Chapter 930 – Chieftain Matil

Hearing the elves call out “Chieftain” in unison, Mo Lan finally understood. The elderly elf holding her, whose aura ran so deep and profound, was named Matil—the chieftain of the Emerald Green Tribe.

Matil lowered her head with gentle affection, glancing at the unusually quiet little one cradled in her arms, then slowly raised her gaze toward the Tree of Life.

A serene yet vast energy radiated from her body, softly touching and interweaving with the Tree of Life.

Mo Lan recognized it immediately—this was the nature Elf magic, Wood Speech.

And it was Eighth Rank Wood Speech at that.

Spellcasters in the Seran world were classified into different professions based on their magical inclination—mages, druids, clerics, and so on.

Professional levels for spellcasters in this world ranged across twenty ranks, with the lowest being zero. Starting from the first rank, every two ranks roughly corresponded to one major tier in Valen.

Seran’s First and Second Rank were approximately equivalent to Valen’s First Rank; Third and Fourth Rank to Second Rank, and so on.

Magic levels similarly ranged from zero to ten, with Rank Ten magic being equivalent to Valen’s Tenth Rank magic.

Spellcasters of the nineteenth rank and above were typically honored with the title of “demigod” in the Seran world.

Those of the twentieth rank and above were gods.

Eighth Rank Wood Speech was a spell that only a Fifteenth Rank druid could cast, equivalent to Eighth Rank magic in Valen.

Chieftain Matil was at least a druid of Fifteenth Rank or above… equivalent to an Eighth Rank spellcaster in Valen.

In an instant, Mo Lan gained a clear understanding of just how powerful the Seran world was.

For a mere tribal chieftain to possess such strength—this was indeed a Fifteenth Rank high-magic world.

Mo Lan had also learned Wood Speech from the nature Elf spellbooks in Valen, but her level was not high. Without drawing upon Witch Magic, she could not hear what Chieftain Matil and the Tree of Life were saying to each other.

Fortunately, their exchange did not last long.

Matil, as if knowing Mo Lan could understand, lowered her head and spoke softly to her: “The Tree Spirit has asked me to look after you on their behalf.”

Mo Lan knew that “Tree Spirit” was the nature Elves’ honorific for the Tree of Life.

The Tree of Life was sentient. Over long ages of accumulation, its wisdom was no less than that of an Elf scholar.

“You’ll live with me for now,” Matil continued. “Once you’ve grown a bit more, the Tree Spirit will personally teach you.”

Mo Lan gently wiggled her small hand beneath the green blanket in response.

The wrinkles on Chieftain Matil’s face smoothed out as a warm smile spread across her features. She carefully adjusted her hold, then raised her head to address the elves still gathered around:

“Alright, everyone disperse. This child needs proper rest.”

At her words, the elves finally drifted away in small groups, conversing in hushed tones. Their words were filled with envy over the Tree Spirit’s decision to personally teach this child, and with hopeful visions of how the tribe’s future might flourish because of her.

Once the tribe members had dispersed, the forest’s characteristic tranquility settled back in, with only the rustle of wind through leaves and the faint birdsong in the distance.

Only then did Chieftain Matil lower her head and say, in a voice full of tender affection that only Mo Lan could hear:

“Let’s go home.”

Carrying Mo Lan, she turned and walked steadily toward the Tree of Life.

Among the massive, dragon-like coiling roots, a treehouse had been ingeniously constructed, as if it had grown there naturally.

It had not been built so much as woven into being by the Tree of Life itself during its growth—its branches and aerial roots entwining and enclosing to form a warm nest.

The walls were living wood suffused with a natural luminous glow, and the roof was covered in thick, soft, luminescent moss.

This was the place closest to the Tree Spirit—the sacred dwelling where generations of Emerald Green Tribe nature Elf chieftains had lived.

Chieftain Matil carried Mo Lan, stepping lightly up the stairs naturally formed by the tree roots, and entered this treehouse brimming with the essence of life. The interior was simply yet warmly arranged, the air suffused with the sweet, fresh fragrance of grass and wood.

Sunlight filtered through cleverly placed window openings, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow on the floor, which was covered with soft animal hides and dried grass.

Matil gently laid Mo Lan into a hollow formed by tree roots, padded with thick grass blankets, like a small cradle.

She crouched down, looking Mo Lan directly in the eyes: “Rest easy. Under the Tree Spirit’s protection, you’ll grow up quickly.”

Lying in the soft “cradle,” feeling the steady, vitality-filled energy pulsing up through the Tree of Life’s root system beneath her, Mo Lan looked at this powerful yet kindly grandmother chieftain before her and obediently nodded her head.

She was not sleepy, but her body still needed some time before it could become strong.

Other young elves would pass through their initial period of newborn weakness quickly, nourished by their parents’ energy.

But Mo Lan was a child of the Tree of Life—for this step, she needed the Tree of Life’s help.

She closed her eyes and began to focus on sensing and absorbing the rich natural energy the Tree of Life was channeling into her.

Seeing Mo Lan so obediently begin absorbing the energy, a glimmer of gratification flickered in Matil’s eyes.

She did not disturb her. She simply sat quietly nearby in meditation, picking up a supple vine and beginning to weave something, though her gaze fell tenderly upon Mo Lan from time to time.

Time slipped by silently in the flow of life energy.

Mo Lan could clearly feel that with every breath, pure and mighty forces of nature seeped into every part of her body—nourishing every inch of skin, every meridian.

Her body was changing at a pace visible to the naked eye.

Her skin, still somewhat delicate before, became smooth and resilient. Her slender limbs gradually gained strength.

She could even try lifting her small hand to grasp the fine, faintly glowing aerial roots that dangled over the edge of her “cradle.”

In less than a day, Mo Lan found that she could already control this newborn body with reasonable steadiness.

She braced herself with her arms and, wobbling slightly, tried to sit up.

Chieftain Matil, who had been watching her the whole time, immediately set down the small vine skirt that was already taking shape in her hands, stepped forward quickly, and gently supported her.

“Take it slow, child.”

Matil was genuinely astonished.

An ordinary young elf would need at least a week, sometimes even longer, to pass through the initial period of newborn weakness and gain strength in their limbs.

Even children of the Life Mother Tree typically had a weakness period of about three days.

But how long had it been? And this child could already stand?

With the help of Matil’s arm, Mo Lan managed to sit up straight.

She looked down curiously at her own small hands, now several times smaller than before, then raised her head to look at Chieftain Matil. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something.

But all that came from her throat was a string of clear yet meaningless babbling sounds.

“…” Why still can’t I speak?

Matil was amused, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes smoothing out:

“Don’t worry, little one. Your voice still needs some time before it becomes nimble. But communication of the mind—that may come sooner.”

As she spoke, she extended her index finger, a ring of extremely gentle, barely perceptible green luminescence swirling around its tip, and lightly touched it to the center of Mo Lan’s brow.