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Chapter 7: The Seed That Wouldn't Sprout
The gymnasium shimmered with the faint glow of magic—Vita, they called it here. Wide, polished wooden floors stretched across the room, bordered by tall windows that flooded the space with morning sunlight. Shadows danced across beams and rafters above, as the soft sound of students shuffling into neat rows echoed off the stone walls.
Oliver Woods stood near the back of the group, his small hands tightly clutching a tiny pumpkin seed no larger than his thumbnail. His school uniform—a white-collared shirt and black shorts—was crisp, but his socks drooped slightly, betraying the hurried, fussy morning of getting dressed with help from his adoptive sister, Lyra.
The other first-grade students, a mix of beastkin and humans, chatted and laughed as they stood near the small dirt boxes that had been wheeled into the gym. Each box was half-filled with dark, loamy soil—just enough for a single seed to take root, if you could call on green Vita.
Oliver glanced down at his soil patch. His heart pounded harder than it should for something so small.
"Good morning, sprouts!" a confident voice called from the front of the gym.
Miss Trell stood tall in her layered forest-green robes, a braided crown of golden vines circling her head. Her presence was firm, wise, and unshakably serene—an Elven woman who looked like she belonged more in the heart of an ancient grove than in front of excitable first-years.
"Today," she began, with a smile, "we continue our early practice of Elemental Channeling. This is our second week. Last week was Water. Today is Plant. The green Vita is subtle, patient, and generous. It is the Vita of growth, of listening, and of life that does not shout, but sings softly beneath the soil."
Some students clapped. A few yawned.
"Now," Miss Trell said, raising one finger, "each of you will plant your seed and reach inward. Feel the green Vita. Do not command it. Invite it. Guide it gently into the earth and help your seed awaken."
The students each kneeled by their planter boxes, eyes glittering with excitement.
Oliver exhaled.
He wasn't new to Vita now. In fact, during Water class the week before, he had surprised himself by manipulating water quite gracefully. A glob of water had hovered in his palm, trembling but held, while other kids accidentally burst theirs into rain or puddles.
But this—this was different.
Oliver dropped to his knees and pressed the seed gently into the center of the soft dirt.
He closed his eyes and breathed, trying to still the thoughts racing through his six-year-old brain, tangled with the thoughts of a man who had once been twenty-seven. He remembered fields. He remembered gardening with his mother back on Earth, as a child, pressing fingers into soil and planting peas in a sun-warmed garden bed.
But Eloria wasn't Earth. And green Vita wasn't chlorophyll or sunlight, nobody in earth can manipulate the 'laws of physics'.
Oliver reached inward, toward the place they'd taught him—the place where Vita flowed, like rivers of color behind the ribs and around the spine. He searched for the green stream.
He found it—thin, dim, and faintly glowing.
And yet, when he tried to nudge it outward, toward his fingers, into the soil, it twisted and recoiled. It slipped away like silk in water.
Next to him, a fox-eared girl named Minya giggled in delight. Her planter had already sprouted tiny white roots. On the other side, a bearkin boy was already forming little stalks of grass in loops, clapping as he shaped them into spirals.
Oliver's soil remained still.
He furrowed his brow. Tried again.
Green Vita—invite it. Don't force it.
He imagined vines. Leaves. Roots. He imagined the pumpkin swelling with life, curling under the sunlit soil.
Nothing.
His hand began to tremble. He felt sweat bead at the back of his neck.
"Just grow, damn it..." he muttered under his breath.
A soft breeze moved past him.
"Language, Mr. Woods," Miss Trell said from behind him—not unkindly.
Oliver jumped. He hadn't heard her approach. The other students kept working, some laughing, others deep in concentration. Miss Trell crouched next to him, her long green braid resting across one shoulder.
"You are trying too hard," she said gently.
Oliver looked up at her with a small frown. "I am trying… I can feel the Vita. I just—can't get it to go into the seed."
"Why do you think that is?"
"I don't know. I could do water just fine last week."
"Ah," she smiled faintly. "Green Vita is not water. Water listens to movement. Green listens to silence."
He stared at her.
"You want it to grow, yes?" she asked.
"Of course," he muttered.
"You want it to become a beautiful pumpkin?"
"Yes."
She tilted her head slightly, as though seeing something past him. "But have you asked the seed what it wants?"
Oliver blinked. "The… seed?"
She tapped her temple. "You think because you are the wielder of Vita, you give the orders. But life does not bloom by order. It blooms through relationship. The green Vita requires empathy. Not just will."
She stood and left him with that.
He stared at the tiny brown seed embedded in the dirt.
Ask the seed?
He felt foolish. He felt six, not twenty-seven. Not the man who had once laid in his couch, empty expression scrolling online, and didn't have much to do, overweight and unemployed, and the layoff of his job.
Now he couldn't even grow a seed.
Somewhere across the room, someone let out a cheer as their sprout opened into a twisting vine with a golden bloom at the end. Applause. Laughter.
Oliver looked down at his box.
He touched the soil again.
His breath slowed.
Not command.
Not will.
Listen.
He let his palm rest on the dirt. He stopped trying to push the Vita and simply sat with it. The opposite way he had once sat in a his room with those empty soda Coca-Cola bottles, and his wrinkled blankets, and on his laptop, he takes a more straightforward stances.
Inside, the green Vita glimmered again. And this time—it didn't flee. It hovered.
He let it glow. Just be.
He pictured the seed, deep and afraid. Alone in darkness. He imagined whispering, It's okay. You're not alone. I'm here.
Then, the tiniest twitch in the dirt.
His heart leapt—but nothing emerged.
It wasn't enough. Not yet.
Miss Trell watched him from across the room, her arms folded.
She saw the twitch too. And smiled.
The bell rang. "That's all for today, my sprouts! You may return to class! And don't forget—growth takes time. So does trust."
Oliver stood slowly. His box still bore no sprout. No flower. But the soil looked… alive. Not dry. Not indifferent.
Minya leaned over, tail flicking. "Still nothing?" she said, not unkindly—just curious.
Oliver gave a small shrug. "I think it moved a little."
"That's something," she nodded. "Maybe it's shy."
"Maybe."
As the students filed out, Miss Trell called after Oliver. "Mr. Woods. Stay a moment."
He paused, nervous. "Yes?"
She approached, knelt beside the box, and touched the soil gently. "You felt it, didn't you?"
He nodded.
"That was more than many feel in their first month. You're not failing, Oliver Woods. You're learning a different language."
"But they already speak it."
"They were born to it. You were not. You are translating Vita you are a late one. And that's much harder—but much more beautiful when it blooms."
Oliver looked down at his soil. The pumpkin seed slept, but maybe, just maybe… it had heard him.
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Absolutely! Here's Chapter 8 of your novel-style story following young Oliver Woods, continuing his magical education in plant-based magic and biology, with a blend of magical realism, humor, and character bonding.
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Chapter 7: The Screeching Shrub Incident
The greenhouse shimmered with heat and humidity as Oliver stepped inside. Sunlight filtered through the glass-paned ceiling in long, golden beams, casting light across an expansive room filled with dense foliage, hanging vines, and thick patches of mossy green. Strange blooms glowed faintly in the corners—some shifted slightly as if they could see.
This was not just a classroom.
It was a living classroom.
At the far end of the space stood a large chalkboard scrawled with a dozen diagrams of roots and cell walls, surrounded by shelves of labelled soil jars, seed pouches, and glass canisters filled with glowing nectar. Above the board, a wooden sign hung crookedly with the words:
> "PLANT THEORY & GROWTH PRACTICUM – ROOM 6G"
Students had already begun to arrive, dressed in lab coats and oversized goggles that magnified their eyes into circles. They moved lazily, chatting in low voices, some chewing snacks or checking their talking glyph-phones—those little slate-like tools that whispered text and light in response to touch. A group of students lounged near a huge mushroom bed, yawning.
Oliver hesitated at the door.
He still wasn't used to Elorian school culture. Some parts were strict, almost like magical military drills. Others—like this—felt like summer camp run by bored researchers.
He stepped forward and took one of the spare white lab coats from the rack, slipping it over his school uniform. It hung down to his knees. Next, the goggles—slightly oversized, heavy on his nose.
The lenses made the world bulge weirdly at the corners.
"Welcome back, Mr. Woods."
The voice came from the front of the class, where Miss Fressia stood adjusting a small vine-covered cage. Her hair was bright orange, tied into a chaotic side ponytail that stuck out like a tropical plant in bloom. Her coat had embroidered leaves along the cuffs, and her expression held a kind of mad sparkle.
"Today," she said, sweeping her hand dramatically, "we explore the behavioral biology of aggressive vegetation. Specifically... the Screeching Shrub."
Some students groaned. One muttered, "Ugh, again?"
Oliver blinked. Screeching what?
Miss Fressia clicked her fingers. Two floating pots levitated behind her, each containing a bushy green plant with spiny leaves, twitching slightly. As they landed, the nearest one turned toward Oliver, twitched, and let out a faint eeeehhhhhrrrkk sound.
The other students backed away slightly.
Oliver felt his ears ring for a second.
"These delightful specimens are completely harmless," Miss Fressia said with a grin. "Unless, of course, you pull them from the soil without permission. They emit a soundwave that exceeds 130 decibels—enough to knock out a dragon cub, let alone a tiny first-year."
A few students looked nervously at the pots.
"To pacify the shrub, you must use this—" she held up a bottle with golden-pink liquid that shimmered like starlight. "Sweet nectar extract, diluted in Vita-rich syrup. One drop to the root stem, a second to the leaf crown. Then, and only then, can you safely unpot your partner."
Miss Fressia turned to the class. "Pairs will be assigned. And please, do try not to pass out this time."
She looked down at her clipboard.
"Mr. Woods," she said.
Oliver straightened. "Yes, ma'am?"
"You're with Miss Minya. Again."
A familiar figure approached from behind the rows of plant tables—Minya, the fox-eared girl from yesterday's class. Her lab coat was cut shorter, and her goggles were perched casually on her forehead. She gave Oliver a toothy grin as she walked up, tail flicking with amusement.
"Hope you're good at pouring things slowly," she said.
"I'll try not to pass out," Oliver replied, offering a nervous smile.
Minya handed him one of the nectar bottles. "Just don't sneeze. It thinks that's a threat."
Oliver peered down into the pot containing their Screeching Shrub. The plant shuddered, rattled its leaves, and made a low nnnnnkrrrk noise like a grumpy kettle.
Minya uncorked her bottle and held it just above the soil line.
"Okay, Oliver," she said, suddenly more serious. "Watch me do the root first. One drop. Just one. No squeezing. Just a tiny tilt."
Oliver leaned in as she tilted the bottle.
Drip.
The liquid fell onto the base of the stem, glowing faintly.
The shrub let out a loud hiccup-sigh and stopped twitching.
"Now the leaf crown," Minya whispered.
She reached to the top of the plant, where the leaves formed a kind of fluffy crest. She dropped a second drop.
Drip.
The shrub... purred. Or something close to it.
"I think it likes you," Oliver said, astonished.
"I fed my sister's garden every morning since I was four," Minya smirked. "You're up."
Oliver's hands felt slightly clammy as he positioned his own nectar bottle. The goggles felt too heavy again.
"Just... one drop, right?"
Minya nodded. "Nice and slow."
He tilted the bottle. The nectar glimmered at the lip.
Drip.
It landed perfectly on the root.
The shrub let out a snort, twitched—
But didn't scream.
Oliver exhaled. Now the top.
He reached out, trying not to shake. His fingers brushed the leaf crown. The bottle tilted—
Drip.
The plant let out a soft hmmmrrrrr and stopped moving entirely.
Miss Fressia passed behind them and gave a delighted clap. "Well done, you two! No one fainted! That's progress!"
Oliver couldn't help but grin.
Minya bumped her shoulder into his. "Not bad, Newbie."
"I'm getting it now now," Oliver said.
>*Oliver smirked feeling he's mastering more and more wondering how far his potential can go*
"Mmhm. Let's see if you're still good with plants when we get to the Fanged Fungi next week."
Oliver froze. "Fanged what?"
But Minya was already laughing as she walked toward the nectar stand to return the bottle.
Behind them, the Screeching Shrub emitted a quiet humming noise and drooped like a content cat curling up to nap.
And for the first time, Oliver didn't feel like a visitor in someone else's world.
He felt like a student—still learning, still struggling, but slowly growing too.
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Chapter 7: The Whispering Vines and Their Secret
The next day, the sky outside the greenhouse classroom was overcast, with sunlight veiled behind thick silver clouds. The glass above misted gently from the morning humidity, softening the light into a cool, gray glow. Oliver walked the stone path toward the class with quiet steps, lab coat freshly pressed and his goggles hooked loosely around his neck.
Today's lesson was written on a floating chalkboard just inside the greenhouse entrance:
> Lesson 3: Emotional Resonance and the Whispering Vines
Plant Response to Mental States – Stability, Projection, and Feedback Looping
Oliver read it twice. He didn't understand all of it. But he recognized the name—Whispering Vines. Lyra, his adoptive sister, had once mentioned them in a bedtime story. Vines that grew along ancient Elorian ruins, said to whisper your true thoughts out loud, no matter how buried.
Inside the greenhouse, the plants were quieter than usual.
No buzzing spores. No chattering leaves.
Just the occasional gentle rustle of ivy climbing up the glass walls. Tables were cleared today, except for one pot per pair—each filled with what looked like dormant, tightly coiled vines like green rope, tangled and still.
Miss Fressia stood in front with her usual chaotic energy somewhat subdued. She was sipping from a steaming mug with "WORLD'S LEAFIEST PROFESSOR" scribbled across it.
"Today," she said without preamble, "we meet the Whispering Vines. They are not dangerous. But they are deeply inconvenient—if you're hiding something."
She smirked, swirling her mug.
"These vines do not grow from water, nor soil richness. They grow from emotional clarity. Specifically, they resonate with your intent. If you're angry, confused, or lying to yourself, they won't bloom. They'll tangle tighter. If you're calm—centered—if your purpose is clear… they'll speak to you. In whispers. And sometimes, they even bloom."
A few students shifted uncomfortably.
"I once had a kid make his vine sprout twelve petals just by remembering a good hug," Miss Fressia added with a grin. "But I also had another kid get tangled because he pretended he wasn't afraid of frogs. So… be honest. Not brave."
She clapped her hands.
"Partners again! Woods and Minya—you're on Vine 7."
Minya strolled up beside Oliver, her goggles already down. "Ready to get tangled in feelings, partner?"
"Only if you cry first," Oliver said.
Minya smirked.
They took their place at Pot #7. The Whispering Vine inside was curled into itself, green and bluish at the tips, coiled like a sleeping animal.
The two of them each placed a hand on opposite sides of the soil.
Oliver breathed slowly. Minya adjusted her gloves and said nothing.
The vine twitched once.
Nothing else.
"Remember," Miss Fressia called out, "don't try to use Vita directly. This isn't about energy manipulation. It's about internal clarity. Let your thoughts become music."
Oliver frowned slightly. Music?
He looked down at the vine and tried to feel… calm.
But all he could think about was how he didn't really belong here.
He wasn't born in Eloria. He didn't grow up learning the difference between root-rhythm and leaf-cycle. He was just some guy—a man in a boy's body—and he still didn't know if he'd ever figure out this world's rules.
The vine turned slightly gray at the tip.
Uh oh.
Minya blinked. "Did… you just make it sulk?"
Oliver bit his lip. "I think I did."
"Stop thinking so loud, then. Try something… warm."
He closed his eyes.
He remembered the first day he in Eloria he was on the bed completely off guard after guard after meeting that legendary black Tortoise and after that few talk…
Liam's voice, calling out: "Ah there he is that's my boy."
*Liam picks up reduced aged Oliver*
Martha's hands, wrapping a soft wool blanket around him.
Lyra, telling him, "You're my little brother now. So I get to teach you how to climb trees. You're lucky, you look kinda ugly"
*Lyra pokes his cheeks*
The vine shifted.
It uncoiled—just slightly.
A soft rustling sound filled the air, like pages turning.
Oliver and Minya leaned in.
From somewhere deep in the coil, a whisper drifted out—not in words, but in a feeling. A small warmth. A pulse of calm.
Then, a faint shimmer ran along its surface.
One of the buds opened—just barely—revealing a silvery petal inside.
Minya's eyes widened. "You did it."
"I think it likes my sister," Oliver muttered.
"Don't we all?" Minya grinned.
The vine stretched gently toward Oliver's side of the pot. Another bud twitched, then stilled.
A single whisper escaped it this time.
"Stay."
Oliver blinked.
"What did it say?" Minya asked.
He shook his head. "I… I'm not sure. I think it's telling me to stay."
She tilted her head. "Stay where?"
"Uh.....not really sure....nevermind."
Minya looked at him, really looked, for a moment. Then shrugged. "Well, the vine doesn't lie."
Miss Fressia passed behind them, nodding at the open petal. "Beautiful work, Woods. The Whispering Vine only says things you haven't accepted yet."
Oliver stared at the vine.
Stay.
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Chapter 7: Lyra's Bad Mood
Click. Clack. Tap tap.
Oliver's small fingers danced across the laptop keyboard, his brows slightly furrowed in concentration. Despite his seven-year-old body, the mind behind his eyes was decades older, focused and sharp.
Suddenly—
BANG!
The bedroom door swung open violently, startling the air itself. Lyra stormed in, her usual calm replaced by stormclouds in her eyes.
"Out." she snapped, her voice like brittle glass.
Oliver blinked, looked up at her, and without a word, quietly slid off the bed. He knew better than to argue. Lyra wasn't always like this, but when her temper flared, she wasn't one to negotiate. He stepped toward the hallway.
SLAM!
Her fist met the wall. The impact wasn't just audible—it rippled. The vines hanging from her ceiling planter suddenly curled downward, wilting unnaturally as if her anger touched more than just air.
Footsteps echoed up the stairs. Their mother, Martha, appeared in the doorway with concern already creasing her face.
"Lyra," she said gently, "what's wrong, sweetheart?"
"I got ranked C," Lyra muttered, eyes low, voice tight with frustration.
Martha exhaled and stepped forward, reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a folded stack of bills—paper currency, gray and clean with no face of a leader, only symbolic engravings. Without a word, she handed it over to both of them.
Before Oliver could reach for his share, Lyra snatched the money, then yanked Oliver's hand. "We're going out," she growled.
"Okay," Oliver said softly, letting himself be dragged along. He was physically a child, after all—it made sense to play the part.
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[The Streets – A Strange Peace]
The world outside their home was not what Oliver expected when he first woke up in this reality.
Smooth sidewalks stretched alongside tidy rows of buildings. Trees were neatly trimmed, and the air felt… calm. Not like the chaotic bustle of New York or the siren-laced backdrop of Los Angeles. There were no cars honking, no yelling from across the street. Even the wind seemed to whisper rather than howl.
Despite his inner age of 27, Oliver was small. Lyra, taller and older in appearance, kept a firm grip on his hand. She didn't look at him, but her fingers were tight, almost possessive.
Oliver looked up at her. "You know, C isn't that bad."
"I don't need your wisdom right now, old man in a baby body," she muttered.
Oliver laughed quietly. She wasn't wrong.
They entered the local corner store, the door ringing with a pleasant chime. The shelves were well-stocked with unfamiliar goods—cylindrical bottles, packaged bread with foreign glyphs, glossy fruits that shimmered subtly, and chalk-white cartons of milk labeled with elegant calligraphy.
Lyra took a basket and filled it with surprising care. Despite her mood, she chose items with thought: bread, cheese, tea leaves, soap, and a couple of sweets. No impulse buys, no tantrums over toys. She might've been upset, but she was still responsible.
When it came time to pay, she pulled out the gray paper currency and handed it to the cashier. The bills looked similar to Earth dollars but lacked any historical figures—just serene imagery of landscapes and emblems Oliver didn't recognize.
They stepped back into the sunlit street, groceries in hand.
"Still mad?" Oliver asked.
Lyra didn't answer right away. After a few steps, she said quietly, "I don't like being average. I hate it."
"You're not," Oliver replied.
Lyra didn't argue. She just squeezed his hand tighter.
And for a moment, Oliver forgot who he once was momentarily.
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Chapter 7: Lyra Proves Herself
Three days earlier…
The training grounds of Aurum Academy were alive with chatter and challenge. Students—both human and beastkin—stood in assigned sectors of the outdoor elemental testing field. Vita manipulation class had begun, and today was the Elemental Synthesis Challenge: demonstrating the ability to extract and manipulate elements from raw surroundings.
Lyra stood off to the side, arms folded. Her eyes scanned her classmates. A fox-eared girl to the left giggled while conjuring wind from her fingertips. Others formed lightning arcs, wind blades, or crystalline shields.
Then came the test everyone waited for: Water Manifestation—creating water through Vita, by extracting hydrogen from the air and oxygen from moisture particles or minerals. A feat that required both theoretical precision and emotional clarity.
"Next: Lyra Vhalenne Woods," the instructor called out.
Whispers echoed across the field.
"Isn't she the one who ranked C?"
"She's not bad, but she choked last time…"
"Pretty face, but can she do real Vita work?"
Lyra stepped forward. Her brows were tight, but her jaw was set.
She knelt on the circular summoning glyph carved into the training stone. The area around her quieted.
She inhaled slowly.
Focus. Understand. Split. Bind. Shape.
Her Vita pulsed, visible as a cool silver-blue shimmer around her body. She extended both hands forward.
The air shimmered. Tiny, unseen hydrogen molecules were being pulled from the atmosphere, drawn into the forming pressure between her palms. She turned her wrist slightly, coaxing oxygen from the laced moisture in the air. A pale fog formed as the two elements converged.
H₂ + O → H₂O
With a soft crack, a small orb of water shimmered into existence—then it grew. Tennis ball–sized. Grapefruit. Water spiraled into a tight sphere, compressed and pure.
But she wasn't done.
Lyra rose to her feet. She raised both arms and spread her fingers—and the water danced. It split into trails, elegant streams that swirled in the air like liquid ribbons. Then it shifted again—suddenly condensing into detailed, moving water sculptures: a leaping dolphin, a twisting spiral tower, even a perfect sphere rotating on an axis like a planet.
The class was dead silent. Even the wind dared not interrupt.
She closed her eyes, made a tight fist—and with a soft, controlled splash, the water collapsed into a basin she formed below her feet.
Done.
She stepped back, expression cool, but her eyes glinted with pride.
The instructor broke the silence first. "Excellent control of Vita synthesis and form. A rare performance for your age. Advanced-grade mastery of water manipulation."
A few beastkin students clapped. A human girl near the back—Lyra's known rival, Serelle Fawn, rolled her eyes and looked away.
---
Three Days Later
In the hallway of the academy, the new grading sheets were posted.
Lyra Woods: A+ in Vita Manipulation.
She smirked and plucked the paper off the board. Then, marching right up to Serelle, she shoved it in front of her rival's nose.
"See this?" Lyra said with a proud, smug grin. "That's what an actual water manipulator looks like."
Serelle blinked, clearly irritated, but couldn't argue. The display earlier had said enough.
Lyra walked off with a victorious bounce in her step, holding the paper like a trophy above her head.
Back at home, she pinned the paper above her bed with a flourish.
From across the room, Oliver smiled faintly, sipping tea like a tiny grown man in a child's body. "Someone's awfully proud."
"I earned it," Lyra said, laying back on her bed. "No more C for me."
She turned to the ceiling, and a droplet of water lazily formed above her fingertip, swirling like a tiny galaxy.
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