God's Tree-Chapter 196: The Feast Before Legends

The Speed Trial was a twisting maze of shifting platforms and magical acceleration fields.

He cleared it in under half the average time.

One of the watching staff nearly tripped trying to activate the stop-clock in time.

Argolaith didn't even look winded.

The Combat Arena was waiting—an open circle of reinforced rune-stone.

His opponent stood waiting: a large man in dragon-hide armor, arms crossed, his own pendant glowing Gold. He wielded a warhammer as tall as Argolaith himself.

"Don't hold back," the man warned. "I won't."

Argolaith didn't.

In less than a minute, the man lay flat on his back, the warhammer lodged twenty feet away in a wall, and three evaluators blinking in disbelief.

Marene was now gripping the desk so hard her knuckles had gone white.

The Written Exam was a breeze.

Argolaith, despite his wandering life, had absorbed far more than most adventurers twice his age. His answers were concise, accurate, and showed both tactical and practical insight.

He handed the test in after ten minutes. freeweɓnovel.cøm

Marene flipped through it and stopped by question seven.

"Which beasts are resistant to soul-rending flame, and how do you slay them?"

Argolaith's answer: "If you need to slay a soulflame beast, you already made a mistake."

She gave a sharp exhale through her nose.

"Alright," she muttered. "Let's see this damn feast."

The Guild kitchen was large but underused—most adventurers here had field rations or paid someone else to do the hard work.

Not today.

Argolaith cleared a counter and reached into his storage ring.

Out came:

A Saint Beast leg, still glowing faintly with residual energy.

A dozen bundled high-tier magic herbs. Two Ice-Lotus petals. Four phoenix peppers.

Fresh goldroot, wyrm-garlic, and an essence-core from a skyhorn goat.

The scent hit the room like a storm.

One chef watching from the side fainted.

Another muttered, "Those aren't cooking ingredients. Those are alchemy reagents…"

Argolaith set to work with calm precision.

He sliced, crushed, charred, basted. He used a heat rune to slow-roast the Saint Beast meat, letting it absorb the energy of the ingredients. The juices hissed with magic. He sautéed the skyhorn marrow in wyrm-garlic and frost-oil, creating an aroma so rich the air shimmered.

The feast he laid out was… not just food.

It was art.

It was alchemy.

It was provocation.

People outside the Guild began to gather, sniffing the air, unable to explain the hunger clawing at their insides. Adventurers abandoned their tables and pressed against the kitchen window.

Even outside the city walls, distant roars echoed across the plains—Saint Beasts crying out at the scent of their fallen kin transformed into something divine.

Argolaith plated the final dish.

A warm stew of fireroot and basilisk marrow, garnished with lotus-petal shavings and a single starfruit drop.

He turned to Marene.

"Well?"

She stared.

Then took one bite.

And set the spoon down.

"…Welcome to Diamond rank."

Marene hadn't even set the spoon down.

She was still chewing—eyes wide in disbelief, flavor bursting across her tongue—when a thunderous explosion rocked the city.

The floor quaked. Dishes rattled on their shelves. Then came the wailing of horns and the clang of alarm bells, rising like fire across the sky.

Shouts rang through the guild's stone halls—

"STAMPEDE!"

"Saint beasts—dozens of them!"

"The city's under siege!"

"We're all going to die!"

Soldiers and adventurers alike scrambled, many leaping over tables or dropping mugs, weapons half-drawn, eyes wild with panic.

Marene shot to her feet, one hand instinctively going for the blade at her belt.

Argolaith tilted his head slightly, looked out the nearest window, and blinked.

Then, with innocent curiosity, he said:

"I guess the stew smelled too good."

Marene slowly turned to face him, horror dawning in her expression.

"…What kind of Saint Beast was that?"

Argolaith shrugged. "Big. Strong. Had horns. Took a while to kill. I fought it two days ago in a cratered basin before the cliffs."

Her gaze dropped to the floor.

"Did it… have black horns that sparked faintly with lightning?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Why?"

She let out a sharp breath and sat down hard.

"That confirms it. You killed one of the region's Guardian Beasts. It wasn't just any Saint Beast. That thing kept the others in line. And now…" She looked up, expression grim. "Now they're all angry."

Argolaith blinked again, genuinely confused. "So… just because I made stew?"

"Yes!" she snapped. "You cooked a Guardian-class beast that ruled over this territory—and then you slow-roasted it with phoenix peppers and lotus petals! Of course they're attacking!"

He scratched his head, thoughtfully.

"…I mean, it was delicious."

But then his tone shifted—nonchalant, yet tinged with something colder.

"I'm just glad I didn't have to fight the Reaper Beast that was watching from the ridge."

Marene paled. "A what?"

"A Reaper Beast," Argolaith said, voice still calm. "Comes after Guardian-class Saint Beasts. Bigger. Meaner. Smarter. Can use soul magic. Didn't engage, though. Probably didn't want to fight me… or maybe it was testing me."

Marene just stared.

Then, in a breathless whisper: "You're insane."

Argolaith stood, adjusted the strap of his sword, and offered a small, apologetic smile.

"Well. I suppose I'll go clean this up."

The next forty-eight hours would become legend.

Saint Beast after Saint Beast—charging across the plains, maws foaming, eyes glowing, powered by rage and instinct—fell.

Argolaith met them head-on.

No walls. No siege towers. No aid.

Just one man with a sword and unrelenting resolve.

He moved like a storm—fast, fluid, devastating. His blade danced with purpose. His eyes burned with quiet fire. The Saint Beasts—creatures that could tear through elite adventurers—died by the dozens.

Some exploded from internal force.

Others crumbled, pinned beneath crushing blows.

One was beheaded mid-roar, its scream cut clean in half.

The soldiers manning the walls stopped fighting.

The adventurers stopped giving orders.

They watched.

Watched the dust churn with every clash.

Watched the sky ripple with each Saint Beast's final cry.

Watched a Silver-ranked boy—who should've died days ago—defy a horde no army could have faced.

Each fallen beast vanished into his storage ring, no trace left behind.

By the end of the second night, the fields were quiet again. The wind whispered across bloodless stone. And Argolaith, cloak torn and boots stained, walked back through the city's gates—calm, focused, as if he'd only gone out for a walk.

The guards parted wordlessly.

Inside, many eyes followed him.

Not just in awe—but in covetous hunger.

Because that storage ring—

It didn't just hold impossible quantities.

It stored Saint Beasts. Entire battlegrounds. Wealth, power, prestige.

And more than a few began to wonder:

What if we took it from him?

Argolaith returned to the Adventurers Guild, pushing the doors open with weary ease.

Marene was waiting behind the counter, jaw tight, shoulders tense. The guild hall fell into utter silence as he approached.

"I handled it," he said.

"I know," she replied quietly. "We… watched the whole thing."

She glanced down at her ledger, hesitated, then slowly flipped through the rank registry.

"You're not Diamond."

Argolaith raised an eyebrow.

"You're beyond Diamond," she continued, her voice shaking slightly. "Based on the records… what you've done, what you've killed, and the strength you've demonstrated…"

She looked up at him, the weight of her next words anchoring the entire hall.

"You're Adamantite. Possibly Mithril. That rank hasn't been given in over fifty years."

Whispers broke across the room like a wave.

"Mithril—?"

"He's just a kid!"

"No magic—he hasn't even awakened—what is he?"

But Argolaith didn't flinch.

He simply nodded once.

"Then rank me however you see fit," he said softly. "I still have one more tree to find."

And with that, he turned away, cloak swirling behind him, and walked deeper into the city.

Unaware that by nightfall, his name would echo far beyond its walls.