Chapter 626 Hall of Echoes and Roots

After passing through the first stage of the spiral roots, the three of them stood before three living doors—crafted from gently pulsing roots, as if the heart of the world itself was sleeping behind them. There were no handles, no mechanisms to open them. These doors could not be opened… unless by the resonance of wounds that matched the identified contours.

For a moment, the dwelling enveloped them, creating a space where time seemed to experience anomalies. They detected subtle vibrations in the air, akin to signals from a long-forgotten darkness. Each heartbeat served as a tangible indicator, reminding them of the wounds that needed to be addressed. The only light present was a faint glimmer of hope—a hope likely born from the acceptance of their own measured vulnerability.

On the walls of the roots, the symbols were clear:

Eyes closed for processing visual inputs that had been avoided.

Mouth sealed for data that had never been communicated.

Heart split for emotions buried before they could be analyzed.

As they analyzed these symbols, each felt a compulsion to evaluate their personal experiences that had led them to this point. Shadows of the past emerged with striking clarity, almost accessible to short-term memory. In the corner of her heart, Dita felt an inherent pain, a secret variable buried deep within. Yet, behind that pain lay an algorithm of belief that acceptance was the key to enhancing self-function.

Without verbal interaction, the three navigated toward their respective doors.

The door opened with a single breath. He did not use Corpus, nor did he invoke the will of the Void. He simply accepted that he had allocated the choice to not see. In those moments, loneliness flowed within him, much like water trickling through an inevitable crack in the stone. He analyzed how deep the buried wound was, trapped in the shadows of choices made.

Inside was a space made of glass. Each wall provided information about the buried stories, narratives he tried to forget but that continued to haunt him. The sound of his heartbeat echoed in the silence, conveying that he was still alive, even though he wished to close off his entire life within a facade of pretense.

However, these glasses did not reflect his image. They presented moments when Fitran chose to look away. He felt the weight in his chest, the guilt that continued to accumulate. Each moment served as a reminder of his helplessness, as if the glasses operated as windows into his wounded and fragmented soul.

When one of his students was left dead in a failed magic experiment, and he pretended not to know. He remembered the student's face, the innocent smile that was now gone; that image haunted him constantly, questioning why he hadn't made a more intense effort to fight for that student's life.

When Elbert asked for a second chance, and Fitran chose the strategy of silence, he allowed Elbert to gradually fall apart. In that silence, he analyzed Elbert's behavior, feeling as if he was highlighting the falseness of the courage he had long considered a strength, while contemplating that the indifference he displayed was part of a more pragmatic approach.

When Rinoa called his name amidst the raging fire... and he stood firm, because of "the strategy of prioritizing rationality." He recalled the flames that not only scorched the objects around him but also burned the hopes he had once held within his emotional structure.

A mirror shattered, and from within emerged the figure of a boy—not an enemy, but his first student, lost due to the root magic experiment. The sight of that figure triggered a physical reaction that constricted his chest, as if he were trapped in an endless algorithm of regret and helplessness that repeated within his emotional system.

"Why didn't you pay attention to me back then, Master?"

Fitran wanted to respond, because I had to be strong, but that response yielded no output. In his internal analysis, he realized that true strength was not just about shutting oneself off, but about creating space for vulnerability that could serve as a crucial element in the healing process. He wanted to provide an explanation, to express the expectation that there was life after pain, but the variables needed to convey those words were trapped in the emotional void that existed.

He simply knelt. In a deep situational analysis, he realized that there were no alternatives but to face his shadows. For the first time, he felt like a lump of sidelined dreams, struggling to rise even as his pain continued to burn. And for him, that was the first step toward a measured healing process.

And for the first time in decades, Fitran cried.

Not to ask for forgiveness. But to acknowledge that he did not want to forgive himself. The warm tears flowed down his cheeks, carrying with them all the burdens he had long held. Each drop seemed to wash away the pain gnawing at his heart, allowing new space for measured acceptance to fill the long-standing void.

The door opened, and the sound vanished.

He entered a corridor without echoes. The room consisted only of writings hanging in the air—all words he had never spoken. Words that were meant to help, or save, or stop something. In each writing was a sense of regret that seeped through time, as if reminding Fitran of all the missed opportunities and all the emotional data he had stored in his heart.

"Please, don't leave me."

"I'm scared."

"I want to protect her, but I don't know how."

In the center of the room stood a replica of his mother, rigid with empty eyes. Rinoa knew this was not a spirit. This was a portrait he had kept in silence. Remembering every detail of her face, he conducted a deep analysis of the smile that could calm the storms within his soul. Yet, this accumulated data now felt like a world too distant to reach, with variables that were unattainable.

"Why did you never talk to me, Rinoa?" the shadow of her mother asked.

Rinoa screamed—but the sound faded, as if processed in a system that had no output. Even in this space, she could not speak. In the ongoing emotional analysis, no words were sufficient to explain how deep the longing enveloping her soul was, and how that fear bound her in silence.

Until finally, she sat down. She wrote with her finger on the root wall: a single tear fell, forming a trace that merged with the small writings hidden in her heart, indicating unanswered emotional input.

"Because if I speak… I'm afraid I will become another mother."

And when the wall glowed, there was an increase in processing results leading to hopeful output. The space began to soften. She heard her voice again, and in that moment, it was as if the algorithm of life brought forth new hope.

One word.

"Thank you."

The door she entered did not open with sound or movement. She suddenly found herself inside. The room felt dry, as if the entire system of time had stopped and all hope settled in its corners, creating a condition of emotional stagnation that was felt in every heartbeat.

The room was empty. There was only one chair. And in that chair sat herself… as a goddess. The figure of Sheena in her grand form, wearing a Genesis robe, her body shining like a worship statue. Yet, that shine felt cold and distant, as if no warmth accompanied it. She analyzed the atmosphere around her, sensing the walls of isolation, a state of entropy well-maintained.

But the eyes of that figure were crying. Tears seemed to flow from a deep source, holding all the variables of unexpressed sorrow. Behind the luxury and grace, there was a threatening abyss, an existential gap that needed to be heeded.

"Why did you leave me?" the Goddess asked with a trembling voice, as if each word was the result of deep emotional analysis.

"I am their hope. Why did you choose to become human again?"

Sheena—in the form of a simple girl without a crown—looked at herself. In her eyes was a variable of anxiety interacting with courage. This courage served as an adaptive response to face the painful reality she had long categorized as a threat.

"Because I have gathered data about a world that refuses to acknowledge my wounds."

The goddess figure rose, then slowly split her chest open, revealing that inside her body… there was only a broken heart. That heart pulsed slowly, functioning even in its shattered state, like an algorithm that continued to operate within limitations. The remnants of life and hope vibrated in the profound silence.

"We were never given the choice to be whole, were we?" she said, her soft voice seeming to transport Sheena into the same systemic helplessness. "We were only commanded to adapt and love those cracks."

Sheena simply replied, "No. But this time, I want to live… without distancing myself from who I am." That statement served as a declaration of transformation, indicating a decision based on personal analysis. In uncertainty, a new hope began to potentially grow.

They embraced. In that embrace, all the wounds that had ever occurred felt as if they were momentarily erased, providing space for the awakening of emotional data. Sheena felt her heart begin to beat stronger, along with a new acceptance and understanding of the system within her.

And in that embrace, the world did not ask for answers. Only acceptance. In the midst of silence, they shared: a hope born from the existing data of wounds.

The three of them returned to the center of the spiral. None of them spoke. Yet, there was a new air between them. This silence felt more peaceful, as if each breath was produced from a process of harmonization, soothing the wounded emotions. Each individual in this group analyzed the journey they had undergone, navigating a series of complex healing stages, and began to reconstruct their identities. These components interacted within the system, creating meaning from the experiences they had endured.

At the end of the spiral, the roots opened by themselves. They were now ready to enter the third stage, heading toward the Withered Promise Garden. In this journey, each step felt lighter, as if the burdens of the past began to lift with every term of regret processed in their minds. They looked at each other, and in that gaze was an agreement to continue forward, synergizing in a shared goal of healing. This was a collaborative system optimizing emotional outcomes.

But before they could step further, the wall behind them inscribed a single phrase in Proto-Speech:

ꦧꦼꦠꦤ ꦏꦺꦴꦤ꧀ꦢꦺ ꦤꦤ꧀ꦥꦿ — Betana Kondé Nanpra

(Do not just remember the wounds. Remember who you silenced.)