In the comfort of Esron's study, where books climbed the walls like ancient ivy, Risea leaned against the patterned mahogany desk, arms crossed. The flicker of the oil lamp painted dancing shadows across the room. His gaze met Esron's, heavy with unspoken worries.
"Esron," he ventured, "Do you think we should be alarmed? What if the boys run into Prime Empire's soldiers on their path?"
Esron, engrossed in his letter, looked up at his old friend. His face bore an expression of serene confidence. "Risea, our boys have grown stronger than we often give them credit for. Their journey to the Kingdom of Palpeo will not be an easy one, but I believe in their capability to overcome whatever lies ahead."
Risea nodded, his concern somewhat placated. Yet, another query lingered. "And Subol?" he asked, his voice softer now. "Have you kept in touch?"
Esron's eyes crinkled at the corners, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Yes," he said, his gaze faraway, perhaps imagining the distant land where Subol now resided. "We write to each other, from time to time."
-
Atop the vast plateau, Milo and Lok found themselves frozen, as if ensnared by the chill of impending doom. Four gnarled treants towered above them, their colossal forms nearly blotting out the sun. Their aura was menacing, an oppressive force that seemed to make the air around them shudder. It was a force that deserved the moniker of a final challenge.
Lok's voice sounded thin and brittle in the eerie quiet, cracking under the immense pressure. "Milo," he started, his eyes never leaving the ominous figures, "what's our move?"
But Milo was silent, his eyes darting from one behemoth to another. His mind was a torrent of thought, calculating, strategizing, seeking any indication of a weak point. But the treants were a formidable puzzle, their weaknesses hidden behind layers of hardened bark. The silence lingered, thick and heavy, as Milo found no clear solution in the monstrous tableau before them.
Just as the apprehension hung heavy in the air, a low rumble echoed across the plateau. Gradually, the earth beneath their feet shivered and started descending, the colossal tree that had hoisted them skywards began to lower its crown. It was bending its might to the will of the spectacle, bringing the decisive battle within clear sight of the eager spectators in the colosseum.
Milo's gaze met Lok's, and he spoke. "Can you buy me some time, Lok?" He asked, eyes never leaving the towering figures of the treants. "I need to get close, find a weak spot."
Without a moment's hesitation, Lok nodded. A confident smile played on his lips. Ten illusory copies of himself sprang into existence around him, their spectral forms flickering in the diffused sunlight. They were ready, prepared to buy Milo the time he needed.
In a single, coordinated movement, Lok and his spectral army charged forward, drawing the attention of the treants while Milo dashed towards the plateau's edge, using the chaos as his veil. The treants roared in response, the sound rippling through the air like an earthbound thunderclap, and the most formidable, cruel vines they had yet faced sprouted from the earth. The leftmost treant took a swipe, demolishing half of Lok's illusions in a single, devastating blow. Yet, Lok's resolve was unyielding, his illusions reappearing almost as soon as they had been dispatched.
His spectral copies danced and dodged around the treants, artfully evading the onslaught of vines and heavy, ground-shaking stomps. The illusions flitted in and out of existence as they were hit, only to reappear moments later, the wily trickster orchestrating a tantalizing game of evasion and distraction.
On the other side of the plateau, Milo sped towards the towering treants, his gaze glued to their enormous forms. His mind was a whirlwind of fear and desperate thoughts, struggling to unearth a plan under the crushing weight of stress. Suddenly, an image flashed in his mind—a memory. The last treant they'd slain had been brought down by a clean cut to its nape.
But these adversaries were a different breed altogether, bigger, with their layers of hardened bark providing a formidable defense. Simply reaching their napes would require a feat of strength, let alone making a cut large enough to fell them. And there were four of them—an overwhelmingly dangerous quartet. He felt a chill creeping down his spine, but there was no turning back now. His friend was buying him time, and Milo was determined not to waste it.
Milo's thoughts quickly jumped back to the hulking sentinel they'd battled earlier. The last section of the creature to harden had been its back, the dead center. Could that be the Achilles' heel, the key to breaking the ironclad bark? Or was this merely wishful thinking on his part? There was no time for speculation.
He took a swift glance towards Lok, who was performing a juggling act of epic proportions, holding the treants' attention with his ever-dodging illusions. It was truly a marvel, Lok's ability to keep track of and control his manifold spectral doubles, but this wasn't the moment for praise.
With a single, focused intent, Milo charged towards the rightmost treant. This behemoth had just slammed its mammoth fist into the ground where one of Lok's illusions had stood moments ago. Seizing this opportunity, Milo sprung into action, making his way up the treant's back.
The hulking treant's senses picked up on Milo's movements, sprouting sharp, spear-like spikes from its back in an attempt to impale him. Milo, however, nimbly sidestepped, changing his rhythm, left to right, right to left, keeping the treant guessing, his feet finding footholds even in the shifting landscape of the treant's back.
Ascending to the central part of the treant's back, Milo readied the hilt of his sword, his eyes burning with a fierce determination. An electrifying cry tore from his lips, echoing through the arena and stealing the attention of every onlooker. A pulsating aura, a vibrant cyan blue, coursed around his arms. In a flurry of motion that appeared as nothing more than a blur, he hammered the hilt against the central ridge of the treant's back. One strike, two strikes, a dozen, a hundred times in mere seconds.
Slowly but surely, a fracture began to form on the hardened shell of the treant. As he noticed the development, Milo's aura flared, his eyes ignited in uncontained exhilaration. His arms moved with such velocity, they almost seemed to disappear, melding into the blue luminescence that swirled around them. The rhythmic thud of each impact merged into a constant, pulsing drone, the crack on the treant's back enlarging with every passing moment.
One of Lok's illusions, dodging between the treant's colossal legs, stole a glance upwards. An expression of utter awe spread across his face as he took in the sight of Milo's relentless assault. The fracture on the treant's back had already extended over most of its surface, the creature howling in torment.
As the agony-filled cries of their companion reached them, the other three treants turned their attention to Milo. In his excitement, though, Lok took their change in focus in stride. He doubled his illusions, extending them from ten to twenty, effectively spreading confusion and distraction amongst the remaining treants. Some of his illusions even began scaling the backs of the other giants, aiming to draw their attention and keep them defending, allowing Milo to complete his furious attack.
Amidst the chaos, Lok discerned an understated detail - a crack in the enemy's veneer that could tilt the balance of this grueling battle. His gaze met Milo's, whose hilt had ended their blurring tirade, the monstrous tree's back splintered and shattered from the onslaught.
Milo's voice rose above the pandemonium, an authoritative order cutting through the ruckus. "Strike now, Lok!" he bellowed, his command echoing through the battlefield.
Without hesitation, Lok responded to the call. He moved with a fluid grace. As if drawn by an invisible string, his swirling illusions folded back into him, energy converging into his body.
As if a wind had caught him, Milo spun his sword, its gleaming edge catching the light. With a precise thrust, he plunged it into the treant's exposed wound. The creature's roar of agony echoed through the arena.
A chorus of slashes followed as Lok, with the agility of a mountain cat, climbed around Milo, his daggers rending the softened bark. Milo then extracted his sword from the creature's back and charged upwards, his blade tearing through the wood, Lok following in his wake to enlarge the gash.
The treant's luminous eyes began to dim, its life force ebbing away under their relentless assault. With an ominous creak, it started to lean forward, ready to meet the earth, the boys riding the giant as it fell. The remaining treants watched, momentarily frozen in horror at the sight of their fallen comrade.
With a thunderous impact, the mighty treant tumbled to its defeat, shaking the earth beneath them. Three treants remained, their eyes wide with shock, while Lok and Milo stood tall, ready for the next round of their formidable trial.
Lok jogged over to Milo. His eyes, bright with a spark of revelation. "I've noticed something," he said, his words crisp against the backdrop of their fallen foe.
"What is it?" Milo asked, his gaze curious yet cautious. He was mindful of their surroundings, of the titans yet to be felled.
"Parts of their armor," Lok explained whilst panting, "are thin, weaker than the rest. I noticed it with my illusions, when my boots knocked against them. Some spots didn't sound as hollow."
A smile found its way onto Milo's face, a glimmer of hope in their grim ordeal. "That's brilliant," he said. "I don't have enough Gaia to do the same trick with the other three without passing out. This might just be our way out."
Back in the stands, Risea squinted, trying to discern what was being discussed between the two. "What in the world are they chatting on about?" He wondered aloud, his voice barely audible over the buzz of anticipation rippling through the crowd.
Beside him, Grandpa Nido asked Esron, "Why hasn't the fallen treant returned to the earth yet?" he asked, his voice laced with curiosity.
Dread found its way into Milo's heart as his gaze landed on the slowly emerging spike behind Lok. It was growing from the fallen body of the defeated treant, a final desperate strike aimed at Lok. With a rush of fear, Milo yelled out a warning. "Lok, get out of--!"
But the words died in his throat, their meaning clear as day even before the sentence was complete. The spike shot forward, finding its target in Lok's unsuspecting form. There was a sickening thud, the spike piercing his abdomen, its tip now slick with blood.
Lok, his eyes wide with shock. Looking down, he placed a trembling hand on the wooden spike protruding from his stomach. A weak cough escaped his lips, a droplet of blood staining the corner of his mouth. The taste of iron filled his mouth.