Chapter Nine: The Exchange of Interests

Deep within the rainforest, less than three kilometers from the great oak, lay a level expanse serving as a camp. At this moment, three helicopters and a dozen large off-road vehicles, recently arrived from beyond the jungle, stood parked there.

On a rise nearby, Simon stood with the group of newly arrived outsiders, gazing into the distance at the towering sacred tree.

“Gentlemen,” Simon began, “I believe you have no further doubts regarding the revival of our tribe’s sacred tree, do you? As for why the tree has recovered, or how it has grown to its current state—well, perhaps only the gods themselves know the answer.”

Simon’s expression carried a trace of inexplicable melancholy, and his tone was solemn as he spoke.

“Let me remind you: on this trip, you should not expect to bring instruments to examine or collect data from the sacred tree. My grandfather would never agree to that.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over each person present, his eyes issuing a silent warning. “And neither I nor my clansmen will allow it now.”

Most of the outsiders chose to ignore Simon’s warning. Each carried their own weight, their own status in the nations of the Western Pact. To them, Simon and his people were, by birth, inferior—locals who, in their eyes, served simply as tools for cultivating valuable plants. When needed, they were used; when no longer useful, a handful of resources would suffice to erase them.

Yet, despite their condescension and disregard for Simon’s admonition, these men and women—cloaked in the veneer of civility—maintained an outward show of affable manners. There was, after all, no need to reveal their true intentions just yet.

Now, as they stared at the massive oak in the distance, most drifted into contemplation. They pondered the mysterious cause behind the tree’s “rebirth”—what force had manifested such a miracle? And, just as crucially, they considered what price might persuade Simon’s tribe to let them approach the oak, to conduct their “research.”

In the world of capital, there was little money could not solve. So, while faces wore gentle smiles for Simon, minds turned to another matter: the deep-rooted significance of the oak in the faith and culture of the Western Pact nations.

Members of the Western Pact alliance had, since childhood, harbored an ingrained reverence for the oak and for the Druidic traditions entwined with it. Thus, witnessing the tree’s miraculous resurrection—its growth to a hundred meters in little more than a week—left some among them with a profound sense of awe and devotion. For a few, a fierce protectiveness arose, a desire to shield this wonder from harm.

This sentiment was not so unlike the ancestral veneration found in Eastern Laen culture—different, but sharing a common thread. All the more so in a world that, in recent years, had been shaken by the inexplicable and uncontrollable phenomenon of the “Violet Moon.”

When faced with such a miraculous tree, one that held such a sacred place in the faith of the Western Pact, consensus was difficult to achieve. Faith, after all, was the most intractable of matters.

It was for this reason that Simon had summoned all the Western Pact agents in the Bana region at the earliest moment. For the sake of his people’s survival, he could only set these factions against one another.

Simon could not know what these people truly thought, but he himself had a clear objective. He turned his attention to the left, where the leader of this delegation from the Western Pact’s foremost power—the American Department of Medicine—stood: Fanny Campbell.

With a seemingly casual glance, Simon continued, “Previously, in our efforts to improve the lives of our people, we planted sacred herbs in abundance upon the holy tree. This, I fear, displeased the gods. I believe the death of the sacred tree was itself a warning from above, chastising our greed.”

“After much deliberation, our tribe has resolved that we will no longer interfere excessively with the sacred herbs produced by the tree. That is why I have called you here today, to make this known—and, of course, to renegotiate the price of the sacred herbs.”

“What do you say?”

At Simon’s words, the representatives from each nation exchanged knowing smiles.

“Price? Of course we can renegotiate,” one middle-aged man replied amicably. “But after that, we must examine the mistletoe produced by the oak. We need to see if its medicinal properties have changed. If the active compounds are stronger, all the better; but if their potency has diminished, I’m afraid we’ll have a problem.”

His remarks found easy agreement among the others, though someone else stepped in with an additional point.

“There are only four oaks in the world capable of producing anti-cancer mistletoe. I needn’t elaborate on their importance. Chief Simon, you must understand: your continued possession of this oak, undisturbed, is possible only thanks to the protection of our Western Pact ‘Keepers’ Alliance. A little gratitude and contentment would do you good, don’t you think?”

The speaker, an elder, spoke with an air of inexplicable arrogance.

But Simon was unruffled. He looked at the old man calmly and replied, “Indeed, Professor Anthony, you’re quite right. Yet I believe that, after two generations of cultivating sacred herbs for all of you, our gratitude should be more than sufficient, don’t you agree? In fact, to grow these sacred herbs, our tribe’s holy tree has already died once. You all sent agents to investigate and document this; surely you don’t suspect us of deception?”

“Now, the sacred tree has been revived and has displayed a miracle—a warning. If we continue to expand cultivation, are you not afraid of offending the gods?”

“Offending the gods?” Reed, the representative from the Kingdom of Indies, laughed aloud.

Simon frowned, and all eyes turned to Reed. Smiling at everyone, Reed looked again at Simon and said, “Let’s be honest, Mr. Simon—there’s no need to speak of ghosts and gods. Money is not an issue. We will certainly offer a price that satisfies you. But now that the oak has recovered—indeed, is stronger than ever—don’t you believe it’s time to expand production?”

He looked around at all present, his tone one of self-evident logic.

“Think about it: how much anti-cancer medicine do we produce in a year? Enough for fewer than one hundred and fifty people, divided among twelve nations. Such a small yield—how can it possibly meet demand?”

“Perhaps the extraordinary growth of the oak has given you misgivings. But in a world where even the Violet Moon, that irrational disaster, occurs frequently, is the revival of a single tree really so hard to accept?”

“Don’t let the word ‘oak’ conjure up notions of deities. Sometimes, the simplest explanation is the wisest. Reality is the truth that matters; faith, on occasion, can yield. What do you all think?”