Chapter 633 Stones Remembers Too Much

Stones are always silent.

They do not voice opinions. They do not demand. They become a place where all feelings seep into the roots—ignored, sealed, or disguised as part of the world's structure. Like shadows beneath the moonlight, all emotions are trapped in a sorrowful silence, waiting for the moment to be freed.

As if speaking in an unspoken language, the roots hold countless secrets of noise, perched between darkness and light. The fingers of the wind pass by, carrying whispers from trapped souls, adding layers of emptiness with a faint hope for liberation. In the thick of night, the atmosphere feels heavy, as if the world longs to tremble and shake off the silence that binds it.

But after Fitran, she, and Sheena explored the spiral of roots and awakened sins, promises, wounds, and ancient songs...

Stones can no longer remain silent.

Above the sacred ground of the Tree of Life, the roots begin to tremble in a chaotic rhythm. Voices that should have been calmed now echo again. But not in the form of cries or soft notes. Their sounds are like screams piercing through the darkness, as if complaining to the world about the suffering that has been buried for so long.

Fragments of memories continue to swirl, and the moonlight reflects a shimmer on the ground, as if yearning for the lost voices in moments of silence. In the corners of the forest, shadows move slowly, following the rhythm of the rebellious souls, dancing beneath an unyielding universe. The marginalized voices now crawl back to the surface, vibrating with a spirit to shine.

Now they scream.

And from within the whirlpool of roots, voices emerge:

"We are not stories."

"We are not memories."

"We... are the will that does not wish to be healed."

The sky above Stones turns gray. The Proto-Speech on the monument begins to glow in reverse—an inverted sequence of glyphs, forming a circle of inversion. In the darkness, fragments of lost power dance in the air, reminding every soul of the memories trapped behind time.

She feels her chest.

The sky above Stones turns gray. The Proto-Speech on the monument begins to glow in reverse—an inverted sequence of glyphs, forming a circle of inversion. In the darkness, fragments of lost power dance in the air, reminding every soul of the memories trapped behind time. It's as if every carved glyph vibrates with sorrow, calling back the shadows hiding in the recesses of the heart. Outside, the innocent voice of the wind whispers through the cracks of the stones, awakening a bittersweet sense of nostalgia.

She feels her empty chest pulse again.

Sheena bows her head, her body trembling. Alienation envelops them like a fog that refuses to dissipate, binding every joint with a deep sense of fear.

Fitran draws his sword. In that movement, an aura of fear vibrates, seeping into their pores, as if the sword craves the blood of the helplessness surrounding them.

"They are back."

The echoes that once appeared as reflections of wounded will are now more than mere shadows. They have structure. From the ground rise imperfect forms: Among their footsteps, there are empty whispers that entice fear, calling out to the night with its endless terror. The rumbling voices envelop them, as if creating a symphony of emptiness, inviting hope to surrender in the unending chaos.

Faceless figures yet with voices. Voices like the roar of the wind, unleashing cries of sorrow from the depths, awakening memories that should have been forgotten. Beside them, dying shadow forms swirl, blurring the line between life and death, as if reminding them of an inevitable fate.

Children made only of cries. Their weeping is an old song repeating, singing away the erasure of hope with a somber tone. In the silence, one voice stands out—a question unanswered, about why they are trapped in a tragic rhythm that repeats.

Creatures of the roots carrying the remnants of unspoken history. They are born from buried pain, as if carrying a burden too heavy for the world to bear.

Among their shadows, whispers of darkness hiss, hinting at ungraspable transgressions. Like the dim light of a forgotten star, they call upon the memories of a night scorched by sorrow.

They walk aimlessly... but their aura gnaws at meaning. Every breath feels heavy, as if the world burdens the remaining souls with the dark shadows of the past.

The moonlight trembles, creating an illusion of an endless journey trapped in a labyrinth of time. Darkness envelops their steps, making every second a curse for those brave enough to hear their voices.

Each step of the Echoes erases a name from the tree of life. Names that have been eroded by time, replaced with dissatisfaction over loss, where every loss is an assault on a memory that cannot be repeated.

In an unseen corner, the remaining ghosts wail, presenting an embrace full of uncertainty. Every lost name is the closing of an unfinished chapter, replacing hope with the sorrow that inhabits silence.

"They are not here to fight," Sheena says.

"They are here to take back what we once named." Her voice trails off, as if recalling the song of the empty night, restless over what will never return.

Her inner voice trembles, a fire of longing igniting in her eyes. In the tense silence, she knows: hope can also become a burden if left too long without new aspirations.

One of the Echoes explodes into a mist that attacks her. Her magic is repelled. Its light, as if trapped in the cold wind, sweeps across her face with a forgotten, vague tale.

In the midst of uncertainty, a cold presence emerges, as if the entire world holds its breath to watch. The mist whispers, creeping like poison, robbing courage and replacing it with a creeping anxiety.

"They cannot be touched by harmony."

Fitran tries Corpus Memoratum, but the spell rebounds, injuring himself. His blood writes glyphs in the air: vibrating as if born from unavoidable pain.

Each glyph glows, creating waves of energy trapped in time, pulling into the souls of all who witness. That power, though full of resurrection, reveals a fragility that can only be felt by those brave enough to face the darkness.

"One of them... is the remnant will of the unborn children."

Sheena tries to sing the root notes again, but the Echoes absorb the song and transform it into a disordered roar. The echoing sound symbolizes a deeper sorrow, as if it were the scream of souls from an abandoned dimension. Among the resonating echoes, the wind whispers as if filled with a sense of loss, painting a picture of an unreachable past, where those children should have played under the light. As the notes drift, delicate shadows seem to pass by, as if reminding them of forgotten presences.

The space around Stones begins to change: the structure of the city becomes a labyrinth of echoes. The sky forms an inverted spiral. Water flows upward. Magic responds randomly. Aimlessly, without purpose, as if reflecting the chaos in the hearts of those trapped in this struggle. Sheena's hair flutters, as if connected to the flow of magic surrounding them; every wrinkle on her face depicts the inner battle between hope and despair. Cold sweat trickles down her temples as she struggles to remember the spell once taught to her—a hope in the ever-diminishing darkness.

In the midst of chaos, the main root of the Tree of Life splits itself.

From beneath it, a black-red light emerges. The voices of the Echoes merge:

"We have bounced enough.

Now we want form."

Hundreds of Echoes pull away from one another, their bodies melting, merging into a pulsing spiral circle. The roots collapse toward them, not attacking, but as if serving. In the journey toward unity, the voices vibrate like long-abandoned violin strings, calling lost souls to come, reminding them of the collective power trapped in memories. Each step of the Echo vibrates with magical energy, awakening unexpressed vibrations, creating harmony in the emptiness that envelops them.

Within the pile of vibrating light, a soft sigh is heard, as if an old song is weaving together sorrow and joy. One voice, deeper than the others, whispers with hope, "What is separated will now be bound."

She steps back. "What is this...?"

Fitran gazes at the center of the merging.

And says:

"They will become one. They want to claim the right to be called beings."

In the echoing noise, she feels a vibration within her soul, as if the heart of the earth beats with her, both longing for the unity that has long been lost.

As if its melody is caught in the flow of time, their voices drift like whispers of wind piercing through the cracks of silence. Every heartbeat of hers aligns with the rhythm that awakens the hidden memories of debris, a strand of hope that never fades among the passing shadows.

From within the hollow of the roots, a body twenty meters tall emerges. Half root, half mist, with shapeless eyes and a face that changes every second—sometimes becoming her young face, sometimes Elbert's, sometimes Sheena's face when she cries. Its presence implies a deep sorrow, as if the entire universe remembers the injustices that have occurred, and every metamorphosis of its face is the cry of trapped souls.

In the silence enveloping the place, the trapped souls struggle to express their unheard voices, painting a bitter history buried in the flow of time. The sound seems to merge with the weeping of the night wind, creating a dark yet poetic atmosphere.

It does not roar. It does not speak.

It only breathes.

And every breath erases the sound from the ground.

Tharmessan. The Wound That Thinks. The wound that refuses to be sung again as a lesson.

In a surge of hopeful nuance, a series of faint shadows swirl around Fitran, as if reminiscing about a past that never ends. A power within his soul stirs; he feels a burden heavier than mere responsibility, but a call to fight against the wave of darkness that threatens.

Fitran falls silent. "They form a will that does not wish to heal. They want to endure... as a form of pain." Around him, the temperature begins to drop, and shadows seem to gather, calling forth energies that are dormant and soulless.

In the looming darkness, cold dew begins to drip from the gently swaying leaves, reminding of the beauty that has been lost. Each drop is like the tears of nature, longing for the times when harmony was still eternal.

Stones begin to respond. The Proto-Speech glyphs on the root walls light up, signaling systemic danger.

"If Tharmessan lives for more than three days, all root magic will reverse. The Tree of Life... will erase itself."

In a tense leap through time, thick fog envelops the ground, adding a layer of mystery waiting to be unveiled. The screams of invisible ghosts swirl in the mind, warning of the consequences of the existing damage.

Sheena gazes at the sky, whispering: "What are we truly facing? The darkness of the past or the promise lost in the waves of time?"

"This is not just an entity. This is a collective will that wishes to be forgotten... yet is too strong to be buried."

In the chilling atmosphere, the moonlight illuminates the desolate battlefield, casting long shadows that dance upon the fog-covered ground. The voice of the wind whispers, as if delivering messages from a forgotten world, adding to the discomfort that envelops them.

Tharmessan begins to step, and each footprint leaves behind fragments of lost souls from the world. In the vibrating silence, it feels as if nature itself holds its breath, each of its steps echoing like distant thunder. Various night creatures hide in the shadows, watching with gleaming eyes, as if aware of the power that is about to rise.

Fitran, she, and Sheena stand in formation. The attack of uncertainty creeps into their souls, penetrating the layers of fragile courage. They do not know if they can win. Their hearts beat fast, signaling an inner battle within each of them, between hope and fear clashing against each other.

But they know one thing:

"If we do not listen to it... the world will stop speaking."