred. It shook itself, feathers rattling, and let out a sound that was half-cough, half-crow. Weak. But alive. That was more than I could say for the man-thing, which had crumbled into ash that the wind was already scattering across the black earth.
Xiao Bai hadn't moved. She stood frozen at the edge of the clearing, her white hair tangled with debris, her bow limp in her hand. Her eyes were fixed on me. No — fixed on my arm. I followed her gaze.
The vine had retracted, but it hadn't fully returned to whatever place it lived when it wasn't tearing through my skin. A thin green line traced the inside of my forearm now, like a vein that had decided to become something else. It pulsed in rhythm with the seed at my feet.
"He called you grandson," Xiao Bai said. Her voice was hoarse. "The ancient one. The one who planted the first garden."
I nodded. I didn't have words yet. My chest was still heaving from the pull, from the effort of ripping a corrupted root out of the ground with nothing but will and a vine that grew from my great-grandfather's blood.
"That means you're his blood," she continued. "His actual blood. Not a student. Not a successor. Blood."
"I figured that part out," I said. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Rougher. Like I'd swallowed gravel and screamed it back out.
"The man-thing was his apprentice." Xiao Bai took a step closer. Her boots made no sound on the black soil. "The one he trusted to protect the first garden. You heard what he said. What happens if he finds the third seed?"
I bent down and picked up the true seed. It was warm in my palm. Not hot — warm, like bread fresh from the oven, like soil that had been baking in afternoon sun. It felt alive in a way that made my skin prickle.
"He can't taste what I grow," I said. "That's what he said. Don't let him taste what I grow."
"Why?"
I looked at the seed. Then at the rooster, which had staggered to its feet and was pecking weakly at the ash that used to be the man-thing. Then at the vine-line in my arm.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I have a guess."
Xiao Bai waited.
"Everything in this place runs on the wrongness," I said. "The black trees. The man-thing. The ash. It's all corrupted versions of things that should be alive. But what I grow —" I held up the seed. "— this is the real thing. Heartwood and sunlight and soil memory. If he tastes it, if he eats what I grow..."
"He might remember," Xiao Bai finished. "What it was like before. What he was before."
"Or it might poison him. The way his corruption poisoned everything else." I shook my head. "Either way, he wants it. And if he gets to the third seed first, he can grow his own garden. His own version of what I do."
The rooster crowed — a real crow this time, raw and defiant. It hopped onto the stump of the black tree and fixed me with one bright eye.
Xiao Bai looked at the rooster. Her lips twitched. "It survived."
"Everything I grow survives," I said. Then I paused. "Everything I grow. That's what the book said. But I didn't grow the rooster. It was already here."
The rooster crowed again, louder. It sounded almost like laughter.
"Don't think too hard about it," Xiao Bai said. She was almost smiling. "The rooster chose you. That's enough."
We gathered what we could. The seed went into my pocket, wrapped in a strip of cloth Xiao Bai tore from her sleeve. The rooster rode on my shoulder, its claws digging into the padded jacket I'd worn during my last delivery shift — the one I'd been wearing when the abyss pulled me through. The jacket was ruined now. Torn. Stained with black sap and ash and something that might have been my own blood. But it was still mine. Still a piece of who I'd been.
The journey back to the surface was different. The tunnel that Xiao Bai had led me through — the one she'd navigated with the caution of someone who'd spent years avoiding the dark things that lived in the deep — felt almost easy now. The black roots that had lined the walls had withered. The fungi that had glowed with sickly light had dimmed to gray.
The vine in my arm hummed. Not painfully. More like a contented cat. Like it knew we were heading somewhere better.
"You saved me," Xiao Bai said as we climbed. She didn't look back at me. "In the clearing. You saved me from the man-thing. And you saved the rooster. And you saved the seed."
I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say.
"You could have run," she continued. "When you saw what was in that clearing. You could have run and left us both. But you didn't."
"I don't run," I said. It came out simpler than I'd meant it to. Truer.
She glanced back at me, and something in her eyes softened. Just a little. "No. I don't think you do."
We emerged into the surface world as the sun was setting. I'd only been in the abyss for — what? A day? Two? It felt like a lifetime. The light hit me like a physical force, and I had to shield my eyes with my hand. The rooster tucked its head under my chin, shivering.
Xiao Bai led me to a small hollow near the edge of the rift — the place she'd been staying, she said, since she'd come up from the deep months ago. It wasn't much. A lean-to of branches and leaves. A fire pit. A few traps set for whatever small creatures roamed this part of the surface.
But there was soil. Good soil. Dark and rich and smelling of rain.
I knelt down and pressed my hand into it. The vine in my arm stirred. The seed in my pocket pulsed.
"What are you doing?" Xiao Bai asked.
"Planting," I said.
I pulled the seed from my pocket and unwrapped it. It glowed faintly in the dying light, warm and patient. The rooster hopped off my shoulder and landed beside me, watching with intense focus.
"The second seed," I said. "The one that was hidden inside the wrong seed. If I plant it here, it'll grow. And what it grows will be mine. Truly mine. Not corrupted. Not wrong."
Xiao Bai crouched across from me. "And what will it grow into?"
I didn't know. The book hadn't said. My great-grandfather's voice had been silent since the clearing. But the vine in my arm knew. I could feel it straining toward the soil, toward the seed, toward something that felt like home.
"I guess we'll find out together," I said.
I dug a small hole with my bare hands. The soil was cool and yielding, and it felt right in a way that the black earth of the abyss never had. I placed the seed inside and covered it. I pressed down with my palms. I waited.
Nothing.
The rooster tilted its head.
Xiao Bai raised an eyebrow.
"Give it a minute," I said. But my voice was tighter than I wanted it to be.
The vine in my arm throbbed. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then the ground moved.
Not a crack. Not an explosion. A gentle, almost imperceptible shift, like the earth was turning over in its sleep. And then — a sprout. Green and fragile and impossibly bright. It pushed through the soil and reached for the sky.
The rooster crowed. Xiao Bai gasped.
But I was watching the sprout grow. It didn't stop at a seedling. It thickened, branched, twisted upward. Within minutes it was a sapling — no, a tree. A tree with leaves the color of jade and bark that shimmered like it was wet with morning dew. And at the top of the tree, where the first branch split, something was forming.
A fruit.
Round and golden and glowing with a soft, internal light.
The vine in my arm pulsed again — harder this time. A warning. And my great-grandfather's voice returned, quiet and urgent, like a whisper from very far away:
*"That is the fruit of the second seed. The one he could never grow. Guard it carefully, grandson. It is the only thing in all the worlds that can grow from that seed. And it is the only thing that can —"*
The voice cut off. The tree rustled. And from the direction of the rift, deep below the ground, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold.
Footsteps.
Slow and deliberate. Heavy. And accompanied by a voice — smooth and familiar and terrible — that drifted up from the dark like smoke from a fire:
*"I smell something... fresh."*
Xiao Bai drew her bow in a single motion. The rooster puffed itself up to twice its size. And I stood there, staring at the golden fruit, my great-grandfather's warning unfinished in my ears, as the apprentice who had turned rose from the abyss to taste what I'd grown.
I stood there in the wreckage of the clearing. The black tree had collapsed into itself, leaving behind a stump that looked almost... normal. The kind of stump you'd find in any forest back home. The wrong seed lay at my feet, cracked open, its true heart exposed. It glowed faintly — not with menace, but with something like patience. Like it had been waiting a very long time for someone to peel back the lie.
The rooster stirred. It shook itself, feathers rattling, and let out a sound that was half-cough, half-crow. Weak. But alive. That was more than I could say for the man-thing, which had crumbled into ash that the wind was already scattering across the black earth.
Xiao Bai hadn't moved. She stood frozen at the edge of the clearing, her white hair tangled with debris, her bow limp in her hand. Her eyes were fixed on me. No — fixed on my arm. I followed her gaze.
The vine had retracted, but it hadn't fully returned to whatever place it lived when it wasn't tearing through my skin. A thin green line traced the inside of my forearm now, like a vein that had decided to become something else. It pulsed in rhythm with the seed at my feet.
"He called you grandson," Xiao Bai said. Her voice was hoarse. "The ancient one. The one who planted the first garden."
I nodded. I didn't have words yet. My chest was still heaving from the pull, from the effort of ripping a corrupted root out of the ground with nothing but will and a vine that grew from my great-grandfather's blood.
"That means you're his blood," she continued. "His actual blood. Not a student. Not a successor. Blood."
"I figured that part out," I said. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Rougher. Like I'd swallowed gravel and screamed it back out.
"The man-thing was his apprentice." Xiao Bai took a step closer. Her boots made no sound on the black soil. "The one he trusted to protect the first garden. You heard what he said. What happens if he finds the third seed?"
I bent down and picked up the true seed. It was warm in my palm. Not hot — warm, like bread fresh from the oven, like soil that had been baking in afternoon sun. It felt alive in a way that made my skin prickle.
"He can't taste what I grow," I said. "That's what he said. Don't let him taste what I grow."
"Why?"
I looked at the seed. Then at the rooster, which had staggered to its feet and was pecking weakly at the ash that used to be the man-thing. Then at the vine-line in my arm.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I have a guess."
Xiao Bai waited.
"Everything in this place runs on the wrongness," I said. "The black trees. The man-thing. The ash. It's all corrupted versions of things that should be alive. But what I grow —" I held up the seed. "— this is the real thing. Heartwood and sunlight and soil memory. If he tastes it, if he eats what I grow..."
"He might remember," Xiao Bai finished. "What it was like before. What he was before."
"Or it might poison him. The way his corruption poisoned everything else." I shook my head. "Either way, he wants it. And if he gets to the third seed first, he can grow his own garden. His own version of what I do."
The rooster crowed — a real crow this time, raw and defiant. It hopped onto the stump of the black tree and fixed me with one bright eye.
Xiao Bai looked at the rooster. Her lips twitched. "It survived."
"Everything I grow survives," I said. Then I paused. "Everything I grow. That's what the book said. But I didn't grow the rooster. It was already here."
The rooster crowed again, louder. It sounded almost like laughter.
"Don't think too hard about it," Xiao Bai said. She was almost smiling. "The rooster chose you. That's enough."
We gathered what we could. The seed went into my pocket, wrapped in a strip of cloth Xiao Bai tore from her sleeve. The rooster rode on my shoulder, its claws digging into the padded jacket I'd worn during my last delivery shift — the one I'd been wearing when the abyss pulled me through. The jacket was ruined now. Torn. Stained with black sap and ash and something that might have been my own blood. But it was still mine. Still a piece of who I'd been.
The journey back to the surface was different. The tunnel that Xiao Bai had led me through — the one she'd navigated with the caution of someone who'd spent years avoiding the dark things that lived in the deep — felt almost easy now. The black roots that had lined the walls had withered. The fungi that had glowed with sickly light had dimmed to gray.
The vine in my arm hummed. Not painfully. More like a contented cat. Like it knew we were heading somewhere better.
"You saved me," Xiao Bai said as we climbed. She didn't look back at me. "In the clearing. You saved me from the man-thing. And you saved the rooster. And you saved the seed."
I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say.
"You could have run," she continued. "When you saw what was in that clearing. You could have run and left us both. But you didn't."
"I don't run," I said. It came out simpler than I'd meant it to. Truer.
She glanced back at me, and something in her eyes softened. Just a little. "No. I don't think you do."
We emerged into the surface world as the sun was setting. I'd only been in the abyss for — what? A day? Two? It felt like a lifetime. The light hit me like a physical force, and I had to shield my eyes with my hand. The rooster tucked its head under my chin, shivering.
Xiao Bai led me to a small hollow near the edge of the rift — the place she'd been staying, she said, since she'd come up from the deep months ago. It wasn't much. A lean-to of branches and leaves. A fire pit. A few traps set for whatever small creatures roamed this part of the surface.
But there was soil. Good soil. Dark and rich and smelling of rain.
I knelt down and pressed my hand into it. The vine in my arm stirred. The seed in my pocket pulsed.
"What are you doing?" Xiao Bai asked.
"Planting," I said.
I pulled the seed from my pocket and unwrapped it. It glowed faintly in the dying light, warm and patient. The rooster hopped off my shoulder and landed beside me, watching with intense focus.
"The second seed," I said. "The one that was hidden inside the wrong seed. If I plant it here, it'll grow. And what it grows will be mine. Truly mine. Not corrupted. Not wrong."
Xiao Bai crouched across from me. "And what will it grow into?"
I didn't know. The book hadn't said. My great-grandfather's voice had been silent since the clearing. But the vine in my arm knew. I could feel it straining toward the soil, toward the seed, toward something that felt like home.
"I guess we'll find out together," I said.
I dug a small hole with my bare hands. The soil was cool and yielding, and it felt right in a way that the black earth of the abyss never had. I placed the seed inside and covered it. I pressed down with my palms. I waited.
Nothing.
The rooster tilted its head.
Xiao Bai raised an eyebrow.
"Give it a minute," I said. But my voice was tighter than I wanted it to be.
The vine in my arm throbbed. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then the ground moved.
Not a crack. Not an explosion. A gentle, almost imperceptible shift, like the earth was turning over in its sleep. And then — a sprout. Green and fragile and impossibly bright. It pushed through the soil and reached for the sky.
The rooster crowed. Xiao Bai gasped.
But I was watching the sprout grow. It didn't stop at a seedling. It thickened, branched, twisted upward. Within minutes it was a sapling — no, a tree. A tree with leaves the color of jade and bark that shimmered like it was wet with morning dew. And at the top of the tree, where the first branch split, something was forming.
A fruit.
Round and golden and glowing with a soft, internal light.
The vine in my arm pulsed again — harder this time. A warning. And my great-grandfather's voice returned, quiet and urgent, like a whisper from very far away:
*"That is the fruit of the second seed. The one he could never grow. Guard it carefully, grandson. It is the only thing in all the worlds that can grow from that seed. And it is the only thing that can —"*
The voice cut off. The tree rustled. And from the direction of the rift, deep below the ground, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold.
Footsteps.
Slow and deliberate. Heavy. And accompanied by a voice — smooth and familiar and terrible — that drifted up from the dark like smoke from a fire:
*"I smell something... fresh."*
Xiao Bai drew her bow in a single motion. The rooster puffed itself up to twice its size. And I stood there, staring at the golden fruit, my great-grandfather's warning unfinished in my ears, as the apprentice who had turned rose from the abyss to taste what I'd grown.