Void Tree Chronicles

Coughing up more black blood, sitting in the cave, Wes thought about the day they found out Earth wasn't alone in the universe.

The fire crackled in front of him, barely pushing back against the Minnesota winter. Zero degrees Fahrenheit could be considered warm after a week of negative twenty-five. The cold made everything slower—movement, thought, even breath. He pulled his coat tighter, glancing at Chad, who sat nearby holding their sister, keeping her wrapped in a thick wool blanket.

Mana tech still hadn't been discovered. Humanity had been thrown back into the Stone Age.

At first, people had tried to make old-world technology work. Generators, radios, even basic electric heaters—none of it functioned. Anything relying on electrical components or complex circuits simply failed. Batteries drained instantly, gas-powered engines stalled, even mechanical guns—if they somehow fired—would jam or misfire within a few shots. Mana had rewritten the fundamental laws of energy on Earth. The old world's technology had become nothing more than scrap metal and dead weight.

With civilization in ruins, humanity fractured.

Governments collapsed almost overnight. With entire cities leveled by mana surges and earthquakes, centralized power structures crumbled. The survivors split off into independent settlements and towns, forming under the rule of whoever was strong or smart enough to take control.

Some places held onto a semblance of order—military bases, research facilities, underground bunkers where pre-collapse leadership still held some influence. Others? They were lawless, ruled by strength alone.

Wes' home had been a National Guard base, one of the larger settlements, maybe a couple thousand people at its peak. It had been run by a General, a man who had tried to hold things together after the fall. With most of Earth's infrastructure destroyed, military outposts like this became fortresses, last bastions of humanity trying to cling to some form of civilization.

His father had been valuable. A surgeon. Medicine had become as critical as food and water, especially with mana-infused wildlife growing stronger, faster, deadlier. Humanity had gained from mana, but so had everything else.

For a while, people tried to hold onto the idea of society. The base operated like a small city, bartering systems were in place, laws were enforced—there was structure. Civilians worked for rations, the military organized patrols, people even talked about rebuilding. There was hope.

Then reality set in.

The world wasn't waiting for humanity to catch up.

Monsters grew bolder. Bandits started forming. People realized that money, laws, promises—none of it mattered anymore. The only thing that did? Power.

And power shifted fast.

Even the army wasn't immune to the change. The General and his loyalists were killed, betrayed by a subordinate who took over the base and named himself king.

Alexander Ford.

Or "King", as he now called himself.

A damn idiot. A strong idiot. But an idiot.

Wes' father had been called on one night. The medical area was close to where they lived, a repurposed building where Simon treated the wounded. Two scavengers—hunters, if you wanted to be generous—came in carrying a third, a man bleeding profusely, his entire left side torn open.

Simon barely looked up from the instruments he was cleaning. "What happened?"

The first scavenger hesitated, his face pale, breath uneven. "He was stabbed."

Simon's hands didn't pause. "Stabbed by what?"

The scavenger swallowed hard. "A creature… I—I don't know what they were." His voice was tight, his hands still shaking. "We lost half our group."

The second scavenger shifted uneasily before muttering, "Josh has it."

Simon glanced up, eyes narrowing. "Where?"

The man jerked his chin toward the entrance. "Outside."

Simon exhaled, wiping his hands clean. "Let's see it."

Outside, the wind cut through even the thickest coats, sharp and merciless. Josh stood near a torch post, his breath coming in slow, controlled exhales, his eyes locked on something at his feet.

Wes stepped closer, Chad trailing behind, both of them watching as the firelight flickered over the twisted body lying in the snow.

At the time, they had no idea what it was.

It was small, barely sixty percent the size of a human, its skin a leathery, sickly green-gray. Its limbs were wiry but disproportionately long, fingers ending in curved black claws.

But it wasn't primitive.

The armor it wore was functional, reinforced, stitched from well-treated leather and lined with metal plates that had been carefully shaped and fitted. Not the makeshift scrap most people expected from creatures like this. The dagger nearby wasn't just a rusted piece of iron—it was a weapon, well-crafted, its blade curved for deep wounds, the metal darkened to prevent light from glinting off it.

This thing wasn't just some wild animal.

It was a hunter.

At the time, they had no name for it.

But later, when the truth became clear—when Earth had truly awakened and humanity learned just how small they were in the universe—they would know.

This had been the first goblin.

Wes hadn't understood what that meant back then.

But he would learn.

Because goblins, on their own, weren't dangerous.

One-on-one? Easy. Small, weak, their bodies weren't built for direct combat. Even an untrained human could take one down in a fight.

But goblins were never alone.

It was never one-on-one.