Yuzu's pulse still echoed in his throat as he staggered back from the collapsed form of the First Rotborne. Ashroot's village square was silent now — unnervingly so. No more shrieks, no more clash of thorn-steel against corrupted bark. Only the patter of ash-soft rain, falling steady and fine.
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. The taste still lingered — thick, acrid, and old. Not just flavor, but memory.
He had devoured something more than just a Rotborne.
"Yuzu!" Mira's voice cut through the haze. She rushed to him, her spirits flickering dimly at her shoulders. Behind her, Saro approached slower, cautious eyes narrowed.
Yuzu opened his mouth to speak — and froze.
Something moved behind his eyes. A pulse, low and deep, that wasn't his own heartbeat.
He gasped sharply and collapsed to one knee, clutching at his ribs. His Thornfruit pact flared hot under his skin. The orchard inside him blurred, leaves shivering as new roots clawed downward.
No — not downward.
Inward.
He was falling again.
His orchard stretched before him, warped and darker now. Branches veined in crimson. Roots coiling deep beneath metaphysical soil. But in the core, where his Thornfruit tree stood, something new had sprouted.
A fracture.
Cracks rippled across the base of his tree, and from within, black veins laced with golden threads pulsed outward.
Then the visions came.
Not like before — not dreams, not whispers — but memories forced into his mind like seeds crammed into split earth.
He saw ancient scholars clad in fruit-thread robes standing in a circle of amberglass. They held twisted seedlings — dark, malformed, pulsing with sickly light. Fear lined their faces, but determination hardened their jaws.
"The Primordial cannot be destroyed," one voice echoed, sharp as citrus zest. "Only contained."
"So we graft rot to rot," another murmured. "Create a devourer greater than the First Seed itself."
He saw them plant something.
Not a tree.
A Rotborne.
The first. Crafted deliberately by the Fruit Council centuries ago. A weapon meant to consume rogue spirits — Primordials, Spliced, Forbidden flavors alike.
But it had escaped their leash. Multiplied. Learned to hunger for more than just its targets.
They hadn't buried a solution.
They had sown a plague.
Yuzu gasped as the memory snapped back into darkness. He staggered upright, breath ragged, hands trembling.
Mira caught him. "What did you see?"
He swallowed hard, throat raw. "The Council," he croaked. "They made the Rotborne. All of them. To kill Primordials. To kill people like us."
Silence dropped like a cleaver.
Saro's face darkened. "They… created them?"
"Not just created." Yuzu's voice steadied, low and grim. "Cultivated. Fed. Directed. And when it slipped out of control, they buried the truth and blamed us."
Mira stared at him, lips parted in quiet horror. Her cherry spirit flickered uneasily.
Far above, Ashroot's blackthorn canopy trembled. Even the trees tasted the lie.
"I have proof," Yuzu whispered, clutching at his chest. "The memories— they're rooted in me now."
Saro exhaled sharply. "Then Ashroot's safe no longer. If the Council senses what you know—"
"They'll burn everything," Mira finished, her voice tight.
For a long moment, none of them spoke. The rain softened to a fine mist.
Finally, Yuzu straightened. His sigil shimmered faintly under his sleeve — darker now, threads of crimson coiled through its shifting pattern. He didn't hide it this time.
"I won't run anymore," he said quietly. "They've harvested us long enough."
He looked at Mira, at Saro, at the villagers slowly emerging from shadowed doorways. Fear lined their faces. But so did something else.
Hope.
"I'll go to the other hidden villages," Yuzu continued, voice growing stronger. "Ashroot is not the only root they tried to prune. If I can show them the truth…"
Mira nodded slowly. "We can grow something new."
Saro cracked a thin smile. "And maybe, just maybe, make the Council choke on their own harvest."
Yuzu turned toward the dying light beyond the village's edge. His orchard pulsed within — stronger, deeper, roots settling firm.
Not to devour.
To rebuild.
The next season was coming.
And this time, the fruit would not be theirs to reap.