A Single Seed Fell
A single seed fell. It was a brown, round, and surprisingly large seed. Whatever flesh had once wrapped around it had vanished without a trace. Only the hardened, dried shell remained, its surface etched with countless tiny scars that told the story of a journey anything but gentle. The seed rolled into a small hollow in the ground and came to a quiet stop. It lay there as though it had finally surrendered to sleep after an endless voyage.
Dozens of days slipped by. Rain fell, the earth grew damp, and thin shafts of sunlight pierced the hollow. Then one day a hairline crack appeared across the rigid shell. A tiny fissure. Yet life never misses such openings. A single sprout pushed through the gap, lifting its head. Unlike the dull outer husk, the two fresh leaves that greeted the world shone a vivid, deep green.
In a forest alive with the calls of countless creatures, inside a humble hollow no one noticed, that small life was born.
Time moves swiftly. The sun sets, the moon rises, the moon sets, and the sun rises again. Rain falls, snow piles high, snow melts, and flowers bloom once more. These cycles repeated thousands of times. Perhaps even tens of thousands.
The sprout that had once been hidden in the shadow of its own small pit now stood tall above the forest. Its branches stretched toward the sky, its roots drove deep into the earth. Year after year the trunk thickened until the tree grew so vast it cast shade over every living thing around it.
Yet time had nurtured more than wood alone. The mana that had drifted through the forest for ages began to seep into the tree, slowly, almost shyly. It traveled up the roots, climbed the trunk, flowed through the branches, and reached the tips of every leaf. Fallen leaves and bark returned to the soil, rejoining the forest’s endless cycle. The gathered current eventually became something greater than mere accumulation.
A grand circulation. It changed the very breath of the forest.
A faint, pale-green glow began to spread between the tree’s bark. At night the light grew clearer, illuminating the woods as though the stars themselves had descended to earth. Beasts slept beneath its boughs, birds built nests among its branches. Nameless grasses and wildflowers near its roots brimmed with unusually rich vitality.
It was around that time that a group of beautiful, long-eared beings arrived in the forest. They were called by many names: forest folk, pointed-ears, half-spirits. But the name most often used was elf.
Elves had a custom: once their band grew large enough, some would leave to seek a new home. Born within the embrace of an ancient wood, they were a race that never lingered forever beneath the same roots. This group had split from just such an older tribe.
The journey had been long. They crossed forests, forded valleys, fled nocturnal ambushes, and sometimes fought. The children were weary. Exhaustion lay heavy in the elders’ eyes.
“Elder, must we walk again today?” a young elf asked, voice thin with fatigue.
The elder slowed his steps. “Endure a little longer.”
“Are we looking for another tree?”
“We cannot root ourselves beneath just any tree.”
The elder gazed at the exhausted children and the wounded among them. “I know it is difficult. But the tree we choose must not be mere shelter. It must become our center.”
The elves behind him lowered their heads in quiet understanding.
To elves, a home was never simply a place to rest. It was the heart of the tribe, the object of their origin, the root they would share across generations. They needed a tree that was ancient, mystical, and full of promise.
When they found such a tree, the elves offered a prayer. If that prayer reached the tree and sparked a miracle, a Dryad would be born to watch over them.
But miracles are called miracles for a reason. They had prayed before countless trees, yet the forest remained silent. Each plea scattered on the wind, and the weary band was forced to walk on.
Then one day, the elf at the front stopped abruptly.
“Wait.”
“What is it?”
“That way.” He stared deeper into the woods. “Mana is flowing.”
“Mana this dense… naturally?”
No one answered at once. The rich green current drifted slowly from the heart of the forest. Like butterflies drawn to nectar, the elves followed without thinking.
When they finally reached the source, every one of them forgot how to breathe.
A tree stood there. A colossal giant that seemed to dominate the world. Its trunk rose like a small hill; its branches spread like a second sky above the forest. Pale green mana flowed between leaf and bough, sparkling like a living river.
“World Tree…” someone whispered, voice choked.
The elf beside him shook his head at once. “Do not speak that legendary name so lightly.”
“But… what else could it be?”
No further argument came. They all shared the same thought.
One elf knelt. As though that were a signal, the rest prostrated themselves before the tree. A prayer more desperate than any before rang through the forest.
At that instant, the mana within the great tree surged. What began as a small ripple quickly became a storm. Every current of mana scattered across the forest rushed to a single point. Leaves trembled. The soil beneath the roots hummed. Light gathered. The flow took shape, and the shape solidified into a body.
It was the form of a woman. Skin like flawless white jade. A right eye clear as sapphire, a left eye gleaming emerald. Light-green hair cascading to her waist. She wore nothing, yet no one’s mind turned to lust. Beauty that transcended limits inspired only mythical awe, as though the primordial goddess had just set foot upon the world.
Dryad. Spirit of the forest. Avatar of the tree. She would become their spiritual pillar, the heart of their new home, and a mother to their children.
The elves watched her birth in breathless silence.
After a long moment, one of them recovered enough to act. He hastily removed his cloak and gently draped it over the newborn Dryad’s shoulders.
Only then did her eyelids lift slowly.
The Dryad saw the world. She saw the forest. She saw the elves gazing at her.
And she knew, as naturally as breathing.
Luiana. That was her name.
No one had spoken it. No one had taught it. A Dryad’s name is born with her, engraved upon the soul the moment she opens her eyes.
The instant the name touched her spirit, unfamiliar memories stirred.
I should be dead.
The final floor of the tower that seemed to tear the sky apart. The tower. Blood and flames. A broken sword. The last memories rose one by one like flickering afterimages.
Where is my sword?
Her body was drawing its first breaths, yet her hands already sought the familiar weight. The endless enemy assault and the final sensations flooded back in a single rush.
The newly born Dryad, Luiana, spoke her first words.
“Sword.”
An elf blinked. “…Yes?”
Luiana said, “Give me a sword.”
The elves exchanged stunned glances.
“A… sword, you mean?”
“Is it all right to hand a blade to the Dryad?”
“She told us to give her one.”
“But she was just born…”
The hesitation did not last. Their journey had not been peaceful; some among them carried swords to protect the group. The swordsman glanced at the elder. Though clearly bewildered, the elder gave a small nod.
“Give it to her.”
Still flustered, the elf unbuckled the longsword from his waist and offered it with both hands.
Luiana accepted the blade, forgetting that the cloak had slipped from her shoulders. The moment her palm closed around the hilt, her expression changed. Gratitude, relief, and a profound longing washed across her face.
She took a steadying breath, then slowly raised the sword.
The first motion was careful, as though testing the joints of her newborn body. The tip traced a thin line through the air. But in the next instant, pale green mana surged along the blade. Whether the sword rode the mana or the mana chased the sword, no one could say.
Luiana’s body belonged to a Dryad only moments old. The sword, however, did not. It moved in her hands like a language she could never forget, even after dying and being reborn a thousand times.
Cut. Twist. Flow. Return.
It was a sword dance. Swordplay and prayer and killing intent woven into something almost beautiful.
The elves were transfixed. The Dryad they had hoped for was meant to be a gentle mother who caressed the forest, embraced children, healed wounded branches, and sheltered lost beasts.
The Dryad before them was beautiful. Impossibly beautiful.
And impossibly dangerous.
At some point Luiana kicked off the ground. Her body soared like the wind. Before the elves could even follow her with their eyes, she landed before a nearby giant tree.
Compared to the sacred tree of her birth it seemed small, yet it was still enormous; twenty adults stretching their arms would barely encircle its trunk.
Luiana raised the sword. Three spans of steel pointed at the ancient giant.
One elf reflexively reached out. “W-wait—!”
Too late.
Shing.
The blade passed. At first it seemed nothing had happened. Then a clean diagonal line appeared across the trunk, so smooth it might have been drawn on paper, ignoring every grain of the wood.
A heartbeat later the roar came.
CRAAAAASH!
The giant tree toppled. The ground shook. Birds exploded into the sky.
The elves stood with mouths agape.
Luiana rested the sword on her shoulder and turned. A refreshing smile, like someone who had just stepped into a cool breeze, graced her face.
“Nice.”
No one could answer. Their first meeting with the one who would become their mother was… somewhat bewildering.