Wings Of Deception
Chapter 44 No Internal Fight

Chapter 44: Chapter 44 No Internal Fight

Bang!

A deafening explosion shook the ground, startling John from his meditative trance. The echo bounced through the cavern, dust trickling from the ceiling.

"What the hell is going on out there?" he muttered, springing to his feet. "Last time, they nearly blew up the whole mountain. What now?" He clenched his fists, concern flashing in his eyes. "Better stop this before something really bad happens."

He rushed toward the entrance of the cavern. The tremors grew stronger with each step, rumbling up through the stone walls.

But when he arrived, he skidded to a halt.

Blocked.

A thick network of gnarled, twisting roots completely sealed the passage.

"Shit! This is that little Woodie’s sentient tree skill." His brows furrowed. "Did she lose control? What the hell is happening out there?"

Realizing the urgency, he acted fast. Mana surged in his core. With a flick of his hand, he conjured a shimmering bubble of compressed water and hurled it at the root blockade.

Boom!

The explosion sent wooden splinters flying, but when the dust settled, the door remained intact—barely scratched.

He stepped closer, inspecting the damage.

"Not even a hole," he muttered in disbelief. "This won’t do."

John racked his brain for alternatives. Fire would be a natural counter to wood—but his control over fire was still too weak. Nothing he had could match the defensive might of Woodie’s treant.

Except... one thing.

"The Silver Glow..." he whispered, eyes narrowing.

Remembering Blackie’s silver-elemental ability, John drew on the insights he’d gained from studying the skill. While Blackie used it passively through his wings, John’s deeper mastery allowed for something more refined—condensation.

He formed a series of intricate hand seals and uttered, "Silver Glow, activate!"

A rush of mana ignited in his gut. His right palm began to shimmer—first faintly, then brilliantly—as silver light surged up his arm. The energy condensed, taking shape. A broadsword. Sleek, heavy, deadly.

"Alright... let’s do this."

With both hands gripping the glowing blade, John took a deep breath, then swung.

Shhink!

The sword cleaved through the wooden gate like butter. Smooth. Effortless.

John stared at the blade in astonishment, then let out a whistle.

"Damn... That’s sharp."

Outside the cavern, it was chaos.

Woodie—the once timid, kind, and naïve little pecker—was unrecognizable.

She stood atop the sentient tree, her tiny body radiating fury. Beneath her, the tree responded to her rage with violent force—roots whipping, branches thrashing, leaves crackling with mana.

Around her, the other birds—parrots, swallows, even her fellow woodpeckers—struggled mid-air, swarming and attacking in disarray.

Earlier, they had tried to intimidate her, mock her, push her aside. But now?

Now they were being crushed.

The parrots’ fireballs sizzled uselessly against the thick bark.

The swallows’ water blasts were deflected by moving roots.

The woodpeckers tried to engage in close combat—but were thrown back by whip-like creepers.

Nothing worked.

One by one, they realized this wasn’t the same clueless pecker they once ridiculed.

This was something else.

Woodie shrieked from above, her cry fierce and commanding, her treant syncing perfectly with her emotions.

Bubble, watching from her perch, raised a brow. "Huh... so the tree really was worth my attention," she muttered, a small smirk forming.

Even Blackie, stoic and cold, found his eyes widening. "That little pecker... is winning."

The tide had turned.

And Woodie?

She stood tall—no longer with that air of naivety clinging to her feathers.

"Stop it, Woodie. You’re crossing the line here," a parrot snapped, trying to maintain some authority.

"Huh! Too bad you lot were the ones who crossed it first." Her eyes blazed with indignation. "Where’s that smug grin now? And the rest of you—why don’t you laugh at my ’poor skills’ again? Go ahead, you stupid cowards."

A woodpecker sighed, cracking his neck. "Fine. Looks like we’ll have to get serious."

"Why not?" Woodie flared her wings wide. "Come at me—all at once, you buffoons!"

The sky filled with angry, shrill chirps as the birds flared their skills, the atmosphere above the mountain crackling with tension.

But just as chaos was about to erupt again, a voice thundered across the cliffside—firm and cold.

"Well, well, well... Look at you all."

The flock froze midair.

John emerged from the cave, his silver broadsword already disintegrating into shimmering motes of gas, fading into the wind.

"I was gone for a few minutes, and you’re already causing trouble in my clan?" His gaze swept over them all, unamused. "What are you all waiting for? Line up!"

In an instant, the flock scrambled down, forming three neat groups based on their respective houses—Parrots, Swallows, and Woodpeckers.

Woodie was about to descend, but John raised a hand, pointing at her. "You stay right there."

His eyes shifted to the tree, still trembling and lashing subtly with aggression. "And whatever this thing is doing, make it stop."

Woodie chirped at the tree, commanding it to calm down—but the treant didn’t listen.

She tried coaxing it with soft praise, calling it her brave warrior. No reaction. She even sang a melodic song, full of sweet flattery and passive jabs at her fellow flock.

Still, nothing.

Snickers rippled through the ranks below.

"Hmph. What a letdown. Can’t even control her own tree," one muttered under his breath.

Woodie’s eyes darkened. The tree responded violently, shaking harder and slamming its branches into the earth.

Sensing trouble, John’s voice snapped like a whip.

"Shut up. Who gave you permission to speak?" His gaze swept across them. "You should all be ashamed of yourselves."

"Stop moving, you piece of... droppings!" Woodie shouted at the tree in a final outburst.

And just like that—the treant stilled.

She let out a long breath of relief, slumping slightly where she stood.

John’s tone turned harsh as he looked at the devastation.

"Look around you. This is our clan. Our home. And you lot were fighting like savages—here, in our secret place?" His voice lowered, full of disappointment. "At this rate, this mountain will crumble before we ever make a name for ourselves."

"Sire," a woodpecker stepped forward, "it’s all because of her. She blocked our way, kept us from reporting to you, and refused to listen. She’s stubborn and caused this whole mess. Please punish her accordingly."

"Who are you calling fool?" Woodie snapped. "You want a taste of my root whip again? Come on, I dare you! Haha!"

"Silence!" John’s voice cut through the air like a blade. He turned back to her. "Woodie, do you have anything to say in your defense?"

"Sire," she said firmly, "I was just following your order—to not let anyone enter the cave. They were too stubborn to listen or reason with me. If anyone deserves punishment, it’s them."

John fell silent for a moment, piecing everything together.

He knew—deep down—it all stemmed from his own orders. But why should he take the fall?

He was the clan leader.

And a leader didn’t shoulder the blame—they delivered judgment.

"After listening to all of you," John began, "I understand now. Everyone is at fault. Fighting amongst yourselves—over something so petty—is unacceptable. Especially within clan grounds."

He paused, his tone cold and final.

"Therefore, everyone will be punished. I’ll consider it and announce a suitable punishment tomorrow."

Suddenly, Bubble raised a wing. "With all due respect, sire—I had no part in this shenanigan."

"Me neither," Blackie added dryly. "We were just watching."

John’s head turned sharply. "Watching?"

He sneered.

"What’s wrong with you two? You just stood there like statues while the others fought right in front of you. You could’ve stopped them—but you chose to be mute spectators. That’s worse."

He pointed at them with authority.

"If there’s punishment to be had—you two deserve it more than anyone else."

Then, with a final bark:

"Now disperse."

The flock lowered their heads and scattered.

And atop the sentient tree, Woodie stood tall—feathers ruffled, but victorious.