Chapter 632 The Flame Beneath World Roots

After the ancestors' exam was over, the underground city of Gamma slowly faded into silence. The elders, the children, even the crystal trees that grew from the war… now only watched. In this silence, the whispers of the wind seemed to carry messages from the past, accompanying each step with an awareness of every loss etched into this earth. Among them stood Fitran, momentarily still, his eyes gazing into the distance, as if crossing the boundaries of time to penetrate the layers of buried history. The souls around him seemed to tremble, bound by unspoken ties, waiting for the call to move.

Because Fitran… was not finished.

Beneath the ancestral temple, there lay a final root pathway, accessible only to those who had surrendered all forms of self-defense. The root did not glow, did not beckon. But it waited. Like the last womb of the world. When a faint light pierced through the dark crevices, it seemed as if the root longed for a touch, like a soul yearning to return to its origin. In the stillness, a shadow of Fitran stepped forward, gazing at the root with curiosity and sincerity, as if understanding that to grasp the truth, sometimes one must be willing to let go of oneself.

"Down there," said the leader of the Oath Remnants, "lies something we have not touched… because even our will cannot bear its meaning. A truth obstructed by time, like a shadow that can never be captured." The leader's voice trembled, and in every word lay the weight of a past that gnawed at the heart, making everyone in the room feel the impact of the decision that had to be made. The listeners could not contain their anxiety, their eyes meeting, conveying an understanding that the next decision would shape their fate forever.

"Fire," Fitran replied softly. "But not a destructive fire. The fire of beginnings." His voice quivered, as if reviving ancient voices rooted in history, flowing like a river that never dries. Each word he spoke carried profound weight, as if he were reigniting small flames in memories that burned dimly, reminding them of a lost history.

The final corridor was unlike any other. Each wall told unspoken stories, echoing among the shadows. In the corners of the corridor, the shadows of forgotten faces seemed to whisper, stirring his dormant curiosity, as if they awaited him to hear their tales.

The roots on the walls did not cling, but rather receded, opening a path for one being… to walk alone. As if the entire corridor honored the presence of that being, granting space for its conscious steps. The solitude added depth, forcing Fitran to confront the unsettling uncertainty, like the current of a river with a sorrowful face in his heart.

Rinoa and Sheena waited above. For this was something that could only be faced by one will. "That will," Rinoa whispered, "will lead us into darkness and unimaginable power." In her tone, strength and vulnerability intertwined, as if she were sharing the suffocating burden, fostering gratitude for the possibility of resurrection from the impending darkness.

Fitran descended the path in silence. Each step made his breath heavy, not from pressure… but because he felt unworthy to tread upon this ground. In his heart, he wrestled with questions about his existence. "Am I part of this story, or just a shadow passing by?" Hope and doubt waged war within him, creating a tension that made him hesitate, where a profound understanding was sharpening the meaning of his perilous quest.

He arrived in a space.

The space… was formless. It resembled liquid light floating in emptiness. In its center, a flame hovered—small, calm, untroubled. The flame seemed to recognize Fitran, calling him with an unspoken vibration. Yet, in that moment of silence, just before his face was illuminated by the light, Fitran felt shadows from the past dancing at the corners of his eyes, as if hinting at hopes long buried.

But the flame did not burn the air. It burned reality. "We are all connected in this light," a voice sounded softly, as if emanating from the depths of his soul, "like roots seeking light in a dark world." In that meaningful second, the pain stored in the recesses of Fitran's heart flowed like water bursting from a dam, reminding him of the sacrifices that must be faced.

That flame was Flamma Initia—the spark of the first will that birthed magic, time, and the roots of the Tree of Life. Not a creation, not a destiny. But the first spark of meaning yet to be named. At that moment, in the gentle, vibrating light, it felt as if space and time resonated in harmony. Each second glided softly, as if offering a new promise. Fitran, in his long-buried longing, felt a surge of spirit in his chest. He knew this journey was more than mere coincidence—this was a step toward discovering his true self.

And now, the flame spoke… without sound. Each flicker wove an unspoken narrative, awakening the soul willing to listen. It was as if every fluctuation of light conveyed deep whispers, not only recounting darkness but also the hope that shone brightly at the horizon of his life.

"Fitran… why have you come?"

He did not answer with words. He simply placed his hand on his chest—touching the wounds he bore from Thanatos, from Gamma, from Sheena… and from himself. In that silence, a thousand memories spun, bringing back the pain that would not fade, yet also the hope that slowly needed to be revived. The pain spread like thick fog, enveloping his soul, reminding him of the dark moments etched in memory. Each wound was a story, each scar a lesson in his long journey.

"Because I want to know… if the world can be saved… without burning something else."

The flame flickered, as if inviting Fitran to delve into the depths of the inner voice revealed in its glow. The voice floated, gentle yet penetrating, like a song exploring the darkness of the night. In the corners of his mind, he envisioned the concepts of 'saving' and 'sacrificing' intertwining in a beautiful yet painful dance, something only a soul that had endured battle could comprehend.

"Take me. And you can rewrite the structure of the roots. Rewrite history. Burn the betrayal. Erase the war. Restore Sheena. Erase the destruction of Gamma."

"Use it once… and all wounds will become a song of peace."

Fitran bowed his head, his awareness swirling like ocean waves, caught in the dilemma between hope and pain. He felt the burden between the shimmering hope and the darkness looming behind his choice. Each decision felt like a fragile bridge over an abyss, and his steps might determine the direction of their fate. He pondered in the shadows of the past, worrying whether the path he chose would lead them to forgiveness or destruction.

"And what must I pay?"

The flame answered:

"Yourself. For anyone who uses Flamma Initia… will become a new root. Neither living nor dead. But a guardian of the will that cannot speak." "You will exist forever… as the initial form… but you cannot love again."

In the silence that enveloped, as if time stood still, Fitran felt the whispers of energy flowing around him. The universe's hints vibrated gently, calling him to understand more, to delve into the meaning of every choice before him. Amidst doubt and hope, he contemplated his steps, as if shadows of the future and the past collided in his mind.

Fitran approached. His right hand burned before touching the flame. But he kept walking. His eyes saw all possibilities: A new world without war. Sheena alive without suffering. Rinoa never feeling guilty. Gamma recognized. Stones shining forever. Behind every bright vision lay a dark shadow reminding him of the sacrifices that must be borne.

Yet everything… felt silent. As if peace was bought with the erasure of song. A profound silence forced Fitran to reflect on whether true peace could be achieved by sacrificing all they had fought for. He felt his heart racing, soaring between fear and the strength of the decision that must be made. Each choice appeared like threads woven into a complex fabric, each stitch carrying meaning.

"Could we merely be shadows of desire?" a small voice in his mind questioned, as if traversing dimensions of time and space. In that doubt, he felt a wave of emotions; a longing for genuine happiness, yet filled with a deep sense of loss.

He stepped back.

"No."

The flame shook, as if resisting an unseen rhythm, glowing in the darkness. The wind whispered softly, guiding the silence around. Each flicker of flame seemed to convey a story hidden within, a tale that stirred hope amidst the darkness.

"Why?"

"Because the wounds we carry… are our song. And if I erase everything, the world will not remember why we fought."

The flame slowly extinguished… not from rejection. But from respect. As if every fading spark was a verse spoken in prayer, awaiting acknowledgment from the universe. In that silence, shadows of memories passed like the gentleness of dew in the morning, reminding Fitran of every sweat and tear that had brought their struggle to life.

Fitran paused for a moment, then said:

"Stay here. Not as a tool. But as a reminder that we can choose not to repeat mistakes… without having to erase them."

Roots grew from beneath him, enveloping the flame once more in the embrace of the world, creating a bridge between the past and the present, carrying the seeds of buried hope. Amidst the silence, a faint voice from afar called to him, vibrating Fitran's mind as if reminding him of all he had experienced.

Fitran stood, blood dripping from his hand, a symbol of sacrifice reflecting the journey of the soul he had traversed. He gazed at the sky, hearing the gentle whispers of the universe as if expressing gratitude. Cold sweat trickled down his temples, but his resolve burned; he knew that every drop of blood staining the ground was a witness to all the pain he had endured.

And when he returned to the surface, Rinoa and Sheena stood waiting for him, lost in the soft light emanating from the canvas of the night. A smile appeared on his face upon seeing them, a reminder that he was not alone on this journey. Their presence momentarily erased the fatigue gnawing at him.

He brought nothing back, only a burden that now felt lighter, as if releasing the chains that bound his soul. In that silence, his spirit ignited, dissolving into a new hope that began to grow in the depths of his heart.

But… he carried meaning. A single light of hope that still shone even in the deepest darkness. Each heartbeat seemed to convey the message that every journey must have a purpose, every step filled with the strength to confront uncertainty, and there was still a path to seek forgiveness.