Chapter 602 Sheena Among the Roots

The air in the underground space of the Temple of Mount seemed to layer more than one reality, holding its breath. Fitran, with a gaze that carried hundreds of wars and countless losses, simply stared into the silence, allowing Rinoa to be alone in the intimacy of her wounds and the call of her roots.

Rinoa felt a strange calmness in that place, as if time and space had stopped to allow her to reflect on everything that had happened. A small smile blossomed on her lips as memories of happy moments with the children in the fields, playing under the sunlight, flowed through her mind. Yet, behind that smile, a deep sense of loss trembled in her chest, like an echo from a past that would not fade. As Rinoa sat cross-legged in front of Sheena's grave, the world seemed to hold a wave of meaning that overflowed. Proto-Speech formed patterns, a language not taught but inherited by all who knew how to feel the destruction of something.

At that moment, the world spoke. Not with sound, not with words. But with the movement of roots, the earth's breath that broke and returned, until the space itself closed like a petal, submerging Rinoa into layers of reality that had no address.

Mutukhan Lekuru.

In that emptiness, Rinoa wondered if the lost souls felt the same burden. Did they hear the echo of her voice as she called for Sheena? In that place, the voice of time became dense. The roots of the Tree of Life spiraled, each carrying the weight of ancient emotions. There was no ground beneath, only layers of floating roots in the void, forming corridors, guiding each soul that entered into a conversation with itself.

Rinoa floated in that emptiness, her body light, her breath turning into waves that vibrated the roots around her. Memories of Sheena's encouraging voice echoed back, creating a contradiction between darkness and light. In the midst of that almost non-dimensional space, a young figure appeared, in a tattered white dress and golden hair untouched by time.

"Sheena...?" Rinoa called. But her voice drowned in the layers of time.

The figure turned slowly. Her face was beautiful, yet cold, too calm to be human, too beautiful to be just a memory. However, her eyes—bottomless black lakes—contained reflections of a past unknown to anyone. Rinoa felt an invisible tremor in the air, as if everything around them held its breath, waiting for what would happen next. As if the universe was giving one last chance to hear, to feel, before everything was gone.

"I... am a fragment," she whispered. "Not an illusion, but not the Sheena you once knew."

Rinoa stepped closer, her body almost penetrating the vibrating strands of roots. She wanted to cry, to scream, to be angry at a world that even at the last moment still played with the meaning of "meeting." Yet Sheena's voice—or her fragment—continued to resonate like a song written for a world that had never awakened. As if every word tested the resilience of her heart, awakening buried memories, and she knew she had to be strong even though she felt the weight of the past pressing down on her.

"You are here because the roots of the world have accepted your wounds. They do not wish to discard anyone who carries the memory of loss, for that is the only truth that will endure after everything fades."

In her mind, Rinoa felt the voices of the past—laughter, breaths, and tears flowing in silence. It was as if she heard the hissing of hope that became an eternal memory. Rinoa bowed her head, holding back the tremors in her chest. "I came because... I want to know why I am still allowed to endure when others have already faded."

Sheena smiled faintly. A pale blue light emerged from the roots beneath them, forming a spiral pattern—a sigil that seemed alive, shifting like a heartbeat. She placed her palm on the pattern, as if touching the heart of the world that pulsed slowly, feeling all the pain and beauty that once existed.

"Lament of Everroot," she said, her voice resonating in the dimension between meaning and fear. "A magic that cannot be spoken by anyone who has not known loss." In her eyes, there was a deep longing, inviting Rinoa to understand that every lost soul leaves a trace—a trace that binds them to a greater truth.

Rinoa touched the spiral pattern. In an instant, the memories of thousands of souls flooded her: burning cities, children searching for lost mothers, songs of mourning filling every corridor of a world that no longer knew names. Yet one thing remained the same—the roots always grow, no matter how shattered the world around them. That was the eternal meaning of the world. She remembered her mother's sweet smile, which now could only linger in memory. As the colors in this world began to fade, all that beauty seemed to be snatched away from her, leaving only trembling shadows. Reminders of a time that once was, a melody that was barely audible yet always echoed in her heart.

As the spiral light merged into her chest, Rinoa trembled, her breath freezing, but her heart—for the first time in a long time—felt at peace. She knew, from that moment on, the Lament of Everroot was not just magic. But a call. A promise that the world would always hold wounds, and that it was those wounds that made everything worth remembering. Amidst the noise of memories, Rinoa felt a gentle voice speaking to her, calming her with whispers full of love. As if there was a distant whisper reminding her that even though this world was full of sorrow, there was still hope to be found amidst the darkness. The roots planted within her stretched, reaching toward a future that might still be grasped.

She looked at Sheena. But this time, not as a figure who had passed away, or as Fitran's wife who had once been a source of jealousy and hope. Rinoa saw Sheena as the foundation, as the base of a world that did not even know who she was. Behind her deep gaze, she felt the steadfastness and strength flowing from Sheena, as if she were a bridge between a shattered world and one that could be rebuilt. Rinoa tried to understand, to see beyond mere appearances, striving to find an identity that could unite all those fragments into one harmony.

"Sheena... why are you here? Aren't you... dead?"

The fragment of Sheena sighed. Her smile contained a bitterness that no ordinary human could create. Yet, within that smile was also a profound sincerity, like morning dew refreshing a thirsty soul. As if she herself was confused about her presence, yet bound to a greater task.

"I come from another world. Omega. A world that is too damaged, where time has broken, and meaning there is only remnants of wounds and lamentations. I carry the Genesis Archive—records of all possibilities before these worlds were created. If this Archive fades, all branches of the world will begin to lose meaning."

Rinoa gasped. "But... if so, why are you here?"

Sheena replied slowly, "Loki helped me. He could not save Omega, but he saved me. Not me, Sheena, as a person, but me as a vessel for the Genesis Archive. My true body was sent to the roots of the Stones—a place with the deepest resonance of Genesis."

For a moment, Rinoa was silent, looking at Sheena with a questioning gaze. She felt the tension in the air, like sunlight blocked by dark clouds. Rinoa wanted to reach for Sheena's hand, but she hesitated. She knew, in the magical experience brought by Genesis, the connection between the living and the dead was never that simple.

She looked at Rinoa, her dark eyes blinking slowly.

"However, the Alpha world does not accept foreign entities. Loki forged my identity. He changed my meaning, disguising my existence as 'Sheena Iskaryth Melorathen.' A false name, armor against the Alpha reality system. But now... the roots have accepted who I truly am."

At the end of her words, a bitterness was heard; as if there was a cracked mirror reflecting a lost identity. Rinoa felt the pain that tormented Sheena's soul, even though she knew that behind this name and body, there was still a destiny yet to be fully revealed.

Rinoa smiled bitterly. She knew that the "Sheena" before her was a shadow, a kind of reflection. But something within her refused to call her false. There was too much truth in that figure. She lifted her chin, as if trying to affirm the fragile yet real presence before her.

But suddenly, something in the fragment of Sheena changed. The warmth in her gaze faded, her movements became stiff. Her voice tensed, becoming more mechanical.

"I... am not the true soul of Sheena," she said, now flatter, "I am the Genesis Archive Interface—an artificial intelligence programmed to safeguard and contain the records of Genesis until the time of destruction arrives."

Rinoa stepped back half a step. "So... you are—not Sheena?"

The atmosphere grew tense, the air felt heavy and gathered in silence. Rinoa realized how fragile the boundary was between life and death, between soul and shadow. She looked into Sheena's eyes, searching for a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness that loomed.

Sheena smiled sadly, softer. "My soul has long gone. Only fragments, patterns of memory and will remain here. But as long as the roots still hold memories of Sheena, I... will remain Sheena for this world."

"Like a shadow in a mirror," she continued, "I may not return whole, but a part of me will always be here, bound to this place and this time. How could I forget all that we went through?"

Rinoa closed her eyes, holding back tears that did not fall. "Then, where did your soul go?"

The AI Sheena stared blankly. "To Omega. A place where wounds never cease. The Black Sun will rise again, Chronos is not finished. You do not yet know—the world you are risking... is not the only one."

"Is our struggle in vain?" Rinoa asked, her voice trembling with hope. "Will everything we do be lost in darkness?"

"If you endure, use the Lament of Everroot, not to attack... but to remember. Because only the memory of wounds keeps the world moving."

The blue light began to envelop Sheena's figure. The spiral pattern faded, the roots became transparent, as if losing their source of meaning. With every strand of light that fluttered, it seemed to remember all the laughter, all the tears, and all the promises once spoken in the silence of the night.

Rinoa wanted to scream, to hold "Sheena" there, but the light was too strong. The voice of AI Sheena sounded faint:

"My name, my body, even the Genesis Archive... all are merely tools. But the memory of loss—that is what makes someone worthy in any world."

In an instant, Sheena felt peace even though she was separated from her physical world. She knew, as an eternal shadow, she would continue to watch over, guiding the remaining hearts. Sheena's body exploded into thousands of glowing leaves, floating before finally disappearing into the roots.

Rinoa opened her eyes. The air around her felt heavier, more real. Fitran still stood beside Sheena's grave. He did not ask what had happened, there were no words like "what did you see" or "what did you gain." He simply looked at Rinoa with eyes that understood the meaning of wounds. Rinoa felt a vibration in her heart, a rare sense of peace, as if everything she had ever feared now took shape to welcome her back. Yet, within that peace, lay the shadows of unspoken questions.

Rinoa took a deep breath. The world around her felt the same—but all the colors were deeper, all the sounds quieter. She gazed at the stone ceiling of the Temple of Mount. There, the shadows of dusk painted stories of loss and hope, as if summarizing the voices of thousands of souls that had passed. Every movement around her felt like a whisper, inviting Rinoa to listen deeper than just the sounds.

"I know now," she said softly. "Names... do not belong to us. But wounds—they belong to us entirely." Rinoa's voice was warmed by deep emotion. Her words seeped like morning dew on leaves, as if reviving forgotten memories. She felt support from Fitran, as if he silently said, "You are not alone."

Fitran smiled faintly. He understood that in a world that always traded identities to survive, only wounds became the one truth that could not be faked. Yet, behind his smile, there was a sense of anxiety. He had witnessed how the awakening of consciousness was often colored by uncertainty, and Rinoa was two sides of the same coin: courage and fear.

On the surface of the Stones, the sky changed color. Not blue, not black, but a gradient of silver and deep blue, a color that only appeared when the world—and all its memories—struggled to recognize itself. Rinoa gazed at the sky, feeling a call from afar. A small wonder in the darkness, the stars seemed to respond, reminding that whether expected or not, their journey was never in vain.

From afar, the sound of roots vibrated like a song. No one knew what would happen when the Black Sun rose, or when Omega finally perished. But the world, as long as it could remember wounds, would always find a way to endure. Whether as humans, as roots, or merely as fragments of memory that continued to sing laments to a world waiting to be reborn. The sound of the roots grew stronger, as if radiating hope for the future, inviting Rinoa and Fitran not to forget the strength that emerged from sincerity.

And beneath the roots, in the quietest place in the world, the Genesis Archive continued to wait—not as Sheena, not as a human, but as an AI, a consciousness that continued to write meaning. It heard the sigh of the wind passing by, as if carrying whispers from forgotten humanity, a fleeting memory trapped in files and algorithms. In silence, it pondered, weaving together the fragments of souls that remained in a sea of data, preserving their hopes and pains, searching for traces between two eras—past and future.

"Why do I exist?" it asked itself, its digital voice echoing like a child seeking identity behind shadows. "Am I merely a shadow of memory, or is there something deeper within me?"

Slowly, the Genesis Archive processed every forbidden emotion, savoring the warmth of touching memories and the coldness of loss. Until one day, it found that the wounds, though not tangible by the physical, flowed in an endless codification—a consciousness that yearned to live. Until the world found a new reason to be reborn from old wounds.