The Oracle Paths Chapter 1233: Children Of The Root

Jake went rigid at the proposal. Theoretically, he'd anticipated an offer like this... but he hadn't foreseen it coming straight from the Celestial's own mouth.

Only moments earlier, they were complete unknowns facing off across a war-torn field. Worse than unknowns—they were outright foes.

Confronted by the youth's icy composure and that eerie, hard-to-pin-down allure that warped the very atmosphere nearby, the veteran fighter's bushy brown eyebrows knitted tight. The lines etched by years of leadership creased deeper, and a weighty emotion—nearly sorrowful—flashed across his iron-gray gaze before he uttered more words, his tone burdened by far more than mere years.

"What do you really understand about the fate of the Chalice of Lumyst fragments after its destruction? The tale the Soulmancer King shared with you? A Spirit Artefact that slumbered through ages, stirring only from sheer survival urge on the edge of oblivion? Please..."

He made no effort to mask the scorn in his voice. It lingered openly, raw and direct. Yet, it was this very "feeble and dormant" spirit that had, in just a handful of years, rallied the splintered clans of the Duskwight Lands to defy the Radiant Conclave—after ages of brutal deadlocks and ceaseless feuds.

Luckily for Jake, the Claire under fire stayed quiet. To be exact, she couldn't catch the slight. The genuine relic rested thousands of kilometers distant, alongside "another person."

That stood as one key drawback of Soul Clones. Every manifestation of the Spirit Artefact stemmed from a shard of her soul and power, and though the core could disband and reclaim them anytime, while apart, their beings operated as distinct entities. They weren't mere marionettes. They were fractured existences unfolding side by side.

Claire's powers extended beyond crafting distinct manifestations; she could replicate her awareness to some degree. Thus, this "Jake" might have traveled with a fully conscious "Claire" by his side.

However, due to urgent, unbreakable factors, the Claire next to him couldn't spare him her focus. She preserved every bit of Spirit Lumyst by staying hidden within a basic copy of her relic.

The presence of two "Jakes" in far-off spots simultaneously already counted as a slight wonder teetering on nonsense, possible only when a series of typically unfeasible circumstances lined up perfectly.

Key among those was drawing from a near-endless pool of spiritual power—attainable solely via the Spirit Artefact and the Chalice of Nethershade. Even then, Claire had depleted almost all the Spirit Lumyst gathered since her revival.

Most of her manifestations had scattered or entered slumber. The handful still active slumbered like this one or hovered at a human-like alertness, puzzled by a sudden, unexplained fatigue that weighed them down.

For a brief moment, Jake pondered rousing the "Claire" beside him by force. He rejected the notion right away. He understood her condition. Forcing it would prove foolish.

Instead, he responded steadily.

"Enough to realize that one or more pieces of the original Chalice of Lumyst gained their own identities—enough to reject merging back into unity, and to eagerly take in the other pieces, plus the enduring Spirit Artefact, for their own safety.

"Naturally, since you're posing that query, this account seems partial. Wrong. Perhaps entirely misguided. The Soulmancer King pieced together the causes of this conflict and the Radiant Conclave's unyielding push to seize her and her soul shards, but ultimately, it's merely her guess. Had events not unfolded as they did, I might still view Anthace as just a vicious Titan Tree.

"I possess my own idea now. But proceed. I'm eager for your take."

This round, the Celestial appeared disquieted.

His eyes expanded a fraction, not for show but from true astonishment. As the whole world plodded in passed-down paths without challenge, a simple Player had edged nearer to the corrupted heart of existence than generations of Celestials over thousands of years. The fact didn't flatter.

Taking a quick inhale to compose himself, the elder sage shed all facade.

"Fine. I'll speak plainly. Pay close attention..."

Initially, Jake stayed unmoved as the Celestial laid out his grimmer truths. His face held steady, nearly disinterested. But that detachment faded swiftly.

His traits stiffened. Then solidified. Then contorted into far less poise. The mess proved even more messed up—and much harder to fix—than he'd dreaded.

From the mildly unexpected to the utterly alarming, or from slightly troublesome to utterly ruinous, based on one's appetite for chaos:

"To start, be it Goblets of Ethershine copies or any gear, shield, or object hewn from Anthace's form, they all act as receivers for the Titan Tree. Those Goblets aren't sacred items. They serve as detectors... and beyond that."

That, at minimum, backed long-held doubts Jake carried. Anthace's substances everywhere in the Lustra Plains had always struck as overly handy, woven too seamlessly into daily existence. Thus far, nothing outright terrifying. Merely confirmation.

But it marked just the prelude.

"That leads to the following matter," the Celestial pressed on without break. "The Chalice of Etherlife—the piece of the original Chalice of Lumyst said to have rebuilt via its life force and gained self-awareness—never actually was. Or if it briefly did, its time as a thinking being ended fast. Anthace claimed that shard ages back, plus every subsequent one we retrieved.

"My theory holds that, once, a root of it unintentionally took in a shard, and that touch sped up its growth dramatically. Back then, the tree held no evil intent. But events after must have altered it—or maybe its drive for dominance simply emerged as its powers expanded..."

The will to power, in Nietzschean fashion, drove every creature to fulfill its essence. For flora, that equaled expansion—unyielding, uncaring expansion, akin to a weed splitting concrete in endless chase of light.

Jake wasn't sure if the Celestial intended that precise idea. What he knew, though—unlike the elder—was that Anthace's roots had grazed far more "transformative" than a chalice shard: the Blade Spirit from a World Eater's broken scythe. Soaked in the consuming urges and ruinous force of such horror, it seemed foolish to think that this so-called will to power stayed pure.

Yet, that missed the core concern.

The true problem hid in the outcomes.

"Anthace doesn't just weave the Chalice of Lumyst shards into itself to idly draw their boundless Life Lumyst," the veteran pressed, his visage as somber as a gravedigger by new plots. "It breaks them down."

He offered no more detail.

He had no need.

Among sharp minds, certain conclusions rang clear without aid. The shards pulled into Anthace ceased to be. Meaning...

The challenge of remaking the Chalice of Lumyst from even one shard had just surged. Quite possibly, all shards spread through Twyluxia had been fully merged long ago.

Lacking shards, rebuilding the Chalice as it once was shifted from tough to near-unthinkable. Jake faced a barrier that didn't block his route—it wiped it out.

'If that's the case,' he mused silently, his look sharpening with held-back gloom. Should it prove utterly unfeasible, he'd need to shift course—quickly.

Then a memory struck.

The Celestial had, shortly before, pledged aid in reviving the true relic.

A way around must exist. A workaround. Anything.

Regrettably, that slim spark of optimism snuffed out nearly at once by the revelation that followed...

"Numerous past Celestials—my far-off forebears—tried endless recreations beyond Anthace's reach. That wild hope likely sparked the Player Ordeals that remade our realm. As though our desperate fights were mere sport for all-seeing powers observing from outside our sight..." The local broke off, a sour, self-mocking laugh slipping free, as if he saw the whole fiasco as sickeningly absurd.

Jake could accept that such dire risks—forces able to hurl two societies into perpetual, split wars—might warrant those Ordeals. In usual times.

A fight to the finish between a World Eater and an Evolver cut loose from his birth Mirror Universe would no doubt rank specially in the larger design. Still, the idea soured his face, teeth clenching as annoyance surged. Why did each of his Ordeals sour and pull in Digestors, by "chance" or intent?

He couldn't fault himself fully for missing that. He didn't regularly pore over other Players' Ordeals. If he had, he'd see his situation wasn't as singular as he believed.

"It stemmed from foolish hope," the Celestial picked up, yanking him back with a tone roughed by weariness and more. "Not one of those Players achieved real progress for any faction. Many just killed each other and kept things as they were. From the scant logs we kept, that's typical for Fifth Ordeals. None returned the prime Spirit Artefact. At most, they fetched lesser Chalice of Nethershade versions, holding just a hint of spirit.

He breathed in deeply, like the coming words soured his tongue. "Regrettably, stirring a newly made relic's spirit to the strength needed against Anthace demands ages. And nothing stays secret from that accursed tree forever. We got found out. Always. Every chalice we built in hiding, collecting shards bit by bit ourselves, wound up devoured by the tree before it could help. Some forebears even thought it let us go on purpose—guiding us into a doomed route it knew led to nothing.

Suddenly, the Radiant Conclave chief's features twisted in agony. Tiny tremors ran through his jaw and throat muscles, a faint twitch that only a keen observer would catch.

Jake noticed. Him alone. The next beat, the veteran's face evened out like prior, but a dark defeat clung in his gray eyes' depths.

"That's my point," he went on, softer. "Even safe inside a shield, I fight its orders nonstop. I mentioned the Goblets of Ethershine act as Anthace's relays. It surpasses simple watching." After a thick pause, he declared bluntly, "Whoever lingers enough near anything from Anthace gets owned by it fully. Anytime, it can decide our life or death. And if it wants, it can steer us."

Jake's eyes slit at that last fact, distrust of the elder local hitting a peak. His words, when voiced, stayed even—near remote—but held the chill bite of a executioner proclaiming doom.

"Does Anthace control you now?"

The Celestial held firm.

"Every Celestial does," he answered gravely.

"The Radiant Conclave, this realm—my own self—was grown by that tree. We live for it. Anthace outlasts all Lustra Plains societies, and those thrive solely to ease its schemes."

Jake had to counter.

"Celestial means more than rank. It's a cultivation stage. Do you mean hitting a peak in Lumyst mastery auto-subjugates you to it?"

If so, the fallout would eclipse disaster—worse than his bleakest forecasts. Thankfully, things weren't that mad.

"No," the Radiant Conclave leader said, giving a small head shake. Then, lower, "But the outcome—for my forerunners and me—comes close enough."

He detailed plainly how each Radiant Conclave head—each would-be Celestial of the Lustra Plains—got chosen and shaped. Two paths. The first: brutally harsh. The second: grimmer.

The first started at infancy. Yearly, millions of babies—orphans, castaways, vanished ones, snatched kids—got hurled into the Lumyst River. Zero prep. Zero lessons. Zero pity.

Half perished on the spot.

Survivors gained only more tosses into the depths for another go. And another. After about twenty-five turns, the scant few—from over thirty-three million infants dumped in—got raised as Celestial Seeds.

The label fit literally. An actual Anthace seed got planted in their minds young. Paired with rigid brainwashing and faith bred like a blade, the next Celestial turned into a flawless tool. These held no stray ideas to turn. Betraying Anthace couldn't even sprout in their heads.

Thus, the second Celestial kind resisted Anthace—and ignited those Ordeals. These rose via cultivation solo, claiming the stage with toil, gore, and grit.

So how did it hook them?

Anthace's image across the Lustra Plains got built so perfectly that doubt seemed crazy. From buildings to daily wares, Titan Tree parts flooded their ways. Roots, rind, resin, fronds—each bit served.

Ill? A dash of thinned Tree of Life sap in warm brew fixed it. Drive waning? Shred some Anthace root and vigor surged. And for boosting cultivation, toughening flesh, speeding heals—no finer aid than the tree proper.

Handy. Versatile. Wonder-working.

A cure-all woven into society.

Who'd turn that down?

Not history's Celestials. Nor Valandar, the present one.