"1062 days left" by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

A few days ago, Jericho and Claramae followed the Treant to a passage into a cave underground. The corridor inside was narrow and humid, the walls close enough to touch. Their footsteps echoed a steady beat accompanied by the rustling of the Treant's foliage as it adjusted its bulk to fit the confined space.

Finally, they emerged into a cavernous space that opened up dramatically around them. A clear, tranquil lake lay in the centre, its surface undisturbed and reflective like glass.

Jericho turned to the Treant, "I'm not strong enough; I can only create small bubble light."

"If I show you how, will you let me sleep?" the Treant asked, its tone weary yet willing to impart one last piece of wisdom before succumbing to its own exhaustion.

Jericho, moved by the sadness etched into the Spirit's bark-like complexion, nodded. "Alright."

At his agreement, the Treant's roots began to stir.

Jericho stood suddenly alone, his voice echoing as he questioned the void, "Where am I?"

His query hung in the air, the words dissipating as if absorbed by the nothingness around him.

After a moment of silence, a gentle voice responded, not from any one direction but as if emerging from the void itself. "You are in the space between the Veilla."

Jericho's heart raced as he absorbed the words. The air around him seemed to pulse with soft, unseen energy, comforting yet awe-inspiring. He realized he was standing at the very cradle of creation, where raw magic awaited direction and purpose. Jericho was inside a node of ley lines, an Ormsaat.

"Why am I here?"

"To learn, to understand," the voice answered.

"How do I wield light? That's the only thing I want to know. That's the only way to stop the Nightmare." he inquired, "But I need more than just a bubble."

"Like this," the voice-guided gently. Suddenly, the void shimmered, and particles of light coalesced around Jericho, swirling in patterns that mimicked the orbits of stars in a galaxy. He watched, mesmerized, as the light responded to his unspoken thoughts, dancing around him in brilliant arcs.

Jericho expected the robust, earthy timbre of the Treant. Instead, he was greeted by a melody of bells and a voice tender as the morning dew.

"We are in my sleep."

Before him, a figure materialized, not as a traditional apparition, but as a boy seemingly sculpted from the forest itself. His age appeared similar to Jericho's, yet his essence was of another world—his slender form crafted from leaves and fine branches, with feet that morphed into roots intertwining with the earth. As he shifted, the branches that crowned his head like wild, natural antlers chimed delicate harmony bells, underscoring every movement with a sound both sad and beautiful.

"Are you... the Tree Spirit?" Jericho asked.

With a nod, the boy offered a frail smile, his face the epitome of serene melancholy. "I'm sad," he said.

Jericho's heart tightened in empathy. "I can understand that. Losing friends is... sad."

"I lost you," the Treant added. "I lost you so many times. And I will lose you once again."

"Did we meet before?"

"Many times, but most of the time, you ignore me... Master," replied the Tree Spirit. "Or you couldn't see me, Master."

As the title 'Master' echoed, Jericho instinctively stepped back. His brows furrowed, grappling with a denial that seemed to rise from a place of fear as much as confusion. "I can't be your Master. I would remember it."

"You always say that. But you need to accept me, or you won't be able to wield the light."

"It just sounds bad to be a master. I don't want to command you or... you know, own you," he admitted.

"It's not your choice; it is mine to serve who needs to be served. It was my choice from the first day of your breath until the last. And I will be there each time you come back," he proclaimed.

As he spoke, the Spirit bowed his head, the branches that formed his antlers swaying gently, causing the bells hidden among them to sing a mournful tune. "I was not able to protect you last time. I wanted to meet you... but I was too shy; you never went to the forest, but Noctavia did. And then you fell from the tower... and I was only a bush of roses. And I lost you again..."

"It's okay. I'm not mad; I don't even remember," Jericho said. He stepped forward and gently placed his hands on the ethereal form's shoulder before him. "It's okay," he repeated.

"From the first breath to the last I stay, I, the Treant, the Spirit of tree and life, I have chosen you, Jericho, The Wise."

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As Jericho's hands made contact, the branches intricately contorted around his arms, weaving into his flesh without a whisper of pain. It was a strange experience; there was no sensation of invasion, only a profound rightness as if a lock had found its key.

Like a butterfly flying down his throat and back to his gut, he felt no longer the owner of his flesh, as if a thousand lives had woken up in one. He saw the ember eye looking upon him, the Eye who could remember-it-all.

At that moment, Jericho felt a deep clarity wash over him, an understanding of his path and the battles to come. It was as if the Spirit was transferring not just its allegiance but its wisdom and strength directly into his being.

Jericho turned back to the Spirit, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "You are right. You can rest with the others now," he acknowledged, recognizing the sacrifice and the tireless vigil the Spirit had maintained.

"I'm losing you again," the Spirit murmured.

"I will be back, I promise," Jericho assured, but they both knew it was a lie. It would be a very long time before they meet again. Century after century…

"93% of his body is burned!"

Jericho's senses slowly began to anchor him back to consciousness, but the world that greeted him was alien, a cacophony of unfamiliar sounds and sterile smells. His first conscious breath felt harsh, the air somehow synthetic, burning the edges of his lungs with its cold sting.

"Is he breathing?" The urgency in the male voice sliced through the fog in Jericho's mind, pulling him further towards wakefulness.

"Shallow respirations, Doctor. Pulse is dropping," came the clipped response from a woman nearby. Behind the sound of her voice, there was an annoying constant beeping.

The background was a flurry of activity—echoes of voices, metallic clatter, and cart rolling.

Jericho could barely process the environment, but another voice, booming and detached, drifted into his awareness.

"The tension between Spiyles and Keblurg is growing after the commission has identified that both parties might possess weapons of mass destruction. Due to these events, Ostesh is appealing to an assembly between all the nations of the Great Continent to appeal to peace."

Jericho's mind clung to fragments of reality; the commands that filled the air around him, discussing intubation and blood gases, were alien to his ears.

"Setting up for intubation. Can we get a head tilt, please?"

Jericho's body was unresponsive, his muscles refusing to obey his desperate attempts to move or speak.

"Secure the airway first. Nurse, prepare for intubation. I need suction ready."

As the intubation tube pressed down his throat, a gag reflex momentarily threatened to overwhelm him, but his body was too weak to react beyond a simple cramp. "Blood gases on the way. The patient has red blood, type one. IV lines are ready for fluid resuscitation."

The medical jargon continued, discussing heart rates and blood pressure—terms Jericho understood only as vague concepts.

"Monitor the urine output and keep the fluids adjusted. We can't afford any renal complications. What's the heart rate?"

"Heart rate is tachycardic, around 120 bpm. Blood pressure is low, 90/60."

"Keep the fluids coming. Let's stabilize those vitals. How's the airway?"

Another voice cut through, broadcasting news that seemed as terrifying as it was familiar: "Yesterday, authorities found a building in Aspana with two nests of Lamias; the threat has been controlled, but the locals fear that some Lamias have escaped. The authorities insist that those concerns are not valid and that any threat has been contained."

"Airway's secure, tube is in place. Ventilating with 100% oxygen," one of the team members confirmed. "Can someone turn off that fucking TV! We are saving lives over here!"

"Let's irrigate this section here gently. Make sure we're thorough but careful not to disturb the healthy tissue," the doctor instructed.

"Doctor, the topical antibiotics and antimicrobial dressings are prepped. Do you want to apply them on this first section?" a nurse inquired.

"Yes, as soon as we finish debriding. Keep the dressings ready. And make sure we have enough for all the areas," the Doctor replied, "How did this kid burn his whole body and survive... Saint Ulencia must be in your favour. Look at this..."

"Applying the antibiotic now."

"What's his current pain level on the scale?"

"Around 8 to 9. Should I increase the analgesic dosage?" the attending nurse asked.

Amidst the outbreak of medical interventions and the distant yet incessant chatter of a world he didn't understand, Jericho's struggle to keep his eyes open waned. The seductive pull of oblivion tugged at his consciousness, and finally, he succumbed, his eyes ceasing their battle to perceive the unfamiliar surroundings.

"Doctor, there is someone asking for the boy. And, by the way, your patient's name is Jericho Wise, twenty-two."

"Who is asking."

"You'll never believe it, is Professor Edgar Duvencrune."

As Jericho drifted back into the depths of slumber, his mind spun with disjointed thoughts and questions. Where was he? And mostly, did they win? Was he able to light more than bubbles?

"Oh fuck, not that guy again. I can't stand that… Blue-One."

Tensions Rise on the Great Continent as Spiyles and Keblurg Face Accusations of WMD Possession

The Great Continent—In a striking revelation that could escalate long-standing tensions, the International Commission today reported that both Spiyles and Keblurg might be in possession of weapons of mass destruction. This development comes amid heightened scrutiny as the rival nations have been locked in conflict since the reign of the Fallqueen, Veilla Mageschstea.

Spiyles and Keblurg, known for their historical animosity, have been at war intermittently for century after century, a conflict that led to the genocide of the centaurs.

In response to the commission's findings, Ostesh has called for an urgent assembly of all nations in the Great Continent. Ostesh's Prime Minister, Onira Kesten, urged for dialogue and peace. "We stand at a crucial juncture where our decisions will dictate the future of our planet. It is imperative that we choose dialogue over destruction," Kesten stated in a press conference early this morning.

The proposed assembly aims to foster a peaceful resolution and reassess the military capabilities of the concerned nations. "The presence of WMDs not only threatens the stability of Spiyles and Keblurg but all nations of the Great Continent," added Prime Minister Kesten. "We should not try to mimic the villainess of Eura Berdorf when she destroyed in a whimper the nation of Skoe Scana that now is left as the Great Desert and caused the almost genocide of dwarves."

The international community has expressed grave concerns over the potential for an escalated conflict, urging both Spiyles and Keblurg to cooperate with international inspections and abide by treaties prohibiting such armaments. The United Nations Secretary-General has offered to mediate talks, highlighting the critical need for a "sustained peace initiative" on the Great Continent.

As the assembly approaches, the world watches, hoping that this meeting can pave the way for a new era of peace and cooperation, restoring stability to a region haunted by centuries of warfare and the shadows of genocide. The forthcoming days are crucial, as they may determine whether the continent steps back from the brink of a potentially catastrophic conflict. But this time, there is no Summerqueen to point the finger. — The Continent Press - 15th, 8th Moon, 511 Summer

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