Chapter 127
Back on Earth, years before being transported to the Expanse, a figure stood still, frozen not in fear, but in quiet acceptance.
In his pupils reflected the unholy aftermath of a record-breaking explosion — a catastrophe that would be etched into history for all the wrong reasons. At the top of that grim list: the number of lives lost.
The figure didn’t flinch. His eyes, slit-like and steady, were unmoved by the chaos. The only thought that surfaced was how the place he stood remained untouched.
A wondrous tree… truly.
He was gazing at the massive Cherry Tree, the heart of the newly formed conglomerate that bore its name.
He had come here for a reason. To seek funding for his own humanitarian project — a dream he had scraped and bled for. Every coin he could save had gone into buying a suit, one that might make him look presentable enough to be heard. He had planned to stand in front of this company’s boardroom and plead his case, believing that if anyone would listen, it would be Cherry Tree Inc. After all, they were known for helping without expecting anything in return.
But now, all of that seemed meaningless.
Around him, Cherry Tree’s rescue and medical teams sprung into action. Without hesitation, specialists in protective gear rushed toward the disaster zone. They returned dragging back the maimed, the burned, the half-dead — and each time they came back, they carried hope with them.
The man’s hands tightened at his sides. The speech he had memorized, the notes he had written, the calculations and proposals he had prepared — they felt so small compared to what he was seeing. He had come here asking for help to save lives. Yet here was Cherry Tree, already saving lives on a scale he couldn’t begin to comprehend.
His gaze lingered on the medics who, with practiced calm, lifted a young girl torn by burns from head to toe. Her shallow breaths rattled like broken glass, but she still breathed. He watched as Cherry Tree’s doctors went to work without panic, their movements fast, precise, and unyielding.
And when he noticed the way they carried themselves — as if failure simply wasn’t possible — something twisted inside him.
“My cause…” he whispered under his breath, voice hollow. “It already belongs to them.”
He stood rooted beneath the great tree, the suit he had sacrificed for now nothing but fabric on his shoulders, while the company he had come to beg from eclipsed him with action.
And astonishingly — no matter how horrific the injuries — not a single patient treated under Cherry Tree’s care had been lost.
For days, the figure remained there, watching. He observed as floods of wounded poured in, and as overwhelmed hospitals across the city struggled and failed to cope. Death tolls skyrocketed. Emergency rooms became graveyards. Yet Cherry Tree’s field tents defied the impossible: survival rates of one hundred percent.
Television screens surrounding him screamed with reports, grim anchors and frantic medical experts filling the air with disbelief.
“Due to the range of the shockwaves, thousands were injured — some critically, others dead on arrival, many killed instantly at the scene. This level of devastation is unprecedented in my career as an ER surgeon. As of now, official counts have entered the thousands, with projections reaching into the tens of thousands. That’s only this region. Entire islands near the blast radius are presumed eradicated.”
The reporter beside him sucked in a sharp breath. “Truly horrifying. Actually — we’ve just received word that some teams have managed to enter the island itself… or what remains of it… and return alive.”
The surgeon’s eyes went wide. “Impossible. Radiation that dense would kill a man from miles away. Who could survive inside it?”
The answer was delivered calmly:
“Cherry Tree Inc. deployed their response teams. Their suits shielded them from radiation levels that would normally be lethal. Not only that — they’ve already distributed the designs for these suits and are assisting in manufacturing more, so other rescue teams can reach ground zero.”
The camera cut to footage of the Cherry Tree insignia, glowing against protective white suits moving like ghosts through the ruins. Behind them, the horizon was painted in ash and fire.
The figure standing beneath the great tree still didn’t move. Not even as the world gasped in awe at Cherry Tree’s miracle, not even as headlines flooded in declaring the birth of a new power on Earth.
Unblinking, his only thought lingered:
I wonder if anyone else from my country is somewhere out there. I truly can’t be the only one left… can I?
While he wrestled with the fear of being the last surviving soul from his homeland, the rest of the world had its eyes on something else entirely.
Curious about Cherry Tree’s unbelievable 100% survival rate, hospitals across the region began reaching out, desperate to understand the medical treatments being used. And almost as if ashamed for not having offered it sooner, Cherry Tree released everything they had — the treatment protocols, the formulas for new medicines, the blueprints for advanced medical equipment — distributing them freely in staggering volumes.
Within days, overwhelmed hospitals saw their survival rates skyrocket.
Doctors and surgeons stared in awe at the detailed files they were handed.
“Such a thing is possible?” one veteran surgeon whispered.
“Who in the world came up with this?” another murmured. “This Cherry Tree… it’s a miracle for the medical field.”
The marvel only grew when the truth became undeniable: Cherry Tree had given it all away for free. No strings attached. Not for money, not for recognition — only for the sake of saving lives.
Pharmaceutical manufacturers rushed to replicate the formulas and distribute the supplies. The impact was immediate. Emergency rooms stabilized. Death tolls that had been climbing without pause suddenly slowed, then nearly stopped. For the first time since the disaster, hospitals had the breathing room to triage carefully and treat with precision.
The world erupted in cheers. Cherry Tree had accomplished what seemed impossible. In the wake of catastrophe, they had saved lives numbering in the tens of thousands — perhaps even six figures. Humanity wept in gratitude.
But celebration was short-lived.
As people praised the selfless green spirit of Cherry Tree, fury soon turned toward another familiar enemy: corporate greed. Not at Cherry Tree, but at the pharmaceutical giants who had taken charge of producing the life-saving medicines and equipment.
“This wasn’t a cheap operation,” one smug PR spokesman declared on live television, his expensive suit gleaming beneath the studio lights. “Of course we deserve reimbursement and payment.”
The words sparked outrage. People filled the streets in fury. How could anyone demand payment for cures that had been given to them freely? But the pharmaceutical companies ignored the protests, smug in their belief that they were untouchable. To them, outrage was a storm to be weathered, nothing more.
That arrogance led them one step too far.
Since they controlled the manufacturing pipelines, they made their move: they filed patents. Every formula, every protocol, every design that Cherry Tree had handed out freely — they claimed as their own intellectual property.
The result was catastrophic, not for the people, but for the corporations themselves. Executives found themselves dragged before furious citizens. Some were bankrupted overnight. Some were executed. And in a twist so surreal it stunned the world, the executioners were spared legal consequence. The public sentiment was so absolute, so enraged, that the law bent to the will of the people.
All because a handful of corporations tried to claim ownership of what had been freely given.
And it wasn’t only the corporations that moved greedily. Governments across the globe soon joined in, salivating over what Cherry Tree might offer. Their eyes gleamed at the thought of harnessing the company’s research, its technology, its almost miraculous medical capabilities. They issued subpoenas, investigations, even tried to force cooperation — all in hopes of seizing a piece of Cherry Tree for themselves.
But the founder never appeared. No matter how much pressure was applied, no matter how much weight of law or influence was thrown, not a single government caught so much as a glimpse. The identity of Cherry Tree’s founder would remain unknown, hidden even into modern times.
Instead, the world found themselves staring at someone else entirely: a brand-new employee. An intern.
She had only just started her first week when the tragedy struck. And when the faintest whispers of the company’s true capabilities reached her ears, she didn’t hesitate. She acted.
From the moment the news hit, the young intern took command. She coordinated dispatches, authorized the release of supplies, mobilized rescue experts, and established rapid-response medical teams. She did it all so swiftly, so seamlessly, that no one stopped her — because they couldn’t. The fluency of her decisions outpaced even the senior staff, leaving them momentarily stunned before they fell in line.
Within an hour, she was no longer an intern. She was directing the company’s entire mobilization effort.
She ran up and down the halls, dragging executives into meetings, assigning them roles they had never considered for themselves, and channeling their strengths into lifesaving action. Seasoned professionals who had built their careers watched with astonishment, muttering to one another that they couldn’t have done better themselves.
Jenny, who had overseen the company, simply stood back and allowed the girl to continue. There was no ego, no resistance — only recognition. The intern had the instincts of a commander.
And yet, for all the authority she wielded, one choice stood out most of all: she refused to place a price on what Cherry Tree gave.
She never demanded reimbursement for the colossal cost of aid. She never signed a patent application on the formulas and devices they distributed. She never asked the hospitals or the manufacturers for a single coin in return. To her, to the staff, to everyone who bore the Cherry Tree emblem on their backs, there was no debate. Their help was free. Their knowledge was free. Their purpose was simple: to save as many lives as they could.
And astonishingly, no one inside Cherry Tree resisted that principle. There was no dissenting voice demanding compensation, no internal push for profit. Every doctor, every scientist, every worker embraced it with open arms. They weren’t angry about the cost. They weren’t bitter about the sleepless nights, the endless work. They carried the burden proudly.
It was the first true glimpse the world received of Cherry Tree’s nature.
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Rushing down the hall, she nearly bowled into the same figure who had been standing in place for days, rooted like the great Cherry Tree behind him. His slit-pupiled gaze never strayed from the destruction outside.
“Here, eat and drink this,” she barked, shoving food and water into his chest.
“No thanks,” he replied flatly, not even blinking.
“Listen here,” she snapped, her voice rising. “You’ve been standing here for days without eating a damn thing. Take it. Now.”
“It’s fine,” he said again, tone detached, already turning away.
Her temper snapped. “TAKE THIS RIGHT NOW OR I’M GOING TO SHOVE IT SO FAR UP YOUR ASS YOU’LL CHEW IT LIKE A PUPPET!”
The man actually flinched, shivering as he reluctantly accepted the food and drink.
“…uh, hey, are you Lia?” came a meek voice from behind her. A janitor, shuffled nervously, broom clutched like a shield.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” she roared, spinning on him.
“Uh, they’re looking for you,” Ren stammered, nearly dropping the broom.
“Oh crap, gotta go.” Lia bolted down the hall, tossing a final threat over her shoulder. “Make sure he eats every bite, or I’ll shove that broom up your ass instead!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ren muttered, paling. He straightened his back, trying to reclaim authority as he looked at the silent man. “…Eat. Now.”
The figure finally stirred. He lifted the food with slow hands, chewing mechanically as if it barely mattered. His hollow eyes turned toward Ren, and his voice was low, and hollow.
“A tragedy happened. I watched my home erased without reason. Then, in the very next breath, I saw the best of humanity — strangers pulling one another back from the jaws of death. That made me smile.” He took another bite, swallowed, then added quietly, “But just as quickly… I saw the worst of humanity too. Greed. Cruelty. Exploitation.”
His slit pupils narrowed, reflecting both the fire outside and the flicker of television screens.
“Is this the only fate of our species?” he whispered. “To always swing between those two extremes? Which one will win… in the end?”
Ren didn’t know how to respond to the man’s question. Deep down, he already knew the answer — that humanity would one day birth evils even greater than what they had just witnessed. All he could offer was his quiet presence to someone who seemed to have lost everything.
And then…
Nox opened his eyes.
The Expanse greeted him once more. His first night’s rest in this alien world had brought no peace, only the same nightmare that stalked him without fail. The day of the explosion replayed in his mind, each detail sharp, each moment suffocating. He exhaled heavily, rubbing his face.
“Figures,” he muttered. “Even here, I can’t escape it.”
He sat up, stretching his arms until his joints cracked, and forced himself to breathe steady. The nightmare was behind him, the second day ahead.
“There’s not much point thinking about that event anymore,” he said softly, as if convincing himself. “Time to focus on surviving here.”
With that, Nox rose to his feet, mentally preparing himself for what the Expanse had in store.
He looked around and saw everyone trying to replicate some semblance of their old lives. As the sun rose over the strange horizon, people began to prepare breakfast with whatever ingredients they had gathered the day before. For a moment, it almost felt like a morning back on Earth—if not for the unfamiliar landscape and the faint glimmer of aether drifting through the air.
While others focused on eating and rebuilding, Nox turned his attention inward. “If I want to use my silk webs without the poison running through them,” he muttered, “then I’ll need to improve my Force progression. Sadly, it’s at zero… but hopefully, that’s the same for everyone else.” He gave a quiet, self-deprecating laugh.
He opened and closed his hands, practicing control. Silken threads formed between his fingers, uneven and clumped together, more like the crude spit of an insect than the refined silk of a spider. He kept at it, concentrating until sweat began to form on his brow.
When he finally aimed his finger toward a nearby tree and released a strand, it hissed faintly as it made contact. Within seconds, the bark began to corrode and peel away. Nox exhaled through his nose, a mix of disappointment and grim fascination in his tone. “… still toxic.”
Accepting the lack of progress, he decided to take a break and eat what little food he had, then spent the next hour walking through the growing settlement.
Everywhere he looked, people were working tirelessly. The early scientists were gathered near makeshift tables, surrounded by crude tools and piles of strange plants. They were busy experimenting, trying to replicate the basic healing potions that had already proven essential in battle.
Nox lingered nearby, watching them work. He noticed that many of the plants they were using had a poisonous tint—leaves veined with deep violet, roots that pulsed faintly with aether. Oddly enough, he felt a pull toward them, a kind of recognition in his blood. “Must be because of my Force alignment,” he thought absently.
He continued observing for a while longer. Some people were experimenting with alchemy; others, construction. Groups had formed naturally—builders, researchers, explorers, cooks. Everyone was trying to carve out their place in this world. Those without obvious skills took to the forest to gather materials or hunt, eager to be useful but terrified of what lurked beyond the settlement’s edges.
Nox watched them go and sighed softly. He didn’t feel brave, but the thought of standing idle gnawed at him more than fear ever could.
“Guess I’ll bite the bullet,” he muttered under his breath. “If I’m going to survive here, I can’t afford to stay weak.”
Gripping his worn sword, he stepped into the forest once more.
It didn’t take long before the distant sounds of battle reached his ears — steel clashing, shouts echoing, and the faint hum of Forces being unleashed.
He moved quietly toward the commotion, eyes narrowing as his slit pupils adjusted to the movement and aether in the air. Every vibration, every ripple of energy across the terrain registered to his senses like tremors through a spider’s web.
His pulse quickened.
Seeing an opening to help, he pointed a finger and fired a thin thread of silk at a twin-tailed fox mid-pounce toward a distracted fighter. The thread hissed faintly as it struck, wrapping the creature and dragging it back.
A startled yelp cut through the chaos. The fighter, a young woman with bright eyes and questionable priorities, turned to see the fox struggling against the web.
“Aww, cute puppy!” she squealed, immediately running toward it with heart-shaped eyes.
Her teammates barely managed to restrain her. “Lyra, are you insane?!”
“But it’s so cute!” she cried, still reaching for the snarling beast.
Nox didn’t share the sentiment.
As the fox was dragged closer, he saw the dark veins spreading under its fur — his venom at work. He steadied his stance, expecting the counterattack.
Clank!
The fox’s claws clashed against his blade, pushing him back. Nox flexed his fingers, coating his hands in a thin layer of webbing before swinging forward with web-laced fists. The creature dodged sharply, its movements quick despite the venom, and landed on a patch of pre-laid silk that clung to its legs like tar.
Perfect.
He raised his sword to strike — and froze as a sudden, resonant hum filled the air.
A man nearby wove a series of hand signs, his expression calm and calculating. The fox’s eyes glazed over. A ripple of light burst outward from its body, then spiraled back into it. The creature went still, its aggression gone as if snuffed out.
Before anyone could process what had happened, a faint shimmer appeared above its head:
[Caldec’s Tamed Creature: Twin-Tail Fox]
Lyra broke free from her friends and dove for it. “It’s tame now! Look how friendly it is!”
Caldec, arms crossed, watched her hug the fox as the taming scroll dissolved into motes of light. With an almost casual motion, he drew his sword and began cutting away the silk webs still binding his new creature, freeing it from the sticky remains of Nox’s trap.
“It should be a good start to getting that Beast Master class. I have to hurry and get it — soon the World Government is going to be formed, and having creatures from the Expanse at my beck and call will be a big boon for the planet. Hopefully I can get a good ranked Beast Master class. Hmph, with my genius, I wouldn’t be surprised if I got an Ancient ranked one — heck, I’m definitely more than qualified for the Exalted rank,” he said proudly, puffing out his chest…
He got a Rare ranked Beast Master class.
“Hmph, Ren Sui thinks he’s all that since he became the leader of Aegis,” Caldec muttered under his breath, irritation twisting his tone. “Thinking he’s in a position to suppress my boss. Hmph, so what if he’s way stronger than boss? To put so much trust in a fourteen-year-old girl— even boss thinks that’s ridiculous.”
Nox, standing a few steps away, quietly studied him.
Something about Caldec felt off — not his words, but the energy behind them. The way he spoke carried envy wrapped in pride, devotion tainted by insecurity. It was a strange dichotomy, one that left a bitter taste in the air.
“What does he mean byAncient and Exalted?” Nox wondered silently. “He definitely knows something about this place.”
He made no comment, only turned away as the twin-tailed fox lay subdued and whimpering, its fur faintly sizzling where his webs had touched it. The fight was over. There was nothing more to be learned here.
Nox left without a word, vanishing back into the trees in search of more chances to train.
Behind him, Caldec crouched beside his newly tamed creature, confusion flickering across his face. “Huh? Why’s your HP dropping? Is it these webs?”
He reached to pull them free — and immediately hissed, jerking his hand back. “Tsk— that burns! What the hell is this?”
Glancing at his weapon, his expression soured further. “And what’s with my sword durability? It ticked down a bit…”
The faint sizzling continued, threads of Nox’s venomous silk clinging stubbornly to both blade and beast — a quiet reminder that even small encounters in the Expanse came with consequences.
Nox fought and struggled, his body marked with bruises and shallow cuts, each wound a reminder of how merciless the Expanse truly was. Between encounters, he rested where he could, patching himself up with rough bandages of webbing and breathing through the dull ache that lingered in his limbs.
The forest had become his teacher — brutal, unforgiving, but fair. Every creature he faced offered a new kind of lesson.
The first was a Bloomfang Mite, a small, flower-shaped insect that hid in blossoms and launched itself at the scent of blood. He learned quickly that swinging too soon only scattered pollen that numbed his arms. He had to wait, still and patient, until the creature lunged before burning it midair with venom-laced threads.
Then came a Mosscrawler, a lizard with bark-like scales and an ability to blend into trees. It bit deep into his forearm before he even noticed it was there. That fight taught him movement wasn’t always strength — stillness could be deadlier.
A Thornback Hare followed — deceptively cute until it fired hardened spines from its fur like darts. Dodging those nearly cost him an eye.
And later, a Duskworm, large enough to wrap around him, its flesh translucent and glowing faintly with absorbed aether. When he stabbed through it, the blood that splashed onto his arm burned worse than acid.
Each fight forced Nox to change his approach. Every swing, every dodge, every counterattack felt like trial and error etched into his skin.
He started experimenting with his webs — not just to trap or defend, but to kill. In desperation, he coated his sword in a thin film of silk, letting the poison fuse with the blade. The weapon hissed faintly, corroding the edges but cutting deeper, cleaner, hotter. Every strike seared through flesh like acid, though the sword’s durability dropped rapidly. It didn’t matter. He would adapt.
By the time he stumbled upon a small stream, exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. He knelt, cupping cold water into his hands and taking slow gulps before staring at his reflection rippling in the surface.
He looked like a stranger — blood-speckled, worn, and yet… alive.
There was improvement, however small. His movements had become more precise, his instincts sharper.
He watched the ripples drift across the surface, seeing his reflection in the wavering light. The same slit-pupiled stare gazed back at him — tired, but calculating.
He thought about all the creatures he’d faced, each one different, unpredictable, forcing him to adapt again and again. “There’s no single way to fight here,” he muttered to himself. “Every approach needs another.”
But underneath that realization, something else stirred. A memory. That explosion. The day the sky burned, and humanity showed both its brightest light and its darkest shadow.
He clenched his fist until blood dripped between his fingers.
He glanced upward, watching the light of the foreign sun cut through the trees.
Here, in this strange new world, he wasn’t beneath anyone. No politics. No hierarchy. No class keeping him below. Everyone had started from the same point — and that meant he had a chance.
He may not have been the most talented among the bunch, but he had one burning desire — to force humanity to finally choose. To stop drifting between light and shadow, compassion and cruelty.
He had seen both sides too clearly to believe in balance anymore. The same species that could build hospitals out of kindness could also destroy nations out of pride. The same hands that could reach out to save could just as easily press the button to erase millions.
Extreme good. Extreme evil. That was humanity’s curse — and its nature. One side nurtured, the other devoured, yet both lived under the same skin.
“No more back and forth,” Nox muttered, eyes low. “If humanity insists on being split in two… I’ll make it choose which half survives.”
He looked down at his reflection in the water, his faint smile twisting between pity and hatred. The mask he wore — that easy charm, that disarming warmth — was nothing more than a tool. A way to survive among the very creatures he’d long stopped believing in. But soon, he told himself, he wouldn’t need to wear it anymore.
His home had been erased in an instant — not by nature, not by fate, but by someone. A human. Someone with enough resources, intellect, and arrogance to snuff out countless lives just because they could.
He clenched his fist, his nails biting into his palm. “That’s all it takes for them — a whim.”
Then a soft, almost melodic voice drifted through the quiet forest.
“Ooh… such a pretty butterfly…”
Plop.
The sound of a body hitting the ground.
Nox froze. His instincts kicked in before his thoughts did. He followed the noise, weaving through the trees until he saw her — a familiar face, hand outstretched toward a fluttering insect.
He blinked once, processing the scene. “Her name was Lyra, right?” he murmured, approaching slowly.
The butterfly landed on her arm — its wings glimmering faintly with aetheric dust that shimmered like powdered glass.
Nox’s eyes narrowed. “Poison.”
He crouched beside her still body, watching the faint blue veins forming under her skin, and his jaw tightened.
“...You really are hopeless,” he said softly, before lifting her onto his back. “But I suppose I can’t let you die here.”
He glanced once at the butterfly as it drifted away — delicate, beautiful, and deadly.
Just like humanity.