The dying golden tree offers its last fruit.
Huddled in the fruit is the ghost of a weed elf. It was supposed to be the savior, but it crashed into the barbaric planet under the fire of interstellar pirates - here the ferns are as tall as giant towers, the shadows of pterosaurs sweep over the horizon of spewing magma, and the primitive people covered in scales raised stone spears and surrounded the remains of the cryopod into an altar.
When Noah emerged from his embryo, rotting roots were digging into the soil. His fingertips dug out vines and crushed the charging Tyrannosaurus, and golden cracks appeared on the skin as the blood poured down. What is even more terrifying is the whisper of the golden tree in my mind:
"Swallow them... And you can become the new tree of life."
