My Scumbag System-Chapter 395: The Gardener’s Final Pruning

The battlefield disappeared.

The cathedral chamber with its impossible sky dissolved like smoke. The tree, the roots, the pulsing heart beneath my hands, all of it vanished in an instant.

I found myself standing in my childhood home. The cramped apartment in Graystone Park where Kimiko and I had lived before Luka entered our lives.

The peeling wallpaper. The water stain on the ceiling. The smell of cheap ramen and poverty.

And there, sitting at our kitchen table with her back to me, was my mother.

"Satori," she said, turning to face me with that tired smile she used to wear after double shifts at the factory. "Why are you fighting so hard? Come home. You’re safe here. You can rest."

My chest tightened. The knife felt impossibly heavy in my burned hands.

This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real. This was the Arborist, reading my memories and projecting them. Basic psychological warfare.

But knowing that didn’t stop the ache spreading through my ribs when I saw her face.

"This isn’t you," I said, keeping my voice steady. "You’re just wearing her skin."

The smile on not-Kimiko’s face widened, stretching too far at the corners.

"Does it matter? I offer you what you truly desire. A place where no one can hurt you. Where you need not struggle or scheme. Where the weight of maintaining your empire does not press upon your shoulders every waking moment."

The apartment shifted. Now I stood in Onyx House. But wrong somehow. The furniture was too clean. The walls too bright.

Natalia appeared in the doorway. Then Emi. Skylar. Soomin. Cel. All of them looking at me with identical expressions of cold disappointment.

"You failed us," Natalia said flatly. Her purple eyes held no warmth. "You promised to build something lasting. Instead you led us into a trap. Now we’re all dead because of your arrogance."

Because they were right. I’d accepted that quest from Aphrodite with Natalia knowing full well the risks. I’d kissed Skylar to complete an objective, hooked her on the Nectar without her full understanding of what that meant.

I’d turned Emi into an addict. Transformed Natalia into something dependent.

All in service of my own ambition.

Kaelen would’ve been proud. The old me, the enforcer who broke people for a living, he would’ve looked at this collection of damaged women and called it a job well done.

But I wasn’t just Kaelen anymore.

And the realization hit me like a truck.

I lifted my head. Met the false Natalia’s gaze directly.

"Nice try," I said, my voice stronger now. "But you fucked up the details."

The illusion flickered. Natalia’s expression froze.

"My queen doesn’t disappoint easily. And she definitely doesn’t give up on me just because things got hard." I looked at each of them in turn. "None of them do. That’s what you don’t understand, you ancient piece of driftwood. They’re not tools. They’re not assets. They chose to follow me because I chose them right back."

The apartment dissolved. The false girls vanished like smoke.

I stood in the cathedral chamber again. Cel lay crumpled on the moss, her skin so pale it appeared translucent. But her chest still moved. Shallow breaths. She was alive.

The Arborist’s Third Form towered above me, his obsidian bark cracked and bleeding golden sap from the knife wound that refused to close properly.

"You resist my kindness," he said. Something in his voice had changed. The clinical detachment was gone, replaced by genuine confusion. "Why? I offer you paradise. An end to suffering. Eternal preservation at the peak of your beauty and power."

I spat blood at his roots.

"Because your paradise is a fucking mausoleum. And I didn’t survive being a street rat, a yakuza weapon, and a cosmic joke just to end up as a garden ornament."

The knife pulsed again. Hotter. More insistent.

I looked down at the blade, really seeing it for the first time. The silver swirls weren’t decorative. They were veins. Living veins that connected directly to the First Tree, and through it, to every plant the Arborist had ever imprisoned.

The knife wasn’t just a weapon.

It was an anchor. A connection.

And if the Arborist was the Garden, then cutting him away from the Great Root would sever his immortality at the source.

I jammed the blade into the moss beneath my feet. Into the earth itself.

The response was immediate.

Silver light exploded from the impact point, racing outward in branching patterns that looked like lightning frozen in stone. The light spread across the chamber floor, climbed the walls, wrapped around the massive tree trunk.

Everywhere the silver light touched, the Arborist’s control wavered.

The eyes across his surface began closing, one by one. The roots stopped their attack patterns, falling limp. Even the pulsing heart embedded in the trunk slowed its rhythm.

"What have you done?" The Arborist’s voice carried actual fear now. "What are you doing to my Garden?"

I grinned, blood running from my split lip.

"Giving it back to the First Tree. You took it through force. But the knife remembers who it came from. And apparently roots talk to each other down there in the dark."

The silver light reached the Great Root. I felt it happen through the knife’s handle, a shock of connection that traveled up my arms despite the burns.

And the Garden woke up.

Every plant the Arborist had ever collected, every specimen kidnapped from dying worlds, every tree and vine and flower forced into service, they all remembered their imprisonment. They all felt the First Tree’s call.

They all chose freedom.

The massive tree trunk began splitting. Not from my earlier attack, but from inside. Roots tore through the bark from within. Branches ripped themselves free. The preserved figures suspended in translucent chambers throughout the Garden shattered their prisons, stumbling forward with confused expressions.

The Arborist’s scream was glorious.

Not the otherworldly resonance from before. This was raw. Primal. The sound of something ancient feeling real pain for the first time in millennia.

His obsidian form crumbled. The hundreds of eyes closed permanently. The blade-arms fell away like dead weight.

And standing where the God Form had been, I saw the Arborist’s true body for the first time.

An old man. Maybe seventy, maybe seven hundred. His skin was wrinkled bark. His hair was moss gone silver with age. He wore simple robes made from woven grass.

He looked at me with eyes that held genuine sorrow.

"You do not understand what you have destroyed," he said quietly. His voice was just a voice now. No cosmic resonance. No psychic pressure. Just an old being who sounded incredibly tired. "The multiverse dies slowly. World by world. Species by species. I was the last Keeper. The final Gardener who remembered that beauty deserves preservation."

I pulled the knife from the moss. Walked toward him despite my injuries screaming in protest.

"Then you should’ve asked permission before adding people to your collection."

He smiled. Actually smiled.

"Would they have agreed?"

"Some might’ve. The ones who were tired. The ones who’d lost everything." I stopped a few feet away from him, the knife held loosely at my side. "But you took the choice away. Made them ornaments instead of people. And that’s where you fucked up."

The old man looked past me, toward Cel’s unconscious form.

"She will die without intervention. The freezing sickness has progressed too far. Her own Aspect consumes her from within."

"Then heal her."

His eyes found mine again. "Why would I? You have just destroyed my collection. Ended my work of ten thousand cycles. Given me nothing but pain in return for the immortality I offered."

"Because you’re the Gardener," I said, my voice flat. "You claim to preserve beauty. Cel is beautiful. Powerful. Everything you supposedly collect. Prove you actually give a shit about preservation instead of just hoarding pretty things in jars."