Three days later
Wise scratched a rough mark into the crumbling mall wall — three slashes for three days. The rebar he used came from fallen debris scattered all around. At first, he thought nothing of it. But the more he looked, the more it troubled him.
There's too much damage.
Yes, the world had already ended. The infection had torn society apart long before he'd found the tree. But this level of collapse? It didn't make sense. He'd been unconscious, sure, maybe even dead—but years? It didn't feel like that long. Two, maybe three at most.
Still, the mall looked older than decay should allow. Cracks that looked centuries deep. Walls crumbling like sand. As if the building had been standing in rot for far longer than he could explain.
He gritted his teeth and dragged his protesting legs forward. Every step felt like trudging through cold static and nails. His balance wavered, but he kept going. Slowly, stubbornly. Until the tree, ever watchful, gently reached out and lifted him back into the comfort of its roots.
"How is thy legs, child?"
Wise exhaled, sweat dotting his brow.
"Best I can do is fifteen steps before I collapse again... but it's getting there."
A soft rustle of approval from the canopy above.
"And thy arm? Couldst thou move it now?"
Wise raised his left arm slightly, the blackened limb with golden veins twitching in response. He clenched his fist—slow, stiff, but solid.
He gave a lopsided grin.
"Look at that. I can make a fist now. That's progress, right?"
"Yes, it is a progress."
SHHRRIIIEEEK!
The shrill scream pierced the mall's silent husk like a jagged nail to the brain. Wise didn't flinch. Not anymore. He turned his head lazily toward the incoming infected — its gait jittery, mouth gaping with voided hunger — just in time to see a root spear lurch from the cracked floor and pierce straight through its skull. The creature hung for a moment, twitching, before the root gently lowered it, lifeless, to the ground.
Wise raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but grateful.
"Funny. You call me a guardian, but here you are — guarding me. I wonder who's really who."
The tree fluttered gently, its golden leaves shimmering in a soft laugh.
"'Tis only just. Thou hast given thy life to me — all that thou art. How could this one not protect thee after such a gift?"
Wise chuckled, settling back into the cradle of roots. They adjusted automatically, growing and shifting to contour to his resting form — still rough and rigid, but oddly comforting now. Like a wooden hammock carved just for him.
He gazed through the broken glass roof above — a star-swept sky bleeding into gold, yet its light still dimmer than the radiant canopy above him. The glowing leaves danced in the night air, as though the tree breathed with the heavens.
He whispered, eyes soft, voice warm with quiet resolve.
"I swear... once I can walk without falling and my left arm works again... I'll be your proper guardian."
The tree said nothing.
But something moved — deep within its old core, in a place where thought became sensation. A faint tingle. A warmth. A stirring not unlike a heartbeat.
It was not embarrassment. It was not pride.
It was... new.
The seventh mark was carved with a firmer hand than the six before it.
Wise stepped back from the mall wall, grinning at the little row of lines. Seven days. Seven days since he began walking again. His legs still trembled now and then, like uncertain branches in the wind, and running was out of the question—but he could walk. That was enough. He turned toward the tree and spread his arms proudly, wobbling in place.
"Look! I'm practically a goat now!" he boasted.
The tree rustled, its branches shifting in something like applause.
"Thy legs art reborn. Walk proud, child."
With his new mobility, Wise set out into the deeper parts of the mall for the first time since awakening. The tree's parting words lingered softly in his ear.
"If thy need anything, just think of this one! Be careful there, child."
"I will. Don't worry."
The abandoned mall welcomed him with a silence both soothing and eerie. Only narrow shafts of light pierced through the fractured glass roof, cutting golden paths across the dusty floor. The edges of the mall remained in shadow—still, still, like waiting wolves.
He moved carefully, one step at a time, crow-feather light. The air was stale but calm, the atmosphere like the breath held between heartbeats.
That's when he saw it.
A body—or rather, what remained of one—slumped against the back wall of an old, boarded-up store. The skeleton sat in a collapsed pose, its head tilted back as if trying to look past the roof, jaw locked in an open grimace. Whether laughter, scream, or silence, Wise couldn't tell.
But his eyes locked onto what the corpse still gripped in one hand.
A crowbar.
Rust covered much of it, flaked in blotches, some green with moss, but parts still shone with faint remnants of red paint. The metal underneath, in patches, was firm. Heavy.
He crouched and slowly pulled it free from the bony grip. It was solid. Sturdy. A tool. A weapon. A reminder.
"Huh... still has some fight left in it," he muttered, inspecting it. "Just like me."
His fingers closed around the crowbar's neck. A thought stirred—his first tool since returning. First thing he held not given to him by the tree. First step into the world beyond its golden leaves.
Wise straightened, crowbar in hand, and looked down at the skeleton.
"Thanks... whoever you were."
Then he turned back toward the creeping dark ahead, walking forward with one good arm, one stubborn leg, and a crowbar that remembered.
He wandered the mall slowly, each step echoing off the cracked tiles and hollow storefronts. Old kiosks were overturned, mannequins frozen mid-pose, and scattered garbage rustled with the faintest breeze. The stillness was almost sacred, like time had stopped here and no one told it to start again.
Broken neon signs buzzed faintly above his head—ghosts of a livelier time. A crumpled soda can crunched underfoot, startling the silence. Dust clung to everything like a second skin. He paused now and then to peer into broken windows, empty stores, shelves ransacked and forgotten. There was life here once, and now it was just memory.
The tree's voice rumbled gently in his mind.
"Find anything that catches thy eyes?"
"Not yet."
"Don't go too deep, child. There are corruptions this one could not reach. Though thy may be immune to its touch, thou art not immune to being torn apart."
"Thank you for the concern. Will do."
He moved more cautiously after that. Shadows shifted in places they shouldn't, and something distant creaked with the weight of old rot. But still he walked.
Eventually, something drew his gaze. A store tucked above the main level—a camping shop. Its windows were darkened by dust, but he could just make out outlines of gear inside. Packs. Lanterns. Supplies. Maybe even food, if miracles were feeling generous.
But the entrance was blocked by a closed security shutter—like a garage door made of slatted metal. A thick, rust-bitten padlock clung to it near the bottom.
Wise stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
This was it.
He reached down and slid the crowbar into the loop of the lock, finding the prying edge. Then paused. Right—only one arm working. His left hung limp like a dead branch, barely able to make a fist. He frowned, adjusting the grip on the crowbar, trying to angle his weight just right.
This was going to take a little creativity.
The crowbar creaked under the weight as Wise carefully positioned it into the lock, bracing it with his foot. With his good arm, he angled himself, applying pressure by lowering his body weight slowly.
The old metal groaned.
SKRRT…
GLINK!
BASH!
"OUCH!"
The lock suddenly snapped, the crowbar recoiling with force and flinging upward. It smacked him directly in the forehead.
"CHILD!?"
The voice thundered in his head, sharp with alarm. The bond between them surged—she felt his pain before even he could register it fully.
Wise fell back, clutching his head. A dull throb bloomed above his brow. He pressed his palm to the wound, expecting the familiar warmth of blood.
"I-I'm fine..." he muttered, more stunned than injured.
"Thou art not! Thou art hurt!"
Her voice snapped again in his mind, worry twisting her words, vibrating with something close to panic.
He blinked, hand still over his forehead. Then he noticed the glistening fluid between his fingers—not red, but a thick golden liquid, shining like molten metal.
He stared.
"...What the hell?"
The ichor trickled down his cheek slowly, glowing softly in the gloom.
"Child... cometh here quickly, at once!"
Her voice had changed—lower, more urgent, more maternal. Not commanding, but pleading.
Rubbing his head gently, Wise stood, wobbling just slightly from the impact. He turned back, retracing his steps toward the golden glow of the tree in the distance.
He muttered under his breath.
"...You're acting like my mom now..."
Wise returned to the root bed, wobbling a bit as he approached. The tree's branch gently reached down, brushing aside the long strands of his silky black hair to expose the gash clearly—an open wound on the skull, glinting faintly under the light.
"Thy art careless, folly!"
"Yeah... it was kinda my fault," he admitted, sheepishly.
The branch hovered for a moment, then dipped low. A thick, glowing drop of sap fell from its tip, landing precisely on the wound. Instantly, the injury sealed, skin knitting closed with a faint shimmer. The pain vanished like mist.
Wise chuckled.
"What's so funny about that, child?"
"I... I'm just happy I felt something. Pain—raw pain. I'm truly alive... I..."
"Foolish one. Thou art alive. What dost thou think thou art?"
"Not that," he said quietly. "It's just... sometimes I wonder if I'm stuck in some afterlife fantasy. Or limbo. Or a dream I can't wake up from. Who knows."
The great tree rustled sharply—a stiff snap of leaves brushing one another, like the sound of someone sighing through gritted teeth.
Wise glanced up with a lopsided grin.
"...Was that you being mad at me? Really? You're adorable when you're mad."
"Cease this folly at once!"
He burst out laughing, louder this time. A laugh that echoed through the quiet ruin like sunlight through a storm.
And though the tree remained silent, her branches lingered near—close, protective, warm.
Wise rubbed his forehead, fingers tracing the sealed wound. The phantom pain still lingered—an itch beneath the skin, deep in the bone—but he didn't mind. Strangely, he found it… grounding. A reminder he was still here. Anyone truly human might've gone mad from it.
"My blood is golden... Is it because of the reformation?" he asked absently, watching the crystallized ichor dry on his fingertips like molten sun.
"Thou art correct. Thy blood could not remain as it was. The corruption would continue, had this one left it unturned."
The golden blood was warm, sticky. It clung to his skin in flecks that shimmered like treasure—hardening, flaking, yet somehow still alive. He rubbed two fingers together and smirked.
"I'd be a 199% guaranteed resource if my former kin ever found me."
The tree's branch slid gently beneath his arms, lifting him with an ease that betrayed its strength. It nestled him once again into the freshly reformed root bed.
"Why dost thou think that? Is it not strange for kin to disrespect their own?"
Wise leaned back and rubbed his chin, mulling the thought over.
"My kin is, uhh... the species of greed."
"Greed?"
"It might be a weird concept for you," he replied, gesturing vaguely, "but what do you feel when you're feeding—absorbing corruption and sunlight?"
"Ah. This one does not feel anything in particular regarding such acts."
"Do you stop eating when you've had enough?"
"Yes. It would be strange to take more than one requires."
Wise snapped his fingers with a grin.
"There it is. That's the word to describe them."
"This one, unfortunately, does not understand what thou means."
"My kin only takes," he said, tone cooling. "It hardly gives. It takes and takes and takes. No matter the cost. Food, land, valuables..." He paused, then added with a quieter bitterness, "Even its own kin."
There was silence between them for a moment.
The tree rustled softly, as if in mourning for something it could not quite grasp.
"My kin has never been kind," Wise muttered, voice touched with both humor and spite. "Even a tree could be more benevolent than them—a thousand times over, or more."
He chuckled bitterly and reached out, brushing his fingers gently against the black bark. The contact sent a ripple of sensation through the tree—a tingling warmth that reached deep into its core. If it could blush, it would've blushed then.
"Thou art strange..." the tree whispered quietly in thought, voice softer now.
Wise leaned his head back against the rootbed, eyes distant.
"My kin will kill over a spot—a corner, a patch of earth, a flicker of attention. They fight like children with knives, thinking they're kings. A foolish race of failure, drunk on the illusion that they're everything. That they belong on top."
His voice hung in the air, echoing faintly in the quiet hollowness of the broken mall. The golden stains on his fingertips caught the morning light.
"Art thou not like them?"
The tree's voice was quiet, almost hesitant, yet it echoed clearly in Wise's mind.
He looked up at its towering form, then slowly turned his gaze away.
"Used to," he admitted. "But the more I grew up that day... the more I realized what a piece of—"
He paused, catching himself. "—Feces, really."
He reached out again, touching the bark gently with his hand, as if grounding himself.
"I just fell off the train... woke up like others before me. Nothing special. Just another soul thrown back into a world that already made up its mind."
He let out a faint breath, not quite a sigh.
"My kin will keep suffering. I can bet my life on it. Even with everything that's happened—even with all this," he gestured vaguely around the ruined mall, toward the roots, the leaves above, and himself, "nothing's changed. Not really. Not in this already forsaken world."
"Do you hate thy kin, child?"
The question came gently, but it settled in Wise's chest like a stone. He closed his eyes, the shadows of old memories flickering behind them.
"Somewhat..."
His voice was quiet. Bitter. Tired.
"I hate when those who have power—the real power to change things—choose instead to build thrones and walls. They could've healed the world, fixed it, like you did me. Accelerated medicine. Cured disease. Ended hunger. But they didn't. They saw profit in pain. Made healing something you had to earn."
His fingers curled into a fist as he spoke.
"They made sure that only those important enough were saved when everything fell. Can you imagine that?"
He looked to the tree, its bark shimmering faintly under the golden-leafed light.
"To me... that's corruption. Not the filth outside. Not the monsters. No... The real rot is those who could've changed the course of our story, and instead twisted it into something cruel."
The tree stirred slightly. The leaves rustled, not in wind, but in emotion.
"Did thou not hate thine own? Thine own blood?"
A soft smile crept onto Wise's face. Bittersweet.
"That's the reason I said somewhat. The only thing that kept me from fully hating my kind—are them.
My parents. My siblings."
The tree understood. In a way only something deeply bound to another could. Though not human, it felt what family meant, what love sounded like in the fibers of his voice.
"They were the ones who fed me lies. Soft, sweet lies. The kind you desperately want to believe in."
"Why would thy own lie to thee?"
"It wasn't to hurt me," Wise whispered. "They lied so I wouldn't become... what I was becoming. My kind calls it misanthropy."
"What is misanthrope, child?"
He chuckled faintly, rubbing his thumb across the bark beside him.
"It means when one comes to hate their own species. Their own kind. When you stop believing that there's any good left in them."
The tree rustled gently above.
"Didst thou believe in the good?"
"I wanted to. More than anything."
His voice broke slightly there.
"I wanted to believe humans were more than greed. More than malice. That they could be kind. That kindness could matter."
He looked up through the shattered skylight, where starlight filtered through the glowing golden canopy.
"But kindness? It doesn't stop wars. It doesn't save the sick. It doesn't change the world."
He paused, swallowing.
"...But still I hoped. Still I dream. Even if it's hopeless. Even if it's like watching those infected trying to reach you—knowing they'll never succeed—I still... hope."
The branch brushed along his cheek, careful and soft, wiping the single tear that had formed in his still-human eye — the one untouched by change. It lingered for a moment, as though confused by the sensation of sorrow made tangible.
"Thou dost not need to be sad," the tree said quietly, its voice like warm wind through ancient leaves.
"It brings sorrow unto this one as well, to see thine own."
Wise gave a faint chuckle, hoarse and tired.
"Sorry... I just... miss them. My family."
His gaze drifted out toward the gray-burnt horizon. There was no danger there — not yet — but the shadow of memory was more chilling than any beast could be.
"My kin... if they find me..."
His voice dropped.
"They'll butcher me. Strip my limbs — the ones you healed like an artist restoring a broken sculpture. And if they found you... they'd cut you down. Take your sap. Grind you into pulp and call it progress."
The tree didn't respond at first. It simply reached out, cradling him against its great trunk, pressing his back into its bark — a gesture that was half shelter, half embrace.
"This one must be most fortunate," it whispered. "To find such a rarity among thy kind. This one assumed all thy kin were as thou describeth."
Wise gave a hollow laugh.
"Oh, I'm not special. Not really."
"Why dost thou believe that?"
He paused, staring into the faint orange light of the morning sky breaking through the canopy above. Sunlight filtered down like blessings unspoken.
"Because," he began slowly, "when humans are cornered—when we're thrown into the deepest pit imaginable, with no hope left—the only way left is up."
He looked down at his golden-stained hand. Flexed it.
"I think there are many like me. Maybe they never had a chance to show it. Maybe they gave in to fear. But humans... we're a strange breed. As much as we lie, kill, and betray, we're also desperate not to die alone. We're wired for connection. Even monsters among us long for someone to hold their hand at the end."
He smiled faintly. Sadly.
"When we're on the edge of death, staring into the abyss, there are only two choices: break, or burn brighter. My kin... we freeze. We cry. We scream. But some of us… face it. Not because we're brave. But because there's no other option."
The wind stirred the leaves above like a gentle sigh.
"And even if we're a bunch of selfish bastards, our spirit..."
He laid his hand against the tree.
"It's harder to kill than you'd think. Indomitable. Second to none."
The tree said nothing for a while — but its branches held him a little tighter.
Wise staggered to his feet, legs trembling like newborn saplings in a storm, as the branch gently, almost hesitantly, released him from its hold.
"When thy has finished," the tree said softly, "would thoust tell this one more about thy kin… and thyself?"
He gave a light chuckle, brushing dirt from his arm.
"Yeah, I'll tell you everything... when I get back."
He made his way toward the nearby closed camping shop — a rundown structure whose lock he'd already pried open in his earlier curiosity. The steel garage-like gate remained, stubbornly shut. He eyed it. There might be something in there — a tool, a weapon — anything to help protect both himself and the tree.
He crouched low, sliding fingers under the base of the rust-bitten gate. With a grunt, he began to lift. The old bearings groaned, shrieked, and fought him with every inch. Rust peeled and flakes of metal rained down, but finally the door jerked up — with a shrill metal-on-metal scream that tore through the morning air like a flare gun in silence.
SCREEEEECH
The sound echoed down ruined streets like an open challenge.
From deep in the ruins:
KRAAAAAAA—
GAAAAAAARRRRRRHHHH—
The corrupted had heard it.
"Child, that might attract the corruption," the tree warned in a harsh whisper, branches rustling in alarm.
Wise didn't move. He waited. Breathing steady. Hands tight around a rusted crowbar.
The first infected burst in through the cracked gate, all twitching limbs and gnashing rot. Its mouth gaped, oozing black ichor. Its flesh peeled, its jaw cracked.
WHAM!
Wise swung.
The crowbar hit true — its curved end cracking into the side of the creature's skull with a wet, crunching CRACK. Blue-tinged blood, glowing faintly like dying stars, sprayed across Wise's face as the monster dropped.
He exhaled.
"Come on…"
But another came — fast, faster than his arms could react. He yanked at the crowbar — stuck — buried deep in the first corpse's cranium.
The second infected leapt, grabbing his shoulder, jaws opening wide to tear through flesh—
Wise twisted, pain shooting through his side. He turned with the creature's momentum and slammed his good shoulder into its torso, throwing it off balance. They crashed to the floor together, limbs tangled.
Then—
JLEB.
A root — fast, razor-sharp — spiked from beneath, piercing the infected through the pelvis and exploding out its skull in one fluid motion. The creature twitched, then went still.
The root retracted like a tongue returning to a mouth.
Wise lay there, chest rising and falling in short bursts. Blood — blue, black, gold — dripped from his face. His hand found the crowbar, still warm with battle.
He looked at the tree behind him. It didn't speak.
But he could feel it watching.
And in the silence that followed the slaughter, he whispered between panting breaths:
"...Thanks."
Wise limped toward the darkened interior of the camping store, crowbar gripped tightly in one hand, breath still uneven. His legs ached with each step, muscles straining under the weight of survival.
"Don't be careless now, child."
He gave a tired grin, casting a look over his shoulder at the tree's distant form through the open gate.
"Can't really wrun with these legs," he muttered with a wince. "Gotta use my brain somehow to at least get away... sorry for using you."
"It tis fine."
The tree's voice rumbled low and warm, like wind whispering through ancient boughs. Wise nodded silently and slipped inside.
The store was entombed in darkness and stillness. Cobwebs draped over the shelves like funeral veils. Dust blanketed everything, thick enough to choke on, undisturbed by man or wind. It was a place untouched by time, by looters, by madness.
And that — that unsettled him.
Even the mall, despite its crumbling, had clear scars of chaos — shattered glass, broken displays, blood-streaked aisles. Wise remembered the raw panic during the early days of the outbreak, how people fought for medicine, food, anything. He remembered elbowing through crowds with his father just to get inhalers for his mom's asthma. He remembered the fists, the screams, the animal desperation.
But here?
No broken shelves. No signs of looting.
Just... silence. Stillness. A single mummified corpse in a corner, curled and clawed toward some unseen hope.
"This place..." he muttered, frowning. "Why'd they leave it? Why didn't anyone take anything?"
It looked like everyone had simply... fled, abandoning everything mid-motion. Not a single product misplaced. Not a door broken. Not a register opened.
It didn't make sense.
The outbreak didn't spare places.
And yet this place stood untouched, like a shrine forgotten by time.
The hairs on his neck prickled. He shook his head.
Now wasn't the time for fear. He had to find something useful. Something that could help him… and the tree.
The mystery could wait.
Survival couldn't.
Wise limped slowly through the quiet store, dust trailing behind him in wisps. The fluorescent lights overhead were long dead, casting the space in a soft, bluish gloom from the outside morning light. He stopped by a displayed tent, examining it briefly before his gaze fell on an electric hand lamp sitting beside it.
He picked it up, brushing thick layers of dust from its body. The metal was rusted, but the build was intact. He flicked the switch.
Nothing.
"Figures..." he muttered. With a grunt, he opened the battery compartment — empty.
"Still good," he murmured, sliding the lamp into his grip and keeping it tight against his side.
As he turned, he caught sight of a mannequin fitted with a backpack, posed mid-stride like it was frozen while hiking through better days. He limped over and carefully lowered it to the ground, groaning softly as he tried to pry the pack loose with only one functioning hand. It resisted at first — stiff straps and stubborn buckles — but he managed to wedge it open using his foot as leverage, setting the lamp inside the bag's main pocket.
He slung it over his shoulder.
The sudden weight nearly pulled him sideways. He wobbled, staggered one step — then caught himself.
"Alright... alright," he whispered, adjusting his balance, every movement sharp with pain.
He passed an old corpse, this one strange — not skeletal, like the others. A woman. Her skin leathery, dry, preserved in an uncanny stillness, unlike the hollowed husks outside. Her nametag still hung from her chest:
Rachel Etch.
"...Rest easy," Wise muttered, closing his eyes. He offered her a small, whispered prayer — not for salvation, but for peace, for solitude, for whatever lay beyond the rot of the world.
But it disturbed him. Why was she like this? Why here?
He kept walking, uneasy.
At the back of the store, a glass counter caught his eye. Inside, dust blanketed a large black case, long and lean, like something out of a hunting lodge.
Wise limped toward it. He wiped a circle clean on the dusty glass, heart skipping.
He recognized that shape.
He popped the lid of the counter. The lock wasn't hard to manage — more for show than security. He flipped the catches carefully, putting pressure down so the contents wouldn't leap out.
Click.
Click.
He opened it.
"...Well well..."
Inside was a bolt-action sniper rifle, polished wood stock, clean lines despite the time. It looked like a model built for big game — deer, maybe bear. The engraved nameplate told him exactly what it was.
Still nestled in the velvet casing beside it were five bullets. Old, but sealed. Preserved.
He whistled low, almost reverently. "That's... real lucky."
And luck was rare these days.
He checked the bolt. Smooth. Checked the barrel. No cracks.
He slid one bullet in to test. Perfect fit.
As he looked at the rifle and felt its weight, he turned his eyes back toward Rachel's corpse… then the untouched store... and shivered.
Something about this place wasn't just forgotten — it had been deliberately left alone.
But for now, he had a weapon. And a working light, with batteries yet to find.
He had no answers. But he had tools.
And in a world like this?
That was enough to walk one more day.
Wise took a long breath, rubbing his sore shoulder before gently lowering the rifle back into the case, snapping the latches shut. He wasn't going to leave it forever—just until he had a proper way to carry and wield it. With only one functional arm, even lifting it had been a trial. He'd come back for it. He had to.
His eyes then drifted toward the glass counter, where he slid it open cautiously.
No dust.
Not a speck. Not even on the edge.
"...That's not right," he muttered, brows narrowing. This place had been untouched, too untouched.
Inside the counter was a collection of useful gear: a pocket knife, a coiled rope, and — most notably — a survival hatchet, glinting faintly in the dim light.
His expression darkened the moment he laid eyes on it.
Hatchet.
His gaze shifted toward the tree, his mind instantly drawing a connection he despised. Hatchets, axes — they were the natural killers of trees. And though the Tree had shown him nothing but kindness, his stomach twisted at the thought of carrying that object near it.
His fingers hovered over it.
Then, with a look of pure disgust, he flung the hatchet across the floor, letting it clatter loudly against the far wall.
"I felt an unease in thee, is thy alright?"
"I'm okay. Don't worry," he answered, forcing his voice steady. "Just… saw something unnecessary."
He gave the gear one last look, pocketed the knife, shouldered the backpack, and limped slowly toward the back storage door.
It creaked open under his push.
The smell hit him like a wall.
Putrid. Thick. The kind of stench that curled into your sinuses and clawed at the back of your throat. He grimaced.
"Yeah... that's a 'nope'."
Darkness. Stench. No backup. No exit.
Every horror story started this way.
He pulled the door shut again, backing away.
"Not today."
Gathering his things, he grabbed the rifle case once more and started his slow return to the center of the mall, the weight tugging on his wounded frame, but his spirit holding.
The Tree's massive silhouette came into view, its warm aura a stark contrast to the eerie coldness of the camping store.
"Find anything, child?"
"Oh, I found everything," Wise said with a grin, dropping to the ground with a soft groan and placing the rifle case on his lap. He unlatched it again and flipped it open with reverence.
He lifted the bolt-action rifle gently, using his folded legs like a bipod to brace it. It wasn't perfect — hell, it wasn't even comfortable — but it worked.
He could protect the tree now.
"Only five rounds, but that's five chances," he muttered, adjusting the scope.
Then he looked up at the bark that held him earlier, offering a small smile.
"...Don't worry. I won't let them touch you. Not while I'm breathing."
"Child, this one could protect itself, no need to be so tense."
"You said yourself I am now your guardian. And I'm intent to fill that role. Besides, if it were too many for you to handle, I shall be your vanguard."
The tree rustled Wise's hair gently, its leaves brushing him like a mother's hand.
"Child, prithee don't push thy hard too much. Thy has push thy life for this one, no need second timeth."
"I am a man of my own oath. I'd take it and take it seriously. If I wish to guard this tree, then I shall do so with all that I am in the line."
He clenched his right fist, as if seizing a torch passed down by fate itself, holding the weight of his words like a soldier accepting his armor.
"It tis one thing to know one's life precious soul. Thy must not easily gave it away."
Wise lowered his gaze, eyes dark with memory.
"My life is filled with debt. Even now to my mother and father, who raised me with all their might. I did not regret my choice to leave them so they could be saved. And now… my life has been claimed by you.
For all I know, I can't pay enough for that debt. I must pay back with my life.
You have my life at your branches. I know a dead man couldn't finish his debt and hope, but you… you gave me a second chance. So let me pay my debt to you."
The wind blows through the mall gave no reply at first. Only the gentle rustle of leaves above Wise's head responded to his words, like a breath caught in the throat of the world itself.
Then came the voice — ancient, warm, and worn like weathered bark, steady and solemn.
"Child, thy words art heavy with sorrow and flame. This one knoweth of debt, of sacrifice, of burdens unseen."
The branches swayed, brushing lightly against his cheek — not as a reprimand, but as a touch of understanding. Compassion rooted deeper than language.
"But hear this truth, dear soul: a life once given needeth not be giv'n twice. The branches hath held thee not to claim, but to return. Thou art not shackled, but cherished."
A pause followed, the silence like a sacred space for breath and thought.
"To protect with purpose is noble. To perish without need is folly. If thou owe this one a debt, then liveth, and be a man whole. That is enough."
Wise looked up, the glint in his eye fighting the sting at its edge.
"...So you're saying you don't want myself to owe you my life?"
"Nay, child. This one gaveth thee life not as coin to be spent, but as a gift to be kept. Let thy heart beat not for debt... but for choice."
The leaves shimmered, a soft sigh through the limbs.
"And should thou choose to guard this one still... then this one shall accept thy oath — not as repayment, but as bond."
Wise's hand slowly unclenched.
"...A bond," he whispered, almost to himself.
He looked out toward the hollowed halls of the mall, then back up at the great tree, standing silent and bright amidst the ruin.
"Heh. You make it sound like you're the one who indebted to me now."
"This one is."
"No. Your life will never be indebted to me. I only asked for a graveyard before this… and you already gave it to me. And you even gave me more. Compared to me who only killed the infected… that's nothing..."
Wise lay down behind the bark.
"Let me tell you something from my own kin's perspective. To take life is very easy. To destroy things is very easy. You could build a place for years and it would take us a minute to destroy it. We could raise our child with all of our devotion… just for that child to be killed in five minutes in a meaningless act of violence.
You… who resurrected me… no amount of medicine could have saved me. If you were one of my kind, they'd say you did what we thought impossible. You created me whole again — and despite it gave you no profit."
Wise caresses its root.
"I'll be honest... I am not a good human. I am kind of a loser amongst my kin."
"Thou speak thyself low even after so fearlessly giving thine life to this one."
He chuckled.
"That's why I am one. I don't regard my life as precious. I will roll the dice made from my life if it comes to it. Part of me knows that I have never matured, despite my name being Wise."
He sighed.
"I have never considered fixing myself. My life was always bound to my parents — the chains I willingly put around my neck... the oath I took, that I am no one and nothing without them. They were my purpose. And when I finally saved them, the chains broke. They're safe... and I am left willingly. I care not if they call my name, for I know I'm already dead — just waiting for time to turn me into one of those creatures you call corruption.
Then I met you — a tree in the middle of this abandoned mall. You, who looked like a deity of nature come down from heaven. You, who looked so beautiful even in the night. For me, who was running out of time, it felt reassuring that the last thing I'd see would not be the cold bite of being swarmed… or slowly turning into a mindless husk in some alleyway or road.
It was the most serene feeling I've had in my life. This tree… sitting at the center of the mall like a slumbering queen. I couldn't help but to bow my head low. Its beauty was everything… for this worthless soul."
"Child, why art thou think that way?"
"Penance... I am extremely aware that I am no different than my own kin, despite the loathsome hatred I hold against them. It was a penance for my sin — the sin of ignorance. To know what's wrong, yet to do nothing... It made me tired, honestly. That's why when I grew up and realized how much I was... loved by my family, unconditionally... I slowly opened my eyes to the truth that I was lucky to have them.
To serve that penance, I chose to serve them — like I am less than a slave. I will not hesitate to take a life or give my own for them. It is the least I can do as this worthless failure of a son they raised."
"Thou would not see thyself of its good, just its flaws?"
"No... Believe me. I can't. The only thing that kept me from becoming like most of my kin... was my parents. Believe me, if I had to choose between malice and good, I would choose apathy — not choosing at all.
My parents taught me well about kindness. Even if it were a meaningless act... just something to show the gods that I am pure and kind. But the truth is... I am unfortunately unable to see the goodness in others that would deserve my kindness. Only my close ones. Only them."
"This one does not like when thine speak thyself like that."
He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly.
"Sorry... it's a habit."
"Now that thou hast told of thyself, this one should speak of how this one seeth thee."
The roots stirred gently, curling around his torso—not to restrain, but to lift. They cradled him with an unspoken tenderness, shifting the earth into a curved bed of bark and root, soft and steady like the bosom of a mountain. A seat made only for him.
"This one seeth a young soul, frayed and weathered, yet never broken. When death's breath kissed thy neck, thou did not tremble. Nay—thou stood."
The leaves above rustled faintly, like a sigh of wind drawn from memory.
"This one remembereth the brute — the great beast of rot and rage. Its charge was thunder, its wrath unyielding. Most would flee. Many would freeze. But thee... thee moved forward. Not for glory. Not for pride. But to shield this one. To place thyself between death and bark, to face the chains that tore flesh from bone... and ne'er once did thy eyes ask for thanks."
The branches dipped down as if bowing to him.
"This one hath no knowledge of great men, nor cruel kings. Of poets, tyrants, saints or monsters — this one knoweth naught. Trees know not history books nor songs of lineage. But this one knoweth thee."
A pause, deep and reverent.
"Thou art this one's glimpse of mankind. This one's understanding of thy kind. And in thee, this one seeth gold — buried beneath ash, but burning still. A flame dimmed by sorrow, yet never extinguished. Even in thy silence, it roareth. Even as thy blood painted these roots, it burned."
The tree leaned in closer, the wind quieted as though the world paused to listen.
"Thou call thyself unworthy. This one disagreeth. For in all of man's noise and shadow... this one hath found light. And it is thee."
Wise stood still, facing the tree, his posture stiff as if holding back a tide. His eyes shimmered—not with light, but with the weight of unspoken storms. Tears gathered there, trembling on the edge like prisoners refusing escape. He did not wish to cry—not in front of her. Not now. But his shoulders betrayed him, trembling gently.
One tear slipped free.
Then another.
And another.
He turned away, unable to face her—ashamed, not of his grief, but of burdening her with it. Yet the tree did not let him retreat alone.
A branch, smooth as velvet and warm as sunlight, gently reached forward. It wiped each tear as it fell—never once faltering, never once judging. As if it had all the time in the world to dry every sorrow he would never speak aloud.
He opened his mouth.
"...Wiseman."
The leaves stirred—rustling not in confusion, but recognition. Her branches perked in soft shock, as if hearing a melody thought forgotten.
"...Wiseman Knight."
A moment of stillness passed, sacred and silent. Then the branches relaxed, visibly pleased—savoring the sound of the name as though it were morning dew on ancient bark.
"It is thy full name?"
He nodded, eyes still misted, but gaze now firm.
"Yes."
To speak that name—to give it voice—meant one thing:
He had placed this tree into his ledger of life.
That sacred book of names etched not on paper, but into soul. A record no one else could read. Few ever earned a place there. Fewer still were ever spoken aloud.
This name was a vow.
Not of love. Not of duty.
But of something deeper: the promise of soul.
To call her by his full name meant he would wager all he was—his flesh, his fire, his every last breath—for her. Without pause. Without price.
A knight's oath. Silent. Eternal.