Beneath the Tree of Life, where light does not reach and the air is trapped between memory and will, Fitran stood alone. His feet tread upon the great roots that had died centuries ago. Some were broken. Some had turned to stone. Some even refused to be called "roots" anymore, having lost their function as connectors of life.
Around him, soft shadows danced, as if the souls of the past were beckoning to be awakened from their long slumber. The aroma of damp earth and decaying leaves filled the air, triggering forgotten tales within his collective memory.
Yet in this place, the unfinished voice of Sheena echoed everything.
The voice did not come in words. It came in resonance—a flow of meaning that could not be written, only held by a soul that had once been fractured. The pain wrapped around his spirit like a warm yet painful embrace, bringing him back to a time when hope and sorrow coexisted, creating a deep symphony of longing.
Fitran sat cross-legged. He did not close his eyes, for sight was not the tool he needed at that moment. He sharpened his own wounds—reopening fragments he had sealed away for years. Each breath he took felt heavy, as if passing through a current of time that flowed slowly, carrying with it secrets ready to be uncovered and understood.
He recalled the moment he saw Sheena disappear into the Omega dimension.
He realized that even the magic of Corpus could not undo loss.
He understood that all knowledge could only touch the surface of reality… but could not save any of those he loved.
And from those wounds, he heard a voice that was not a voice. Not Sheena's whisper. But the structure of his will. Reflected in the rhythm of the roots.
As if the roots were telling stories hidden within many layers of time. Within them, he felt the presence of souls that had once lived, bound in an inseparable knot, stirring a sense of trust in the silence. Their subtle vibrations seemed to offer hope amidst the sorrow that flowed like a river that never ran dry.
"You do not need to bring me back to life," the voice spoke deeply.
"You only need to let me merge... and grow in a way you cannot control."
For a moment, longing passed between them, as if reminding Fitran of the sunlit days that once were, when hope was not just an imagination. In that silence, every strand of root vibrated as if understanding the tension between life and death, where sacrifice became a bridge to eternal healing.
Fitran looked around. In his hands, a spiral of incomplete Proto-Speech formed—half code, half emotion. He knew Corpus was not enough to facilitate this new magic.
So he decided: to replace the entire foundation of magic.
Not spells.
Not names.
But the rhythm of the roots.
He began to touch the palms of his hands to the five dead root points beneath him. Then he whispered, not to the world, but to himself:
"Let me be the conductor—not the source. Let me just... connect."
Amidst those whispers, a gentle wind blew, as if supporting his resolve, flowing like a melody guiding souls toward healing. Fitran felt the flow of energy coming back to life within him, a bridge bringing peace to the wounded and hope to the lost.
And he activated that new magic for the first time.
In an instant, the five dead root points ignited.
Not with ordinary light. But with the colors of time. Colors that had never existed in the ordinary spectrum: pink flowing into whispering green. Blue resembling a name yet to be spoken. Gold masquerading as regret.
In this magical light, it felt as if time paused for a moment, and behind every color, a story unfolded; a story that had been delayed, waiting for the right moment to stir. Every second felt full of hope and longing, and Fitran sensed the presence of the past guiding his steps. With the vibrations in his hands, he felt the breath of souls intertwined in silence.
Fitran did not control them.
He merely became the connector.
His hands trembled violently as the roots began to flow with ancient meanings stored from a time before the Stones took form. He saw images:
A woman singing among cracked earth.
A child running toward the fire, embracing a tree while saying, "Mother will return."
A city that was never built, but mourned by those who were never born.
Within that longing, Fitran felt the vibrations from the roots, as if they were telling tales of sacrifices long forgotten. Each flow of energy filled the air with a sense of healing, bringing hope for the lives that had been lost. And in the silence, he promised himself to revive what had already died, even if the price to pay might be too high.
The magic restructured the roots as a network of time.
The space trembled. And the dead roots began to move again.
Not all of them. Not perfectly. But enough to reopen the pathways of life that had been sealed. The magic water began to flow through the stone veins in the city walls. Mist from the roots enveloped the sky of Stones in a gentle spiral pattern, and the cracked buildings breathed again.
Amidst the wonders reborn, a soft whisper seemed to blend with the wind, forming a gentle melody flowing through every crevice. As if every drop of magic water flowing brought new hope, dancing with the rhythm of the eternal nature.
Yet Fitran... fell to the ground.
Blood trickled from his ears. His breath was heavy. But he smiled.
Behind that smile lay an immeasurable sacrifice. He felt the weight of this world within him, yet every breath he took seemed to flow strength to those who were reborn. In an instant, a faint light enveloped him, reflecting an infinite spirit.
"It is not I who saves them," he said.
"They save themselves. I merely... pave the way."
In the depths of that statement lay the secret that every sacrifice leads to true healing. He was the bridge between the dark abyss and the blinding light, a symbol of hope that never fades.
And the Tree of Life responded in a single vibration:
ꦫꦺꦴꦠ꧀ ꦏꦺꦴꦤ꧀ꦢꦺꦠꦸꦤ꧀ꦢꦺꦴ — Rot Kondetundé
(You are not the root. But you have become the conduit of will.)
From the northern side of Stones, Rinoa, still within the Harmonic Spiral, heard a new note—not part of the Lament of Everroot. This was not an old harmony. This was... Fitran's personal resonance.
Amidst the cacophony of touching notes, there was a gentle whisper, as if the voice of nature embraced every vibration; the four corners of the world awakened, and the wind danced within the living forest. Every leaf trembled, reminding Rinoa that every note, every vibration, was part of a greater whole.
And when she heard it, the song immediately merged with her own note.
She understood. Fitran was not trying to dominate the world.
He was... forgiving the wounds of the world.
Pain and hope interacted in a silent dance, like a river breaking through cliffs, carving a new path for life. Rinoa felt every wound on this earth, and in the newly discovered resonance, it was as if a thousand sweet voices united, creating a profound symphony of healing.
The buildings that had once been shattered began to merge again, forming unexpected geometric patterns. The path to Sheena's grave was now opened in both directions. The Proto-Speech glyphs that had previously resisted now glowed again—not in traditional colors, but in colors emerging from sound.
From the cracks of the ruins, new light spread, reflecting the power of the dormant souls, painting hope in the gray sky. Courage seeped into the heart of the earth, nurturing bright flowers that bloomed again in the previous emptiness.
The Root Conductor had restructured its roots into notes. And Stones, for the first time in hundreds of years of slumber... responded.
The melodious voice seemed to repaint forgotten history, flowing in a new current of time, reestablishing harmony in the extinct atmosphere. Every touch of a note was a guarantee that even though ruins adorned the earth, life would always find its way to bloom again.
Fitran stood slowly, still trembling. He gazed at the wall of roots that were now alive.
Amidst the buzzing vibrations encircling his ears, he felt the presence of something greater. As if the journey of all souls and bodies had been captured in an instant. In the profound silence, he heard the breath of the earth vibrating, uniting with the beat of his soul.
And from within those roots, a new voice emerged:
"You are not the writer. But you can be the rhythm."
Fitran nodded. The awareness of this new responsibility gently slid into his heart, filling the empty spaces with hope. Like water flowing through the cracks of stone, something within him began to flow freely.
"Then... let the world write itself.
And I will be the note among them."
From the depths of his promise, Fitran could feel the meaning of a sacrifice, like a magical potion awakening hope from darkness. In every step, he was bound by a bond stronger than mere words—a declaration of love that would guide them all back to their noble origin.