Echoterra: Rise of the Verdant King-Chapter 33: The thorn’s envoy

3 sentences... that was all they said and yet that was all I needed to realize the decision of the Thorn Assembly.

'Well well, what do we have here?'

When I saw them approach my territory, I expected it, and I also had ideas about their eventual decision. And this? This was one of the many scenarios in my mind, I was only surprised at how accurate it was to my predictions.

I should feel threatened, and yet, I didn't.

Rather, I felt amused.

'This mad world is back to normal, I guess'.

The diplomacy in recent days after I expanded my territory to over 50 square meters was unnerving; I was not used to it.

I was used to the violence, the unceasing, relentless violence; the brutal crucible of Echoterra, ruthlessly pushing its victims to evolution or death.

Diplomacy? That one, I am not used to. It was new.

Diplomacy in this mad world felt so weird it felt like inverted gravity back on earth; it felt like inverting the laws of physics, and that was why I felt amused and slightly relieved on hearing this. Finally, the world was normal again.

I unfurled a few defensive vines, not as a threat, but as a reminder.

I was still alive. Still dangerous. Still me.

My message definitely got across, but the leader continued.

["We offer two paths. The Assembly does not beg, and it does not barter. But we do recruit. You are eligible. You may accept our Crest and become one of us... one Thorn in the Crown of the Assembly. Or..."]

'Or what?' I thought, dark amusement filling my mind.

As soon as the leader spoke, the ground near their roots shivered. Thorns sprouted like daggers in a circle around them; coiled ready.

The message was clear.

He continued.

["...You may resist. And prove to us what kind of Lord you really are."]

And then, a silence followed.

Heavy. Charged.

I didn't answer. Not in the way they expected.

Instead, I released a subtle signal, a ripple through the aphid network, harmless on its surface but carrying dozens of hidden variables. Pheromone densities, humidity shifts, micro-thrums. A test.

They didn't flinch.

One of the lesser Thorns intercepted the signal, reversed it, and sent it back threefold in retaliation. It was a provocation. I cracked a smile as he did, an expression crafted from thorn flexing and slight bark curvature.

'Tactical aphid messaging. Clever. Subversive. You'd fit right in'.

The leader took one step closer. The thorns around him didn't retract, rather, they shifted, re-aiming at potential escape paths. Efficient. Brutal. Respectful.

Tension crackled in the humid soil, and yet they managed to keep their composure still in my presence. I was impressed.

["We'll return in three days."]

The leader said, continuing...

["You may accept the Crest then. Or not. But know this, if you choose independence, you will still answer when the Assembly calls. Every territory does."]

And just like that, they withdrew. They'd delivered their message.

The thorns melted back into the earth. The scent of sap returned to normal. The threat remained only in memory, and in the faint cuts they'd left in the earth.

They weren't like the Hollowroot.

They weren't watching.

They were waiting.

And now, so was I.

Little did they know that I had no intentions of playing to their script.

Little did they know that I was about to shock the living soul out of them with my decisions.

Little did they know that instead of dancing to their tune, I was going to sing my own song, and write an entirely new script of my own. Of my will.

...

They think I'll wait.

The Thorn Assembly believes I'll stew on their ultimatum, weigh their crown of barbs like some potted pretender in awe of structure. The Spore Choir thinks its failure is a wound I'll spend weeks licking.

But they were all wrong.

Because I am Clayton Hunt, because I grew up in the streets, and I'm done playing nice.

Waiting? Playing nice? I'm not the waiting type, I was never a big fan of staying passive, not when you live 90% of your live hungry and scavenging for survival in the outskirts. To survive, you had to be proactive.

The adage of the patient dog? F*ck the patient dog.

If the outskirts taught me one thing, it's that if you want something, go for it.

Before, I never had a choice in matters like this. I was small, weak, vulnerable, easily devoured.

But now, I was no longer that easily trampled weakling.

My territory was over 70 square meters now, I was less than 30 square meters to the goal that I set my sights on in what felt like a lifetime ago.

I was closer than ever to 100 square meters.

I was closer than ever to getting back home, to learn the fate of Earth.

I'll be damned if I stay put.

The moment they left, I began preparing. I didn't broadcast it through the network. I didn't whisper it into my aphids' ears either. I didn't even give myself time to plan.

I just moved.

Verdant fury, they'll call it later. But for now, it's just hunger. Rage. Roots that burn with the need to grow.

I tore into the Choir's borders like a scythe through stalks.

No caution, no diplomacy; just force.

One moment, the Spore Choir were sunbathing, living their normal eerie nomadic lives, their hivemind thinking of how to avenge their defeat. Little did they know that I was already here for revenge.

I didn't send scouts. I became the scout.

My aphid eyes flew ahead in swarms, a thousand tiny visions carried in twitching legs and scent tongues. The Choir's outer rim was still weakened from their failed assault.

Their spores floated lazy in the air, aimless without purpose.

They didn't expect me to come for them.

They should have.

And that was why I was going to raze them to the ground.

I razed their saplings first; silent, surgical attacks through vine and fang. My controlled rodents gnawed their mycelium threads at the base. Aphids choked off their young. Even the rabbits, fat on Choir rot, followed my commands now.

I was no longer a single rooted plant.

I was an invasive event.

And them?

They responded too late.