Beneath the roots that once towered, there is now more empty land—black holes where the roots of the Tree of Scars have broken, gaping like mouths that no longer wish to scream.
The voices of magic in the air, echoes of ancient songs, and the trauma spells passed down from generation to generation—begin to fade, like watercolor washed away by the first rain.
The roots of that legendary tree, which once penetrated the base of the Stones altar to the heart of the world, now wither one by one. Its veins crack, white sap drips to the ground, and each drop is a memory of a world erased from history.
In the midst of this silence, a sense of mourning weighs heavily on the hearts of the knights who witness it. They feel as if they are recalling all the stories stored in the forest, flowing in a melody of unspoken sorrow. Like a lost historical record, each entity there winds through memory. Death is not just an end, but a separation from what they love and know.
At the center of the altar, Rinoa takes the remnants of the withering roots. Her tears drip to the ground, but the earth no longer absorbs the sorrow, only reflecting the emptiness.
As if everything she loved has gone, and now only the remnants that wound her memories remain. She feels the weight of each tear, as if flowing all the beautiful memories that are slowly fading away. In the silence, every laugh, every hug that once comforted her soul, now remains an empty offering.
"Tree of Scars… don’t go away…"
The spirit of Malakothies appears faintly beside Rinoa, extending a gentle hand.
Her soft voice tickles Rinoa's ears, reminding her how important it is not to give up even when the world feels like it is collapsing. "Rinoa," she whispers softly, "every end is the beginning of something new." In her embrace, Rinoa feels warmth that ignites hope, even though it is still shrouded in deep pain.
"Every tree, every world, must one day forget to make room for new growth."
Rinoa bows her head, remembering all the names she once prayed for, but their voices—one by one—grow fainter, as if the world wants to free her from an unfinished burden.
In her heart, there is a desire to remember, but also a call to move forward. As if her soul questions, "Should I continue, or stop here, letting memories become formless shadows?" In that dilemma, she feels it—a call to live, even though it feels heavy and full of longing.
Fitran stands alone, Voidlight drawn at his side. He feels the power of the Monarch within his chest like a small flame slowly losing fuel.
In the silence surrounding him, as if Space and Time have stopped, he can hear his heartbeat echoing, louder than usual, creating a symphony of hope and fear. His gaze is focused, tracing the gray sky, as if searching for clues behind the clouds that cover the dawn of a new day.
He closes his eyes, remembering the faces of those he loves, the cities he once protected, but everything feels like a dream that fades after waking.
His longing for the warmth of their breaths rekindles his heart, as if they are still here, giving him strength when moments of solitude approach him. "Do they miss me too?" whispers his small heart, asking in the darkness. For a moment, the shadow of Rinoa’s face—her gentle smile and hopeful gaze—pierces his soul, giving him the strength to keep enduring.
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"If the world truly wants to forget… what does it mean for me to endure?"
For a moment, Fitran is afraid: afraid of becoming the Nameless King in a world that no longer recognizes anyone's name.
That fear creeps deep, touching his most vulnerable soul, standing at the edge of the abyss of darkness. He imagines himself as a lost spirit, drifting aimlessly, forgetting every trace he once left behind. Yet in his chest, the flame of hope—though small—still flickers.
But in the midst of panic, he feels Rinoa’s fingers in his right hand. A warm grip, a small anchor so he doesn’t truly drift into the new emptiness.
At that moment, all his fears seem to vanish, perhaps because Rinoa’s presence is a guarantee that he is still connected, still has someone to fight for. "Rinoa," he whispers, channeling gratitude and certainty, in the stillness that freezes between them. The love in their grasp seems capable of holding back the endless wind that wants to separate them.
The witnesses of the altar—the Knight, the spirits, even the spirit birds—begin to lose their orientation. They walk unsteadily, some forgetting the way home, others forgetting the reason they came to the Stones.
As if every step they take is burdened by memories that increasingly demand attention, their vacant gazes reflect a million interrupted stories. In the echoing silence, the whispers of ancient spirits flow softly like a river that never dries, as if gently trying to remember, even though there is nothing left to recall.
Their despair merges with the dust, leaving a mark on their fingers that unite with the earth. In longing for the lost answers, they hear faint voices, whispers of hope hidden among the roots. With each passing second, that emptiness becomes more painful, as if the ground beneath them knows of their unanswered longing.
With every note that escapes their lips, there is a deeper sense of loss. Their hearts tremble at the cheerful memories that flicker faintly, crossing the boundaries of time and space. They realize that the song is not just about melody, but about the bonds that intertwine, even when the lyrics have faded. Alienation envelops them, making them long for other voices that once accompanied their song.
Only Fitran and Rinoa remain together—two names that still remember each other, becoming a small beacon in a world that chooses to erase its own history.
Between them, an unspoken connection flows like water between the cracks of stones. They know they are witnesses to a legacy that may vanish, yet in each other's presence, there is a burning warmth. In the painful silence, they find the strength to stand together, as if the only thing left is a friendship that refuses to fade.
In the midst of that emptiness, suddenly new shoots emerge beneath the remnants of the Tree of Scars. These shoots are different: they carry no old wounds, no memories of the old world, only a new possibility—a seed for the Tree of Genesis.
This new courage arises after a series of sorrows, as if reminding all that remains of the beauty that may exist. In the silence, each shoot emits a vibration of life, promising a bright future even though the shadows of the past continue to haunt. This ignites hope in the hearts of the fallen witnesses, as if the universe gives them a glimmer of light to share.
The spirit of Malakothies whispers softly: "The world chooses to forget, so it can have space to forgive and grow again."
That gentle voice flows like a breeze that cools the souls burned by sorrow. With each word, a sense of relief envelops the oppressed hearts, inviting them to release the burdens that have long pressed down. They feel their bodies lift lightly, as if the weight of memories that have clung to them begins to dissolve in a new spirit.
Rinoa gazes at the new shoots, a smile emerging. She knows that history may fade, but as long as there are those willing to record it, there is always hope for the world to grow again.
With a burning determination, Rinoa realizes that every tear that falls is not a sign of weakness, but a symbol of rebirth. In her small heart, she lifts this new hope, allowing the light to penetrate the darkness. She promises herself and the world that in every emptiness, there is potential waiting to be awakened again, like the shoots that begin to stretch confidently toward the light.
Around the altar, a mystical aura dances gently, as if singing ancient songs that can only be heard by sensitive souls. Rinoa closes her eyes for a moment, imagining the heroes lying beneath her; faces that once shone with spirit and ambition. In her heart, she hopes they can feel the pulse of new life growing above them, a hope that will never fade even though their bodies have gone.
