Chapter 634 Echoes That Refused Forgiveness

The sky above Stones no longer holds light. It only echoes the sounds that have been silenced—unfinished songs, prayers left without an "amen," and the final cries of those who died in silence.

From the heart of the root crater, Tharmessan's body begins to solidify.

In the stillness, without a sound, she feels a presence flowing within her, an ancient energy awakening her instincts. She realizes she is not only connected to the earth but also to souls trapped within the shadows of history. Memories of creatures that existed long before her resonate in her blood, softly calling her name: "Tharmessan, the anchor of nature." She is no longer just mist and wild roots. She is forming her true body—a body that requires no forgiveness, desires no understanding.

With her eyes half-closed, the ground around her seems to vibrate, keeping time with the rhythm of her newly formed heart. Roots protrude from the surface, growling as if answering the call of her existence. The sound of rumbling from deep within the earth welcomes her presence, stirring long-buried memories. Every ripple of the universe speaks to her, whispering that her power has returned, that she is the sole bridge between this world and the darkness that has forgotten light.

Tharmessan's body swelled, solid roots forming an outer frame resembling a human form, yet without the correct proportions. Her arms were made of weeping, her back of broken promises, and her chest split into a thousand faces—all crying, angry, or hollow. Amidst the crowd of faces, one seemed to call her name, pointing directly into the recesses of her soul, as if reminding her of the sacrifices she had made. And when that face smiled through the sorrow, Tharmessan felt a surge of new power, as if the blood flowing through her veins was the legacy of all the tales yearning for justice.

As she moved, dark shadows trailed behind her, as if with every step she created a storm that tore through the calm of the night. The scents of iron and damp earth filled the air, enveloping the place in a grim fog, where light had never reached. She sensed something watching—something waiting to reclaim what was rightfully hers.

In the dim light, the visage of Tharmessan appeared faintly, her deep-set eyes reflecting a mystical sadness and an unbroken stream of memories. Each of her movements underscored a profound presence, ensnared in a power she could never fully comprehend. She was a wanderer in her own tale, caught between the shadows of hope and the darkness of fear.

With every step she took, a fragment of history faded from Stones.

The names of places vanished from the maps.

Ancient buildings crumbled without a trace.

The cries of souls trapped in limbo echoed, creating a dark harmony among the ruins. No one knew that loss occurred not only in physical forms but also in memories that faded from consciousness.

It was as if Tharmessan herself was the balance between the visible world and the unimaginable—an entity struggling to remember a past that perhaps should have been forgotten. Her heart fought against the urge to erase all traces, yet the attachment to everything lost clung to her tightly, as if the world around her were woven from fragile threads of time.

The folk songs too faded from memory.

"She is shaping herself from what is lost," Fitran murmured.

"Her body is not flesh… but the wills that have been allowed to perish without ceremony."

From Tharmessan's core, a sound emerged that was not really a sound. It was an echo that, if listened to for too long, would erase one's sense of identity.

The darkness surged like a powerful current, enveloping other thoughts. Once more, Tharmessan recalled the faces that had once existed and the names buried in shadows. It felt as if he were compelled to keep each memory alive, eternally bound to things he could not let go of.

Rinoa pressed her hands over her ears, yet the haunting echoes crept into her mind.

The voice burned in the emptiness, vibrating with a force capable of stirring the soul. In the shadows, gentle figures emerged, dancing in silence. They were imprisoned memories, forced to awaken despite the option to forget lingering at the threshold. Anxiety enveloped Rinoa as she gazed upon those shadows, longing for the wholeness that had shattered.

However, beneath the chaos, Tharmessan felt a tension that pierced his soul. A soft yet firm inner voice whispered that he was not alone. In his blurry vision, he began to recognize the shadowy forms dancing—like artworks etched against the night sky. There were moments when he felt connected to each lost soul, sensing every emotional vibration they displayed, merging into an unlimited palette of feelings. He embraced the memories with a full heart, as if trying to safeguard them from being lost in the darkness.

"We are the will you once penned… only to retract."

"We are the children of a narrative that was never completed."

The voices were layered. They did not come from a single entity, but from thousands of different voices, now living as one form. Within this diversity, Tharmessan sensed the shattered pieces of himself; each note was a reflection of hope and longing, amplifying the feeling that a part of him had been left behind, trapped in the collapse of time.

With each pulse that vibrated, Tharmessan felt the weight of history pressing down on her. Her mind wandered, searching for the countless knots that shaped this reality—a world where life and death became allies rather than foes. Yet, she often felt ensnared in a labyrinth of memories; the ghosts of her past demanded that she remember, to relive both the pain and beauty that time had bestowed upon her. Some voices suddenly resonated more clearly, stepping out of the shadows to reveal familiar faces, stirring her soul with a profound understanding that delayed redemption does not erase hope.

The remaining Echoes that had yet to intertwine crawled, soared, or seeped into Tharmessan's being. Each time one Echo fused with her, her essence grew more intricate:

All around her, the environment seemed to fade, like shadows creeping through the darkness of night. The faint rustle of sounds seemed to orchestrate, heightening the tension that enveloped the area, creating an unsettling atmosphere. A soft light flickered from the ruins of ancient trees, casting a glow that offered a semblance of hope that felt forever out of reach. Every particle of air urged Tharmessan to bear the weight pressing down upon her, connecting her to the injustices of the world and the forgotten history, like the sky burdened beneath the weight of dark clouds.

Her muscles transformed into root-like veins, resembling the inverted patterns of Proto-Speech. From her shoulders and temples, horns of the will of death grew forth. Broken wings of souls that had not been reclaimed hung from her back. As Rinoa felt the pushes from the world around her, each Echo entering her body seemed to unveil silent stories of the deceased. In that darkness, she realized that every whisper from that somber position was not merely sound, but a reflection of lived experiences long forgotten. Occasionally, a faint face emerged from the shadows, gazing at her with longing and sorrow. It was as if they wished for her to hear their final whispers of existence, yet the voices merely flitted around her ears. She felt ensnared in a vortex of time, sensing every disrupted heartbeat calling her to become a bridge between the living and those who had departed.

"She was not created," Fitran said.

"She was born... from deep collective forgetfulness."

As Sheena spoke those words, a vibration rippled through the air, raising the hairs on her skin. Each word she uttered seemed to cling to the darkening sky, creating an echo that continued the stories of forgotten souls, demanding attention from greater forces. Darkness gathered around Tharmessan, challenging his courage to face the bitter reality brought forth by thousands of untapped spirits. In his deep-set eyes, the shadows of the past reflected moments when the sky was filled with light and laughter, moments that now felt like fragments of a dream. Allowing his heart to blaze with half-faded memories, he felt the struggle between hope and despair within him.

Sheena stood before the main roots, singing an ancient tune from the Third Spiral, trying to restore the balance of the Tree of Life. The sound that emerged from her lips resonated, bringing vibrations that touched the heart of the earth. Each note seemed to strive to revive the buried memories, stirring the almost extinguished spirit among the towering trees. In the distance, Tharmessan watched with eyes sparkling like morning dew, yearning for the ancient power that once was. With each heartbeat vibrating in harmony, he felt the unbreakable bond between himself and nature, as if the darkness surrounding him was a man-made prison.

However, before she could finish the second stanza, Tharmessan raised her hand, and all magic came to a halt. Like a sudden stillness in the wind, the tension that filled the air fell silent. A chilly aura enveloped the space around them, erasing all hope that had been built upon magical melodies. It felt as though the entire world had frozen, leaving only a haunting quietude. In that silence, a gentle smile appeared on Tharmessan's face, a recognition of profound sorrow, as if she understood that sometimes, letting go is the only way to make room for new life. The darkness was her companion, but also a reminder that not everything lost is truly gone.

It was not reversed. It was not destroyed.

Only annulled. In the stillness, Sheena felt the darkness receding around her, gnawing at the remaining light of hope. She gazed at Tharmessan with helplessness, recalling the long journey that had brought them all to this point. There was a chilling curiosity in each movement of the creature, as though she knew just how fragile their spirits were. Tharmessan, a being untethered by form, observed them with her deep and tranquil eyes, as if harboring a vast ocean of knowledge about suffering and resilience. Every vibration of her body rippled like waves on the surface of water, illustrating a peace that contrasted starkly with the chaos she brought.

"She has reached the second body phase," Fitran said.

"Tharmessan no longer requires a form—she is a concept."

From Tharmessan's body, mutated resonance emerged, a new magic that rejected all foundations of will:

Antiphona Reversa: The Cancelling Choir

This voice erased all magic rooted in emotion: love, anger, trust, even trauma. Amidst the rumble of resonance, a silence crept in, penetrating the deepest recesses of the soul. Tharmessan, the eternal being, smiled faintly, as if appreciating the ironic beauty of her power—that she could spread helplessness while also offering relief through liberation from pain. In the midst of those vibrations, Sheena felt her soul being torn apart, as if every emotional aspect was ripped away from her. Their existence hung by a fragile thread, threatened to vanish, as darkness enveloped their thoughts and hearts, obliterating any remaining hope.

All that was based on their relationships... was erased. Glyph turned to dust. The song fell silent. The once beautiful melody had become a mere memory, as if it had been wiped away from existence. In this stillness, a sense of helplessness swept over her, and within her soul, Sheena felt the weight of pain and sorrow that would remain.

In this moment of silence, the shadow of Tharmessan enveloped the entire space—a being haunted by grief, a dark echo of the past that could not be erased. Within her, he was the keeper of a story that had never been told, a burden accumulated from tears shed. What the world saw was merely an outer shell, but inside, thousands of souls whispering—begging not to be forgotten.

"He doesn't want to kill us," Rinoa said softly.

"He wants to erase the reason we have been fighting since the beginning."

Fitran gazed at Tharmessan's massive form. Now, the creature resembled a giant statue of suffering, yet devoid of any symbols. It represented no one and carried no purpose.

Yet within this darkness, there was an unseen brilliance—a call to remember. Although he appeared empty, an invisible energy swirled around Tharmessan, suggesting he was not merely a product of darkness; he was also part of the lost light, hope obscured, waiting to be reborn.

And therein lay the danger.

The air around her felt heavy, pressing down as if nature was holding its breath in fear. The black tea in Fitran's hand trembled, creating small ripples on the surface that mirrored the inner turmoil creeping within him. He struggled to focus, but the shadow of Tharmessan danced in his mind, evoking a haunting sense of darkness that was impossible to ignore.

"If he succeeds," Fitran said,

"the world will cease to understand why he once cried."

Yet… the world would stop knowing why he ever wept."

From his left hand, Tharmessan conjured a root sword, twice the height of a man. But this sword lacked a blade. As Tharmessan shaped it, the magical flow from the earth fused with his body, channeling the long-buried power of his ancestors, awakened only by heartache. Each second, it was as if an ancient relic arose, reminding all who beheld it that their enemy was not merely flesh and bone, but a being known through time and suffering.

He comprised only of memories that had failed to be conveyed.

Every shard of wood swelled, with tiny cracks shimmering in the dim light, further emphasizing the accumulated sadness. The audience watching could feel the heavy, morose energy of the sword, as if each lost memory was a being lifting its hand and silently screaming. On the ground, the shadows cast by the sword appeared to vibrate, creating an illusion of waves of overflowing sorrow.

Yet, behind every buried memory lay Tharmessan's inner scream. She recalled the smile that had long faded, a smile that once illuminated the darkness of her soul. Every pain emanating from her sword was not just a reflection of the external world but also a mirror of the gaping wounds in her heart. Dawn and dusk had always been the silent witnesses to her life's journey.

A love letter never sent.

The final message left unopened.

The name of a baby never spoken.

Every swing of the sword erased meaning from anything it touched.

"This is not a weapon," Rinoa murmured.

"This is a life eraser… in a form that cannot be called murder." In the silence, Tharmessan felt a vibration in the grip of her sword—as if it understood the weight of her inner turmoil and was ready to erase the traces of the past.

Before them stood not merely a monster.

But a being that did not wish to be part of the world's song.

Behind the wall of doubt, a figure trapped between duty and desire emerged; Tharmessan struggled against the relentless current of time that could never be reversed. Behind him, dark shadows enveloped him, as if the entire world held its breath. The wind whispered, carrying the scent of damp earth and the aftermath of a recent rain. The sound of dripping water heightened the tension, creating a haunting backdrop.

And the world began to tremble.

Proto-Speech hung in the air, crafting a sentence before it faded:

ꦲꦶꦤ꧀ꦢꦺ ꦧꦼꦩ ꦏꦸꦭꦃ ꦱꦤ꧀ꦠꦶꦁ — Inde Béma Kulah Santing

(She did not come to destroy; she came so that the world would stop singing.)

In the midst of the silence, Tharmessan observed with fiery eyes. Her face betrayed the tension, a fierce struggle between hatred and a longing for peace. In her gaze, time seemed to pause for a moment, and every passing second felt like a heavy burden to bear. The roaring thunder within her merged with the rustling leaves, creating a symphony understood only by one standing at the edge between hope and emptiness.

Occasionally, a flicker of light ignited in the gloomy sky, highlighting the figure unwilling to move forward, trapped between good intentions and the world's dissatisfaction. The wind appeared to carry whispers, trying to awaken the remaining essence of Tharmessan, yet she restrained herself, feeling the tension seep into every fiber of her being.

As if sensing this inner debate, the creature trembled, feeling a connection to the remnants of Tharmessan's soul. She longed to grasp at hope, yet the weight of her past bound her like unbreakable chains. With each passing second, this struggle endured; her heart whispered that liberation might lead to further destruction. Tharmessan was all too aware that the path to salvation was often shrouded in terrifying shadows, and she stepped closer to the edge of decision, savoring every possibility laid out before her.