Demon King After the End-Chapter 20: Tree of Death [2]

The moment the sky dimmed over the wasteland—when black clouds coiled above the sprouting Tree of Death and a pulse of otherworldly stillness spread like a drumbeat—the world reacted.

The dark elves were the first.

Drawn by instinct, memory, and the call of their origin, they had bolted from the demon settlement. But they weren't alone.

One of the nearby goblins, squinting up at the darkened horizon, dropped the bone he'd been gnawing on and nudged his companion.

"Oi... you seein' this?"

"What in the Deep is that?" the other muttered, craning his neck. "That... ain't normal."

Black clouds in daylight. A tree where nothing should grow.

Even the young beast-kin, huddled inside a cracked wooden shelter, stepped out shielding their eyes from the glare—then froze.

"...Is that a tree?" one of them whispered. Her feline ears twitched. "Out here?"

"More than a tree," said another, older beast-kin, jaw tightening. "Something's changing."

One by one, demons, goblins, and beast-kin alike stepped from their crumbling huts. Some walked hesitantly, others ran. Even those weakened by hunger or despair stirred, drawn not by understanding but instinct. Even if the black tree meant danger... anything was better than burning under the unforgiving sun in a broken world.

[Inside the castle]

The retainers were having there meeting in conference room or more like they were just screaming at each other.

Then, it happened.

A strange disturbance rippled through the air, as if the very mana around them had shifted. Heavy. Ancient. Powerful.

Everyone in the room froze.

"...What's happening?" asked Brahmir, a stocky demon whose stone-like skin pulsed faintly with magic.

"How would I know?" Kaedor, the grumpy goblin strategist grunted, already climbing onto a chair to see outside.

Gorran, the one-eyed warrior, was the first to move. "It's coming from the north. Let's check it out."

He walked swiftly to the window, pulling open the shutter—and stopped cold.

The others followed behind.

And then they saw it.

An unnatural scene, painted across the horizon.

A black tree growing in the middle of the wasteland—its leaves dark as void, a low mist curling around its roots. Above it, black clouds gathered unnaturally despite the clear, sun-scorched sky.

"The hell is that?" muttered Sylviana, brows furrowed. "A tree... popping up out of nowhere... in this wasteland?"

Brugos, the demon bruiser, growled low in his throat. "That's no normal tree. I can feel it... such pure death mana... it's radiating from it."

Everyone tensed.

Zorath, the draconic elder, took one glance and immediately stumbled a step back.

Sylviana caught the motion. "Zorath...? You recognize it?"

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The elder's voice was hoarse. "That... that is the Tree of Death. There is no mistaking it."

Lyzara blinked, stunned. "But... that's a myth, isn't it? A dead relic?"

"It shouldn't exist. The last one was destroyed in the War between humans and dark elves," Zorath muttered, shaking his head. "They said it was lost forever."

"Then how is it here now?" Kaedor asked, eyes wide.

Sylviana's lips curled slightly as she connected the dots. "Do you think... this is the miracle His Highness mentioned?"

Brugos cracked his knuckles. "If it is, then I want to see it with my own eyes."

"No more guessing," Zorath growled. Without another word, he walked straight toward the window, then leapt out.

His body twisted mid-air—bones reshaping, skin hardening. Gleaming dark scales erupted along his form as he shifted into his draconic shape. Massive wings unfurled, catching the wind as he soared toward the phenomenon.

Gorran gave a low grunt. "Let's move."

"I'm flying," Sylviana said with a smirk, already fading into a swirl of rose-colored mist.

Lyzara laughed and followed, vanishing in a flicker of flame-like mana.

Brugos jumped, landing hard on the ground below and sprinting forward like a charging bull.

Kaedor muttered, "Don't leave me behind, dammit!" and scrambled down the wall using jagged ledges and roots.

One by one, they moved. There was no hesitation. Because if the Tree of Death had returned, then everything was about to change.

And Leon was clearly at the center of it.

One by one, the crowd gathered.

The first to arrive were the dark elves—those few who still lived in the settlement, who had long given up hope of ever seeing their homeland restored. But the moment they laid eyes on the towering tree in the distance, its haunting silhouette etched against the sky, they knew.

They fell to their knees as if by instinct. Not from fear—but reverence.

Tears streamed down weathered faces. Ancient hymns whispered from trembling lips. Some pressed their foreheads to the ground. Others simply stared skyward in silent awe.

And then they saw her—Elvera, their queen, standing tall beside the tree, bathed in its shade.

An elder stepped forward, his hands shaking. "My Queen... did you... is this your doing?"

Elvera turned to him, her voice calm and resolute. "No. I merely bore witness." She stepped aside and motioned toward Leon. "It was the Demon Lord—Leon Vaelgrim—who planted the sapling. It is his will that brought her back."

The dark elves turned to Leon with widened eyes. Some gasped. A few knelt again, this time to him.

"But... the Tree of Death was destroyed. Not even a root remained," another elf said, bewildered. "There were no saplings. No seeds."

"Does it matter?" Elvera asked softly, looking around at the stunned faces. "She is here now. Alive. Breathing. Calling to us. The how matters less than the fact that we've been given a second chance."

She looked up at the vast, pulsing branches of the tree, her voice firm and proud. "Our scattered kin will feel it. Across deserts, forests, and ruined cities—they will know. And they will come. This... is the beginning of our return."

A silence fell over the dark elves, but it was no longer heavy. It was sacred.

The elder bowed deeply. "Forgive me, my Queen. And thank you, Lord Vaelgrim... for giving us back what we thought lost forever."

And then, more demons began to arrive.

They came hesitantly—many shielding their eyes as they emerged from their broken huts. But the moment they stepped onto the transformed land, they froze.

The temperature dropped. The searing heat of the wasteland stopped at the edge of this new terrain. The air felt different—denser, more alive. Shadows stretched and danced unnaturally, and the scent of earth—real earth, not scorched dust—filled their lungs.

The soil was dark, like burnt obsidian laced with veins of violet light. Strange motes of black mist floated near the roots of the tree, humming with quiet energy. The change was slow, but relentless—creeping out from the tree like ink across parchment, reshaping the land into something both eerie and beautiful.

And above it all stood the Tree of Death.

It loomed like a monument to everything lost—and everything yet to be rebuilt. Its bark was gnarled and bone-like, radiating power. Its branches stretched impossibly wide, casting a cool, unnatural shade across the land. Each dark leaf shimmered faintly, as though touched by moonlight in the middle of day.

Whispers spread among the newcomers:

"What is that...?"

"Is it safe?"

"I've never seen a tree like that... it feels like... like it's watching us."