Chapter 92

Galad and all the elf guards leapt up, drawing their swords and scanning wildly, their spirits trembling—how could such a mighty Dragon Hunter have failed to notice someone approaching the teleportation array and speaking to her? If the intruder had intended to assassinate her, wouldn’t it have been effortless?

What was terrifying was that even now, as the voice spoke, Galad still could not see its source—it was as if the speaker didn’t exist at all, yet the voice was undeniably there.

But she quickly realized: only one being here possessed the power to conceal their presence from her senses and invite others to converse in such a masterful tone.

“The World Tree?” came Negril’s cautious voice from within the teleportation array.

The God of Nature, the protector of the elves, the World Tree.

All the elves dropped to their knees at once, Galad included—those proud heads, never bowed to anyone, now sank deeply, exposing their white napes.

“￥…#@…￥.” Dragon tongue.

“#￥#*￥#*￥（#￥.” Dragon tongue.

Negril reluctantly teleported over.

A stunted, undersized Huang Tong Dragon emerged from the teleportation array; Galad and the elves gaped—was this tiny, adorable creature the one who had spoken to them with such an old, haughty tone?

Negril was reluctant to come, for the more information he revealed, the more likely the elves would fixate on him—but he had no choice; the World Tree threatened to follow the teleportation array and strike him down.

Negril didn’t know how to travel along a teleportation array to attack someone, but the World Tree was a ten-thousand-year-old tree—what if it had a way?

At worst, he’d lose this projection—so what? He could always abandon this body.

“Disperse. Do not disturb my guest.” The World Tree’s voice echoed in every elf’s ears like a gentle breeze.

Galad stared at the small yellow figure, a bad premonition stirring in her heart.

“Negril, long time no see. How did you become a Death Dragon? And why so small? Did your dragon egg go bad?”

If High Priestess Kailandai heard this, her head would fall off—she’d been praying to the World Tree lately and rarely received any reply; when she did, it was only three or five words—nothing like this long, flowing passage.

She’d assumed the World Tree had simply grown old, weak, and weary—but apparently, it was just too lazy to answer her.

Negril, having spent too much time with Lei Ting, hadn’t learned much else—but his tongue had grown razor-sharp. “Your seed’s the one that went bad. If I hadn’t sold the elves World Tree saplings, you’d already be extinct.”

“Alas, even if you sold them saplings, on their hands, the World Tree will eventually go extinct.”

“Huh? What do you mean by that? By the way, why don’t you teach them how to germinate, cultivate, and plant? You even let two trees die!”

“I don’t know how to germinate, just as you don’t know how to birth a dragonling.”

At this, Negril bristled: “Who says I don’t know how to birth dragonlings? Just get a female dragon to lie down on top, and it’s done.”

“And then? How do the male and female life essences combine? How does the embryo grow? How does it hatch? Do you know any of that?”

“Of course I do. The male and female dragon life essences merge, forming a fertilized egg; the egg membrane hardens into a shell; it’s laid; then, in a suitable environment, it hatches—and becomes a dragonling.” Negril explained.

The World Tree fell silent for a long while before reluctantly saying: “I forgot—you’re the God of Knowledge. But I don’t know how to germinate. When I gained self-awareness, I was already a giant tree—I never experienced the sprouting stage.”

Negril nodded. “That makes sense. I don’t know how I was born either—but I know how other dragonlings are born. Too bad you have no other World Trees to observe.”

Since the World Tree didn’t know germination, and the conditions An Ge required were so complex, Negril’s head ached just thinking about it.

“It’s fine. Each of my fruits contains thousands of seeds. When flowering season comes, billions of flowers bloom at once, yielding billions of fruits—and tens of billions of seeds annually. When scattered across the earth and the abyss, some will inevitably find favorable conditions and take root.”

Negril nodded. The World Tree’s seeds had an extremely high germination rate—aside from the few hundred wasted in early trials, nearly all had been successfully sprouted, achieving a 99.999% success rate.

Even if the World Tree didn't understand germination, even if the conditions were harsh, with a one-in-a-trillion chance and such a massive base, success was inevitable.

The World Tree’s seed count clearly followed a strategy of overwhelming quantity. Tens of billions per year, trillions over a decade—how many after a hundred thousand years?

“Then why hasn’t a single sprout appeared?” Negril asked.

“The elves prevent the seeds from dispersing,” said the World Tree.

Negril’s spirit trembled.

The World Tree needed to scatter its seeds, relying on sheer numbers to ensure germination—many plants did this, making their fruits sweeter to attract birds, who would swallow them and excrete the seeds far away.

But the elves, fearing the World Tree’s spread, blocked seed dispersal: every time fruit ripened, they sent people to harvest them, remove the seeds, and feed the empty fruits to birds and beasts. Any elf who ate the fruit was forbidden to leave elven territory for three to five days.

Thus, the primary reason the World Tree could not sprout was the elves themselves—elves the World Tree had nurtured. Good heavens—its own creation had sterilized it.

“Then why don’t you tell them? Why don’t you teach them how to plant?” Negril asked.

“Isn’t this part of nature? If the World Tree is destined to go extinct, perhaps this species simply isn’t fit to survive. Moreover, a plane cannot sustain two World Trees,” the World Tree replied calmly.

Negril suddenly realized: his view of life was utterly different from the World Tree’s. He saw death as terrifying—but clearly, this tree did not.

The World Tree saw extinction as natural. That its own creation had caused its demise was merely part of nature’s choice. Good heavens—this conversation was impossible.

“Then you’re about to die. What will happen to the elves?” Negril asked. The elves worshipped the World Tree as their god—if it truly died, could they survive?

“Yes, I am very old. I have only nine thousand years left. I hope the elves find a new way to survive before I wither.”

“Pfft. Nine thousand years? I’m done talking to you.” Negril spat, turned on his heel, and left. He’d been mourning the loss of a ten-thousand-year life—only to learn its remaining lifespan nearly surpassed his entire existence. What was there to mourn?

He returned to the teleportation array, angrily activating it himself. Galad, still lingering nearby, hesitated, then finally asked: “Greetings, honored guest—are you the God of Knowledge?”

Negril didn’t turn around. “Yes. That stupid, clumsy Huang Tong Dragon.”

Galad’s face flushed crimson to her ears. Insulting someone behind their back was awkward—but being caught red-handed was unbearable.

Back in his own realm, Negril spotted An Ge. The sapling atop his head had grown significantly taller, now rising above the pot’s rim. Sensing movement, it twisted around and waved its two leaves, sending him a message: Strain—grow—strain—grow—

Negril’s eyes lit up. He turned back to the teleportation array and sent a teleport request.

Though puzzled by his return, Galad still approved the teleportation. Negril swiftly flew toward the canopy and spoke to the World Tree:

“I know someone perfect for spreading your seeds—someone who won’t harbor selfish motives like the elves. If you give me a little incentive, I’ll have him plant World Trees everywhere.”