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Forest Sea

Forest Cultivator

In a world where power ruled and trust was a blade waiting to strike, Lu Yan walked alone. Not out of fear, not out of weakness, but because solitude had always been his greatest strength. As a plant summoner, the earth itself bowed to him. Forests obeyed his whispers, roots coiled at his command, and even the wildest of flora bent to his will. There was no need for allies—until he met them. Fan Zhi. Lila. Jian Mo. The strongest of the strong. A warrior whose blade could cleave mountains, a magician who wove destruction with a flick of her fingers, and his most trusted—his shadow—Jian Mo. Not a friend, not family, but the one person Lu Yan had allowed closest. Their strength was undeniable. Their presence, unavoidable. And so, for the first time, Lu Yan walked beside others. Together, they ventured into the final dungeon, an ancient ruin pulsing with power long lost to time. Every step deeper tested their skill, their will, their loyalty. They bled together, fought together, survived together. Or so he thought. The betrayal wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t obvious. It was precise, patient—rooted in greed, waiting for the perfect moment to surface. Every look, every word, every shared battle had been a thread in their web. They had studied him, learned the way he thought, anticipated his every move. They knew his strengths, but more importantly, they knew the weaknesses even he had overlooked. So when the final trial came, when the dungeon itself trembled with the weight of the power they had sought, the trap was already set. The air was thick with heat, the walls licked with molten fury, the ground unstable beneath their feet. And then, Jian Mo struck first. A blade—not of steel, but of something darker, something ancient—sank into Lu Yan’s back. A paralyzing force surged through him, seizing control of his body, locking his power away in an instant. The one person he had trusted most had known exactly how to sever him from his strength. Fan Zhi’s sword followed, slicing deep. Lila’s magic wrapped around him like a serpent, binding him in chains of searing energy. They had calculated every detail. No dramatic speeches, no arrogance—just cold, efficient betrayal. And then, without hesitation, they cast him into the abyss. The last thing he thought about was Jian Mo’s face, expression unreadable as the molten depths swallowed him whole. Pain. Fire that melted flesh, burned bone, and tore through his very essence. For the first time, Lu Yan truly knew what it meant to die. But fate was not done with him. In the heart of the inferno, something stirred. A force beyond comprehension. A power that did not belong to this world. The fire did not destroy him—it remade him. The pain became something else. Something worse. Something greater. Then, darkness. When Lu Yan awoke, it was not to fire, nor stone, nor the ruins of the dungeon. It was to a world reborn. The sky above him was a fractured canvas of impossible colors, shifting and writhing like a living thing. The air was thick, charged with an energy that thrummed beneath his skin. And all around him, the earth pulsed—not as he had once commanded it, but as something wild, untamed, ancient beyond reason. The plants here were not mere tools of a summoner’s will. They were alive in ways he had never imagined. And they watched him. He was no longer the betrayed summoner. He was something else. Something far greater. As he stood amidst the endless forest, his body still echoing with the power that had saved him, one thought burned brighter than all the rest: if fate brought me here I would master it all. The winds whispered his name. The trees bent, waiting. The Life begins with a seed --- .... (Hello Author here, I'm open for any suggestions)
theways · 4.5K Views

To Sleep In The Sea Of Time

This is a story of a guy who loses everything, and then gets it back. Same old new world story, just a different kind of story teller. *** They took away our hunter tags. They had us grow our hair. They gave us a new brand, when we were over there. They staged us out of Dragur, East of the Olim Horn. I guess they call us Slaves, but no one calls us much anymore. There is no fun in killing. I don't want to do it anymore. Karn brought Sorrow. Pookie brought Fear. Milk brought the fly boys. They did work in Undia. I worked mostly clandestine. Some Legends I should not say. We played with better wands. I could use the extra pay. Did Mara give the order? Did venom pay the way? They said we were slaying demons, but it was kind of hard to tell. There is no fun in killing. I don't want to do it anymore. This was before HALO, and Codex was king. Hej atop the rider, he never felt a thing. When our rider caught a spell, and both the mages killed. It pitched us over sideways on some cold Sylph hill. My back felt like it was broken, my legs I could not feel. I kept on slaying demons, but it was kind of hard to tell. There is no fun in killing. I don't want to do it anymore. I never did heal up right from injuries sustained Officially in Torin, unofficially we train. I remember all their faces. They dream about me still. I guess I'm slaying demons, but it's kind of hard to tell. There no fun in killing. I don't want to do it anymore. I speak the cold logistic, that old boys speak so well. Veni, Vedi, Vici. I'll see you in Hel. Maybe it's bravado, or an unspeakable guilt. That village, they were demons, but it was kind of hard to tell. There is no fun in killing. I don't wanna to do it anymore. I've done plenty. What is one more? -Corb Lund *** Come guess me this riddle. What beats shire leaves and fiddle? What is hotter than pleasures touch, and whiter than cream? What best wets his whistle? What is clearer than crystal? What is sweeter than honey and stronger than steam? What will make the lame walk? What will make the dumb talk? What is the elixir of life and philosopher's stone? And what helped Pookie-Baba dig up a tunnel, that runs from Shalamanda to West-Torin? When you are digging a crater, It is the best thing in nature, for sinking your sorrows and raising your joys. Sometimes I wonder, if lightning and thunder, is made out of the plunder, of the reddest hiski and oils. *** If you can keep your head when all about you, are losing theirs and blaming it on you. If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, but make allowance for their doubting too. If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise. If you can dream, and not make dreams your master. If you can think, and not make thoughts your aim. If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster, and treat those two impostors just the same. If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken, twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, and stoop and build them up with worn-out tools. If you can make one heap of all your winnings, and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss and lose, and start again at your beginnings, and never breathe a word about your loss. If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew, to serve your turn long after they are gone, and so hold on when there is nothing in you; Except the Will which says to them ‘Hold on!’ If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, nor walk with Kings, nor lose the common touch. If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you. If all men count with you, but none too much. If you can fill the unforgiving minute, with sixty seconds worth of distance, run. Yours is the World and everything that’s in it, and which is more you’ll be a Man, my son. - Rudyard Kipling
man_of_culture3030 · 707.8K Views
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