"Ahh… fuck, that was way too much for a twelve-year-old me," Riven muttered, dragging a hand down his face as he sat on the still surface of the ocean.
His voice echoed faintly into the calm void, swallowed by the silence surrounding the World Tree and the distant Blue Moon.
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to make sure it was still attached.
"Anyway… so this is what Vaelir spoke of, huh?" His eyes drifted to the grimoire resting beside him—quiet, heavy, mysterious.
"And that dude…"His brow furrowed.
"Who was he?" he whispered. "He seemed… fucking powerful. Not normal. Not even close."
He rubbed his arms instinctively, still remembering the weight of that man's presence—the casual way he laughed at gods, talked to the tree, and mentioned conquering this place like it was a childhood memory.
Riven glanced around, the eternal ocean still reflecting stars that didn't exist in any sky he knew.
"Oh shit," his voice picked up again, rising with panic. "How long have I even been here?!"
He stood up suddenly, turning in every direction like the horizon would give him an answer.
Still. Dreamlike. Timeless.
He looked down at his hands.
They weren't trembling.
Stronger.Calmer.Changed.
Something inside him had shifted—for good.
He looked back at the World Tree behind him, towering and ancient, unmoving but not uncaring. It hadn't spoken a single word, yet Riven could feel its presence—like a god watching from within its roots.
He laughed softly to himself, half in wonder, half in madness.
"Well... guess the hard part's over."
"Ahhh... so what do I do now that I'm awake?" Riven groaned, stretching his arms and staring up at the never-ending blue-lit sky. "I gotta go home… I don't even know how many days it's been…"
He rubbed his temple, then blinked.
"—Ak! What is this?"
Words began to shimmer in the air before him—golden ink dancing on invisible parchment, each letter curling into existence like breath on glass.
"Morning, Chosen One."
Riven squinted, eyes narrowed.
"…In what way does it look like morning?"
The glowing script flickered, then reshaped itself almost sheepishly:
"Oh. My bad."
Riven snorted. "Okay then… So is this the part where you explain what's going on? And first of all, talk. Don't do this 'mysterious text in the air' thing to make yourself look cool."
There was a long pause.
Then, new words appeared:
"…I do not speak."
He stared blankly.
"Then don't," Riven said flatly. "Just give me directions to my home."
Another pause. The golden letters hesitated in midair, then reformed more slowly, almost like a confused stammer.
"D-Do you not understand this situation, young one?"
Riven crossed his arms.
"Let me guess. I've been chosen. By some ancient mystical force. For a purpose I never asked for. With powers I don't understand. And now I'm 'important,' right?" He waved a hand lazily. "Yeah. I get it."
The tree rustled faintly in response, its massive leaves shimmering with moonlight, as if chuckling quietly.
Golden words unfurled again, more refined this time.
"You have been marked by the Trial of the Abyss. The World Tree has healed you. You now bear its imprint upon your soul. You are not who you were."
Riven rolled his eyes.
"Cool exposition. Still not helping me get home."
The golden ink shimmered again, this time forming a map—a circular pattern glowing with sigils and one marked point, pulsing gently.
"This is your way back. The Sea of Silence will open a gate when you walk the path beneath the moon. Follow the rhythm. The tree will guide you."
Riven stared at the map. Then back at the words. Then at the tree.
"So basically… walk under a moon that doesn't move, across an ocean that isn't water, toward a place that may or may not be real. Got it."
"Precisely."
"Wonderful," he muttered, standing. "Guess I should've just pissed the bed and gone back to sleep that day."
The golden ink lingered for a moment longer. Then it wrote:
"The world will change when you return. Be ready, Riven Altharys."
Riven glanced at the name, then shrugged.
"World's always changing. But now… so am I."
Riven paused, then looked up at the towering, silent monolith of bark and starlight before him.
"Hey, you little piece of—" he caught himself, then grunted, "I mean big piece of wood… listen close."
He jabbed a finger up at it like scolding an elder.
"You better just get me home. I'm not interested in your mysterious ancient powers. I don't want to be your chosen one, your champion, or your damn slave to save this world."
His voice cracked slightly, and he lowered it, almost whispering now.
"I just want to go home. Spend time with my family. Grow up. Earn. Marry. Die like a normal being. You can keep your destiny."
He shook his head, snatched the black grimoire from the air, its cool weight like frozen ink in his palm, and turned.
The World Tree stood still—taller than mountains, older than memory—its leaves glowing with gentle luminescence beneath the eternal Blue Moon.
Riven glanced at it one last time.
His gaze wasn't one of awe or fear.
Just… quiet resolve.
And then—
He took a step forward.
A single footfall on the moonlit ocean.
Ripples spread beneath him, soft waves parting in silence.
The air stirred.
The light dimmed.
And for the first time in millions of years… the World Tree reacted.
Its roots trembled ever so slightly beneath the glasslike sea. A pulse moved through its trunk like a heartbeat forgotten. Its branches bent inward, curling as though in thought. Shock. Maybe even sorrow.
No one… no one had ever cleared the Trial and walked away.
No one had ever stood victorious and simply… refused.
Not for power. Not for glory.
But for something far rarer.
A normal life.
The sea shimmered beneath his feet, opening slowly into a path of soft light, winding far beyond the horizon.
The World Tree did not speak. It could not.
But it watched.
As the only being in all its millennia to conquer the Trial without asking for anything—
—walked away.
And for the first time in eternity…
The Tree didn't know what came next.
Riven stopped mid-step.
The world stilled.
He turned his head slightly, just enough for his voice to carry.
"Hey, old tree."
Silence.
Then—
"I'll do as you say... on one condition."
For the first time in millions of years, the World Tree slipped.
It spoke.
A deep, ancient voice—not thunderous, but weathered, like wind through an endless canyon—tumbled into the air.
"W–What…" it rumbled, a little too quickly. "Ah… I spoke. No need for playing with glowing ink anymore, I guess."
Riven raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Wow. You spoke. Great. What's next, you gonna start breakdancing? Honestly, at this point, nothing surprises me."
"You don't understand, Chosen One," the Tree replied, its voice creaking with age, with awe, as if shocked by its own words. "Why did you stop? Are you… willing to help me?"
The glow of the moon shimmered across the sea, catching the slow tilt of Riven's head.
"I can't offer you words," the Tree said, as though pleading. "But I can show you the way to power… knowledge beyond your realm… a purpose that could—"
"Money," Riven cut in flatly.
The World Tree paused.
"…Money?"
"Yeah," Riven nodded, utterly serious. "Currency. Gold. Maybe some gems. Do you do bank transfers? Magical payroll? No? Alright, sacks of coins then. Maybe a magic ATM, that'd be convenient."
A long pause.
The ancient being—who had seen stars born and empires fall—echoed in disbelief.
"You seek… wealth? Not prophecy? Not legacy? Not truth?"
Riven shrugged. "Prophecy won't buy me dinner. Legacy doesn't pay rent. And truth?" He scoffed. "Have you ever tried surviving in a village where bread costs five silver a loaf? That's truth. Now money—that's divine power."
The Tree was silent.
Leaves drifted down like stunned snowflakes.
"…Are you certain?" it asked, trying—struggling—not to sound offended. "You are the first to pass my Trial in eons. You've proven a spirit like no other. You could become—"
"A homeowner?" Riven offered. "Maybe finally buy that floating cauldron the shopkeeper keeps flexing in the village?"
"I…" the Tree faltered.
"…I don't… have money."
Riven turned around again, walking back onto the ocean's path with a hand raised lazily.
"Well then," he called out, "No deal."
The Tree nearly panicked.
"W–Wait!"
Another pause.
"I may not have… money," the Tree admitted solemnly, "But I can… arrange for value. Rare items. Secrets sealed in vaults older than time. Techniques lost to history. Treasures kings would start wars over."
Riven stopped again. Turned slightly.
His smirk returned.
"Now that's a better sales pitch."
The World Tree was quiet.
Very quiet.
Then finally, with a long, reluctant rustle of leaves, it said:
"…You're a strange one, Chosen One."
Riven grinned.
"Yeah, well. Guess you're stuck with me."