The trees rose in ordered ranks, tall and fibrous, their trunks wrapped in pale strands that shimmered faintly blue in the light. Unlike the warped, hostile growths he’d seen elsewhere, or the strange orange fruited trees, these stood straight and uniform, almost cultivated. Each one towered higher than the hauler, broad enough that three of him couldn’t have reached around a trunk. The leaves whispered in the breeze, shedding faint dust that caught the light without choking it.

  The grove was quiet in a way that felt wrong. The air was free of resin stench and there wasn't a chittering swarm pressing at the glass, just the sigh of leaves spilling down their pale dust. For a heartbeat, it almost looked like snowfall as tiny motes drifted in lazy spirals through the air. Ethan squinted, brushing a smear off the cracked cab glass where the particles clung as though alive.

  Something shifted near the roots. At first he thought it was the breeze, until a pale-shelled insect the size of his forearm scuttled into view. Its body was segmented and low, bristling with whisker-like feelers that probed the dirt. A second followed, then a third, the trio clicking together before vanishing into a shallow burrow. In their wake, the soil swelled into a ridge that hardened almost instantly, a neat wall of packed earth standing knee-high.

  "Great," Ethan muttered, leaning closer to the glass. "Underground janitors."

  The ridge wasn’t random. More beetles surfaced farther off, shouldering dirt into the air, weaving the mounds into a jagged line. The pattern looked deliberate: barriers curving between trunks, as though the creatures were fencing themselves in against something drifting higher in the haze.

  Above, faint wings caught the light. Moths, broad and flat, with translucent bodies that shimmered a cold blue when disturbed. They clustered near the canopy, scattering whenever the beetles broke the ground below. None came close to the hauler, but the sight left his neck prickling. Even here, where everything looked ordered and alive, the ecosystem was still at war with itself.

  He shifted his grip on the yoke, forcing his shoulders to unclench. Relief was a lie. This place was no gift. It just hadn't shown its teeth yet.

  CelestOS: Confirmation. Veslayan cottonwood analog. Primary source of PolybioFiber. Designation: resource node. You’ve discovered a renewable textile supply. Harvest recommended.

  Ethan let out a long breath that fogged the cracked glass. "Textile supply. That’s one way to put it."

  He eased the hauler forward into the grove. The canopy overhead filtered the haze into shafts of pale green, almost serene compared to the chaos of the swarm. Fang’s lens flickered back online, sweeping the trunks with wary arcs. The turret groaned but held, its barrel blackened with dried ichor.

  Ethan parked on a patch of flattened root mat and killed the throttle. The silence was deafening. Only the creak of cooling metal and the faint whisper of leaves filled the cab. For the first time in what felt like hours, he let go of the controls. His hands trembled violently, sweat dripping off his chin, his chest hitching with ragged breaths.

  CelestOS: Vital signs elevated. Recommendation: sit still for twelve seconds and remember to breathe. Relax and enjoy the Spore filled air.

  "Enjoy?" Ethan laughed once, the sound hoarse and bitter. He dropped the axe across his knees and leaned back, staring up at the canopy. "I almost got turned into a tree, Cel."

  CelestOS: Observation. Only a thirty-nine percent probability of successful metamorphosis. The remainder would have involved violent organ rejection.

  His gut clenched. Metamorphosis. CelestOS said it like a technical note, but he could still see Reyes convulsing, his body trying to rewrite itself into something the planet wanted: flesh splitting at the seams, resin choking him from the inside out, bones warping into shapes that weren't human anymore. Thirty-nine percent survival? That wasn't survival; it was being repurposed. And the other sixty-one percent? Violent rejection, a body torn apart by change it couldn’t finish. Either way, he ended up gone. Ethan dragged a hand over his face, forcing the image down before it could root too deep. Not him. Not yet. Instead, he focused on the grove, on the straight lines of fiber-rich trunks, on the fact that, for once, the planet seemed to offer something he could use without it trying to kill him first.

  He climbed out of the cab. His boots sank into a thick carpet of roots that was soft but stable. He tilted his head back, and while staring at the towering trees, felt a flicker of relief.

  He leaned against the hauler’s frame, listening to the hush of the grove. For one dangerous second, his shoulders eased. The light filtering through the canopy almost looked clean, the air breathable, the silence merciful. His chest loosened as if it might be safe to believe in it. Then Reyes’s face flashed in his memory: eyes clouded and skin splitting as resin forced itself through veins that used to be human. Ethan jerked his jaw tight. Relief was a baited trap. Safety here was a costume the planet wore, and the mask always slipped.

  The last time he’d let himself believe he’d found safety, Reyes had changed right in front of him. His flesh had started blistering and his skin cracking open while resin pumped through his veins until there wasn't anything human left to save. Ethan had watched his friend’s eyes glaze over, his voice twist into something alien, and then he’d been forced to swing the axe. The planet didn’t hand out gifts; it hollowed you out and wore your face. So why did these trees look like salvation?

  He shook his head to clear the errant thoughts, and got to work at his next task. The Deforrestor lay wedged inside a dented crate on the hauler’s bed, the wood splintered and scarred where a sporesquito’s proboscis had punched through. Shards of packing foam spilled out like innards, but the machine itself was untouched, dull, heavy, and whole. Ethan set his hand on its frame, grounding himself. This was why he’d risked the storm and bled through the swarm: for cotton fibers, for materials to rebuild what was falling apart.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  His suit, with its tearing fabric, fraying seals, and peeling armor, pinched across his ribs when he bent over the crate. If he didn't make use of this grove, the next fight would finish off what was left.

  He braced his shoulders, muttering, "Alright. Time to make this count."

  The Deforrestor was dead weight until Ethan wrestled it free. The crate’s side split open with a snap, and the machine lurched forward, nearly crushing his arm before he caught it. Fang’s lens flicked over, casting a targeting beam across the root mat as if mocking his struggle. Even then, the unit almost dragged him down when he tried to haul it off the hauler and onto solid ground.

  "Damn thing weighs more than I do," he muttered, bracing his boots against the hauler’s wheel and levering it down inch by inch. The Deforrestor thudded onto the ground with a metallic groan, its blades rattling faintly inside the housing.

  The machine slid crooked off the hauler rails, catching on a bolt and nearly wrenching his shoulder out of its socket. Ethan swore, boots skidding across the root mat until he braced against the wheel well. The frame shrieked as it scraped down, gouging a groove through the living mat. His servos whined under the weight, warning lights flaring red. One more inch and it would pin him flat. He jammed the axe handle under the edge like a lever, teeth clenched until the stabilizer leg finally swung free and the Deforrestor lurched upright.

  His arms shook. Breath tore out of him in ragged bursts, hot and shallow. He’d been at this since morning: hauling ore, welding plates, fighting monsters in the haze, then wrestling conveyors into place until his back screamed. Now it was past five and his body was done, every muscle burning, suit fabric sticking to him like a second skin. He leaned against the machine for a second too long, vision swimming, before he forced himself upright again. The Deforrestor wasn't going to cut itself into place.

  The clamps popped loose with a metallic snap, nearly sending the whole rig rolling onto his legs. Ethan cursed, shoving his weight into the stabilizer.

  CelestOS: Advisory. Deforrestor deployment requires two operators. Solo mode increases injury risk to 63%. Teamwork makes the dream work.

  "Yeah?" Ethan grunted, knuckles white on the crank. "My team’s dead, Cel."

  CelestOS: Reminder. Failure to follow safety protocols may result in injury, death, or disciplinary review. Would you like me to log a violation report in advance?

  Ethan bared his teeth. "Log this: I. don’t. fucking. care."

  He extended the boom arm with a crank. The blades unfolded, each one serrated like a saw scaled up for industrial use. Fang pivoted its lens toward the treeline as if wary of what would happen when Ethan pulled the trigger. The machine powered up with a deep thrumming, a vibration that ran up through the ground into Ethan’s boots. A narrow arc of plasma ignited along the blade teeth, humming in a way that set his molars on edge.

  He thumbed the release and watched the Deforrestor lunge. The blades bit into the nearest trunk with a shriek of splintering fibers. The sound was alien, neither wood nor metal, but something in between. Threads unspooled from the wound, glowing faintly as the machine ripped through layer after layer.

  The Deforrestor’s blades shrieked, tearing through fiber until the trunk gave way with a deep, splitting crack. The sound wasn't just loud; it shook through his boots, rolled up his legs, and rattled the hinges of his jaw. The whole grove seemed to flinch. Dust spiraled down in glittering sheets, coating his gloves and stinging his eyes. From the canopy, the moths scattered in a cold-blue shimmer. The beetles froze mid-burrow, whiskers twitching before they vanished into their tunnels. For an instant, the place felt like a heart that had skipped a beat, waiting to see what would bleed.

  Out of the corner of his eye, something flickered. A pair of Sporequitos drifted low through the haze with wings buzzing soft and uneven compared to the shrieking swarm he’d fought earlier. They circled once, proboscises tapping against one of the fresh beetle ridges before veering off into the canopy. They didn’t press the attack, but Ethan’s skin crawled anyway. If even stragglers could find him here, an open conveyor line wouldn't last a minute.

  He forced his focus back to the spooling unit, the neat coils piling brighter and higher. One problem at a time. But the thoughts came unbidden. He glanced at the canopy and cursed under his breath. The light was thinning, a fact harder to notice here under the woven shade, but he knew what it meant. Two, maybe three hours before full dark. And between him and camp lay the swarm. He pictured the haze alive with wings, the cracks in the hauler glass widening, and Fang’s barrel glowing hot from firing until it seized. If he pushed too long in the grove, he’d be racing through that hell blind and empty-handed. There wasn't time for comfort, and he had no margin for error. Every coil had to count before the sun slipped away.

  CelestOS: Confirmation. PolybioFiber yield:

  [3 coils extracted / 40]

  CelestOS: Textile grade: acceptable. You have successfully destroyed a renewable resource.

  Ethan barked a laugh, more from nerves than humor, and wiped his forehead against his sleeve. "Destroyed or harvested. Call it what you want. I call it survival."

  The coils piled quickly, each one heavy as a sack of ore, glowing faintly blue-green under the canopy light. Three good spools from a single trunk already [3/40], and the grove stretched out in ordered ranks like a warehouse floor. Ethan crouched beside the nearest coil, running a gloved hand along the fibers. They were strong and flexible, with a faint give that promised both durability and comfort. Exactly what he needed for suit seals, padding, and filters. Exactly what Maria would have carried, if she were here.

  CelestOS: Updated yield: [4/40]. Efficiency: unimpressive.

  Ethan gritted his teeth and dragged the next coil onto the stack. The grove might be generous, but the light was not. Every spool he added [5/40], [6/40] chewed minutes off the clock, each one a wager that he could still fight through the swarm before night closed in.

  He stood again, his shoulders stiff. More trees waited. More fibers. The grove felt endless, but every trunk felled brought him closer to breathing easier.

  CelestOS: Advisory. Recommend establishing logistics chain for long-term fiber extraction. Conveyors suggested.

  Ethan sighed, looking back at the hauler, at the crates already straining with salvaged metal. "Conveyors. Yeah. What I really need are trains."

  CelestOS: Correction. What you really need is Tier Three fabrication access. If you worked faster, or smarter, you would already have it."

  Ethan tightened his jaw, gripping the axe still strapped to his hip. "Yeah, well, I’ll take working at all over waiting for upgrades that don’t exist."

  The Deforrestor’s blades whined again, chewing deeper into the grove.

  The first coils of PolybioFiber stacked neatly by the Deforrestor looked almost harmless, like oversized bundles of twine glowing faintly in the green light. Ethan crouched beside them, pressing one under his glove until it gave with a springy resilience. The fiber was strong and flexible, yet light. It was perfect for sealing the ruined joints in his suit, for filters, and for padding that wouldn't rot in Veslaya’s corrosive weather. It should have been a moment of relief, but instead, all he saw was work.