"Anya…"
The old priestess's voice sounded as if it had been sanded down by rough grit—dry, hoarse, every word squeezed out of her throat with the last of her strength. Leaning on that crooked wooden staff, her body was bent deeply, as if a boulder of years had crushed her spine overnight.
She did not step into the sacred tree hollow even once. For a priestess who had obeyed rules all her life, it was forbidden ground—only the chosen inheritor and the gods' emissaries could enter. She only trembled as she pointed toward the dark entrance. In her cloudy eyes there were no tears—only a numb, near-paralyzed despair.
"Anya… Honored Drifters, please go in and deliver the final oracle."
The Capitano's group exchanged glances. It felt as if a slab of lead had been laid on each of their hearts. With no extra words, Miguel moved first. He yanked aside the thick vines covering the entrance and strode in. Giovanni, Faith, Frank, and the rest followed.
The inside of the sacred tree was not pitch-black.
On the contrary, it was saturated with dreamlike bioluminescence. The massive trunk was hollow, and countless glowing mosses and strange fungi grew along the inner walls, lighting the space like a palace beneath the sea. The air was thick with resin so rich it seemed almost tangible, mixed with something else… a rust-like scent that made the heart tighten.
At the very center of the hollow, there was a natural stone bed formed by knotted roots.
The girl named Anya lay there, very quietly.
The white priestess robe on her body had been dyed red. Not scattered specks, but a vast, shocking swath of crimson. At her chest, blood was still slowly flowing, following the grooves of the stone bed and dripping down, pooling on the ground into a dark puddle—like a red spider lily blooming fiercely in the dim.
Her hands were folded over her abdomen. Her face was pale as wax, yet at the corner of her lips there seemed to linger that familiar, gentle smile everyone knew.
"Anya!"
Miguel let out a beastlike, guttural roar.
He rushed to the stone bed. Those hands that had gripped a greatsword and killed without blinking were now trembling so badly he didn't even dare touch the girl's cold face.
"How can this… how can this…" Miguel spun around, eyes red, roaring at everyone behind him. "Now! Who has a med kit?! Faith! Your medicine!"
He yanked up his sleeves, exposing thick, scar-covered arms. His voice cracked with urgency. "Blood transfusion! Give her blood! I've got plenty! My body's been modified—my blood-making is ten times normal! No matter how much she's lost, I can replace it! Hurry!"
Faith stepped forward quickly, face dark in a terrifying way. He didn't respond to Miguel's shouting. He simply extended two fingers and lightly pressed them to Anya's carotid artery.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
Faith's fingers stiffened. He slowly withdrew his hand. In eyes that were usually rational and calm, a sorrow he couldn't fully hide flickered.
He didn't speak. He only shook his head gently at Miguel.
"…" Miguel froze. His towering body swayed, as if all strength had been pulled out of him. "Impossible… we were right outside… it was only—"
"Her body heat is gone." Faith's voice was soft—and merciless. "Before we arrived… her pulse was already gone. She chose this ending herself."
Giovanni stood silently to the side. He took off the pirate hat he always wore, pressed it to his chest, and bowed deeply to the girl on the stone bed.
Then his gaze fell to Anya's side.
There lay a huge, emerald-green broadleaf. On it, written in blood—words she had inscribed with the last warmth of her life—was an ancient script, painstakingly neat.
It wasn't a farewell letter.
It was an oracle—prepared long ago.
It was obvious: Anya hadn't "failed" the cruel inheritance rite—rather, she had never intended to complete it in the first place. She had no intention of eating ancestral brains, of extending old shackles. In the most resolute, most brutal, yet also most tender way, she ended it all.
With her death, she forged the Tree God's will.
"This is… the 'adventure' you wanted us to see?" Giovanni lifted the heavy leaf. Wet blood smeared his fingertips. He looked at the girl's peaceful sleeping face and murmured, "You really are… a foolish girl."
…
Half an hour later.
In the plaza outside the sacred tree, every man, woman, and child in the village had gathered. Torchlight illuminated faces tight with fear. Priestess Ira knelt at the front, and behind her were hundreds of villagers waiting for fate to be pronounced.
When Giovanni's group emerged from the tree hollow, a wave of agitation rippled through the crowd.
Giovanni now wore an expression solemn to the extreme. His usual flippant grin was gone. He radiated a sacred, untouchable authority. Holding the blood-stained leaf, he raised it high above his head.
Ollie, perched on his shoulder, made no goofy noises this time. The white artificial intelligence seemed infected by the atmosphere; in a voice grand and solemn, like a massive bell, it translated Giovanni's words simultaneously to all the villagers.
"Children of Greenwood Village!"
Giovanni's voice echoed beneath the night sky, overpowering even the forest wind.
"I am a Drifter from beyond the sea, and a witness to the gods' will on this day. The Tree God's 'memory,' through the blood of this generation's guardian, Anya, has delivered the final oracle!"
At the words "final oracle," the villagers held their breath. The high priestess buried her head deep into the mud.
Giovanni unfolded the leaf, but he did not read it word for word. He knew the bloodstains on it were only the girl's resolve—while the true "oracle" needed him to give it force.
"The Tree God says—"
Giovanni's eyes swept across every face, each word ringing like iron.
"The new Annual Ring Era will no longer be the cycle of old days, but the beginning of an entirely new age!"
"On the last day of the twelfth ring, the Tree God has taken away all the past's weight and shackles. Anya has not departed—she has returned to the sacred tree's embrace, becoming eternal roots. With her sacrifice, she has sounded the prologue of memory!"
Giovanni drew in a breath and spoke the sentence that severed a thousand years of vile custom in this village:
"From this day forward, the Tree God will no longer grant us memory! The era in which wisdom must be inherited through devouring and branding—has ended!"
A low gasp broke out in the crowd. Some were terrified, some lost, but in more young people's eyes, a light flickered—unbelieving, yet awakening.
"In this new age!" Giovanni raised his voice, thunderous like judgment. "Mortals, too, may use their own hands and labor to create memories worthy of the gods' gifts—rather than being forced to accept and bear the heavy past!"
"The god has let go, because it believes you have grown up!"
Giovanni slowly lowered his arm and looked at the villagers kneeling in the dirt. Then he delivered the freedom declaration the girl had purchased with her life:
"All that has passed is prologue!"
In that instant, the forest fell deathly silent.
After a long time, Priestess Ira lifted her head, trembling. She stared at the bloodstained leaf, at Giovanni's solemn face. Old tears streamed down her clouded eyes. She seemed to understand something—yet seemed afraid to think further. In the end, she only slammed her forehead to the ground and cried in a shaking voice:
"We… obey the oracle!"
"We obey the oracle!!!"
Hundreds of villagers shouted in unison. The sound tore through the canopy and reached the stars. It was reverence for a god—yet also a cry from the soul, after shackles snapped.
…
The next day, dawn.
The eastern sky paled. Morning mist still clung to the sea, the air carrying a cool edge.
The Capitano lay quietly anchored by the shore, rising and falling gently with the waves.
The group stood on the beach. Behind them stretched the primeval forest-sea, still lush and green—yet as if something had quietly changed.
No one spoke. They only watched the distant forest in silence, their hearts heavy and damp as the morning fog.
"The purest incarnation of a god has reached her far shore."
Giovanni broke the silence. Watching the first thread of sunrise over the horizon, his voice was hoarse. There was no trace of his usual theatrical tone—only a world-worn heaviness.
"Everyone, it's time to go. Our journey continues. We can't let the wind stop."
Frank leaned against a reef rock and lit a cigarette. He drew a deep drag. The harsh smoke hit his lungs, yet could not dispel the knot in his chest.
"This is… a little pathetic."
Frank gave a bitter smile and flicked away ash.
"We clearly have the strength to crush an army, and technology and knowledge beyond this era… but in the end, faced with a little girl's choice, faced with traditions rooted to the bone, we could do nothing. We could only watch her 'win' in this way."
"Whether we look pathetic or not isn't important."
Old Man Fernando propped himself on his fishing rod and looked out at the sea. In the eyes of this weathered elder was only compassion.
"What matters is that child did what she wanted to do. For her, perhaps this isn't tragedy, but getting what she sought. History always needs blood to move forward—even in a village as small as this."
"In any case."
Dr. Klein stood tall in the morning light, red glow flickering in his electronic eyes. "At least those villagers will devoutly follow the oracle she left behind. Ollie's data model indicates that this kind of faith-based 'reform' is more stable than any externally imposed reform. That cannibal custom should disappear completely."
Renass, who had been silent, suddenly kicked the sand hard. The straightforward boatswain's eyes were red.
"I get it, Doctor." Renass gritted her teeth. "But it still feels suffocating! There had to be a better way to achieve this—like beating those stubborn old men into submission, or forcibly taking Anya away… but…"
She paused. Her voice dropped, heavy with helplessness.
"But time can never flow backward. If we didn't do it this way, the lock in the villagers' hearts would never open."
Silence fell again.
"…"
Miguel, who had been standing with his back to them, facing the sea, finally turned around.
He didn't explode in anger like usual, nor did he swing his greatsword in fury. His expression was unnaturally calm—calm like a volcano on the verge of eruption, yet crushed beneath thick rock.
"Yeah."
Miguel spoke softly. His gaze passed over them, over the Capitano, and fixed on the far south—deep within this continent, where the behemoth called the "Federation" lay.
He remembered the girl's yearning eyes by the bonfire. He remembered her words—"gentle protection."
Miguel clenched his fists until his knuckles went white. But hatred didn't cloud his mind. In his eyes burned a deeper, steadier fire.
It was responsibility. It was a promise. And it was the best memorial for the dead.
"So, let's go."
Miguel started walking, stepping onto the gangplank leading back to the Capitano. His voice carried clear and strong in the sea wind.
"To the south of this continent. To the Federation's seat."
He looked back at his companions.
"At the very least… we should do something for her."