Chapter 635 The Birth of Tharmessan

The sky above Stones no longer holds light. It only echoes with the remnants of silenced voices—unfinished songs, prayers left without an "amen," and the final cries of those who died in silence. As if the sky itself mourns the loss, dark droplets hang like tears, awaiting the flow of interrupted stories.

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

She is no longer just mist and wild roots.

She is shaping her true form.

A body that requires no forgiveness and seeks no understanding. In her stillness, whispers emerge from thousands of trapped souls, their voices intertwining with the thick pulse of life.

Surrounding her, the air is thick with a sense of loss, as if every breath could tear apart the remaining memories. Dark shadows dance in agitation, infiltrating every crevice that appears. The dimensions of time seem to shift, blurring the line between the living and the dead, instilling a chilling fear in the hearts of those who witness. How often do they find themselves trapped in a memory, chasing figures that exist only in fragments?

Tharmessan's body enlarged, with dense roots forming an exterior resembling a human form, yet lacking proper proportions. Her arms were made of cries, her back burdened with broken promises, and her chest split into a thousand faces—all weeping, angry, or empty. With every movement, the body seemed to reflect a mirror of suffering, revealing how each wound was etched into the soul that once shone brightly.

Each time she moved, a piece of history was erased from Stones. Those who witnessed it could feel the vibrations, as if the ground trembled with profound sorrow as the doors of time closed one by one.

In the silence, whispers of trapped voices could be heard, calling out names that had slipped from memory. Darkness pressed in like a shroud, each second felt suffocating, locking away the fingers of hope in a faint rustle. Characters from the past swirled in an endless loop, demanding recognition, yet only finding their fading shadows. Among these shadows, Tharmessan's gentle voice floated, like a melody trapped in the folds of time, reminding everyone of the laughter and joy that once existed.

Place names vanished from the map.

Ancient buildings crumbled to dust.

Folk songs ceased to be remembered.

"He is shaping himself from what is lost," Fitran murmured.

"His body is not flesh… but the desires that have been allowed to fade away without ceremony."

From Tharmessan's core emerged a sound that was not a sound.

A reverberation that, if listened to for too long, would erase one's sense of identity. The sound seemed to steal fragments of their souls, binding them to memories that were more painful.

In the suffocating silence, shadows passed by. Each whisper lingered on the edge of hearing, haunting those who dared to draw near. The darkness of the surroundings seemed to absorb the light, taking with it memories long buried. This atmosphere evoked a profound sense of loss, as if every passing second drew them one moment further away from what once was. In the midst of this silent moment, Tharmessan found himself unable to contain the weight of his loneliness; his thoughts drifted to fleeting moments when laughter and stories still filled the space.

Rinoa covered her ears, yet she could still hear the haunting echoes in her mind. The sense of alienation not only touched the lobby of her thoughts but seemed to infest her very soul, creating a profound pain. In the shadows, figures flickered, almost as if they were enraged and grieving, conveying an unspoken message that whispered from the darkness, "We are the forsaken." Occasionally, she looked around, catching sight of faint figures haunting her from the dark corners, their faces blurred but intensely aware of the emptiness that clung to her life.

"We are the will you once penned down…

only to later cancel."

"We are the children of a narrative that never found its conclusion."

The voices layered upon one another. They did not come from a single entity but from thousands of distinct voices that now existed in one form, creating a hollow melody that constricted Rinoa's chest, demanding attention from her courage, which was starting to wane.

The remaining Echoes that had not yet merged crawled, soared, or seeped into Tharmessan's body. Each time one Echo integrated, his being grew increasingly complex; every motion felt like a dance between two worlds, blending with an indefinable rhythm, as something began to be reborn within him.

Amidst the swirling chorus of voices, an unheard call reverberated, echoing through the darkness heavy with sorrow. It was as if the wind carried the fragments of souls trapped in the crevices of time. A piercing pain surged, gnawing deeper, teasing an unmatched sense of regret, seemingly tugging at memories that ought to have been left behind. Within that shell of sadness, she heard the lament of a lost soul, almost whimpering, "Take me home."

Her muscles transformed into root-like tendrils, patterned in a reversed Proto-Speech.

Horns born from the will of death sprouted from her shoulders and temples, creating a silhouette that was both haunting and beautiful, marking an unending struggle against an inevitable fate. Rinoa held her breath as if every dim flicker of light attempted to entice her remaining heart.

Broken wings of the spirit that could not be reclaimed hung from her back, acting as a reminder of a journey halted, an open wound, and a love unfulfilled, yearning for acceptance in a hostile world.

Ghostly hands caressed Tharmessan's body, as if trying to remember what had been lost. Each touch was shrouded in darkness, evoking shadows from forgotten pasts and hinting that not everything lost would return. In that delicate tremor, Tharmessan felt the presence of souls awake in the darkness, hoping that even in their emptiness, they still held a distinct trace.

"She was not created," said Sheena.

"She was born… from collective oblivion."

Sheena stood before the main roots. She sang an ancient melody from the Third Spiral, attempting to restore the balance of the Tree of Life. Her voice flowed, creating an echo that seemed to bounce between dimensions, each intonation carrying hope to unite the missing pieces.

However, before she completed the second stanza, Tharmessan raised his hand, and all magic ceased.

Around her, the wind whispered like the souls of those trapped, creating a tense atmosphere that seemed to suck the surrounding space. The silence was sharp, like an arrow ready to be fired, igniting a sense of anxiety within Sheena. She imagined a thousand possibilities, balancing the allure between darkness and light, wondering if two entities could find harmony in separation.

It did not revert. It was not destroyed.

It was simply canceled.

"He has reached the second body phase," Fitran remarked.

"Tharmessan no longer needs a form—he is a concept."

From Tharmessan's being emanated a mutated resonance, a new magic that rejected all foundations of will: waves of empathy and rage intertwined in a delicate thread, demanding recognition of a neglected presence.

The emptiness rolled around them, invisible waves radiating from Tharmessan's figure, much like a dark master absorbing light. Every breath felt heavy, as if they were caught in a web of time that stole away hope and love. Rinoa felt her heart tremble, as if connected to the heartbeat of a world beginning to fade. In that void, fear and courage clashed, creating a tragic symphony understood only by those standing on the edge of emptiness.

Antiphona Reversa: The Cancelling Choir

This voice erased all magic born from emotions: love, anger, trust, even trauma.

Anything based on relationships... was nullified.

The glyph turned to dust.

The song fell silent. In the enveloping stillness, the tremors faded, leaving behind only shadows of sorrow that haunted every corner of their minds. Rinoa watched as her friends' smiles faded, her eyes filled with longing for the memories that had been snatched away by this invisible force.

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

"She wants to cancel the reasons why we fought in the first place."

There was a deep pain in her words, as if Rinoa felt it in every pulse of her being. The sense of loss was so tangible, wrapping around them like a thick fog, obscuring the path back home. And as that soft voice echoed in their minds, everything felt increasingly distant, like a shadow fading into dimming light. She wanted to scream, but despair locked away her voice, framing hope that was now nothing more than an illusion amidst the darkness.

Fitran stared at the large figure of Tharmessan. Now, the creature resembled a colossal statue forged from suffering, yet devoid of any symbols. It represented no one and carried no purpose. As the tragedy approached, a chilling touch penetrated his bones, and Fitran felt they were mute witnesses to the void that engulfed them. Deep down, hope flickered in his heart that their struggle was not yet entirely over, even though the darkness loomed profoundly.

And that was the danger.

Dark shadows enveloped the area surrounding Tharmessan, as if the world itself was ignoring its existence. A gentle breeze rustled, carrying the scent of damp earth, reminding him of something long lost—a buried memory, unspoken, that embraced every soul daring to draw near. Within the whispers of the wind, a soft murmur emerged, perhaps the voices of trapped souls, pleading for forgiveness for sins they had never recognized.

"If she succeeds," Fitran said,

"the world will not crumble.

But… it will stop knowing why it ever cried."

Each heartbeat trembled in sync with the rising tension, as if she could only hear the echoes of thousands of lost souls, trapped in endless darkness. Every silence groaned, urging Fitran to listen deeper to the unseen injustices, demanding that courage come to those bold enough to step forward.

With her left hand, Tharmessan forged a root sword, twice the height of a human. But this sword bore no blade.

It consisted solely of memories unexpressed. Within each fiber lay the power of ghosts yearning for justice, isolated moments estranged by time and misunderstanding. The sword was a silent witness to the repressed anger of nature, prepared to release the heavy burden of uncertainty.

A love letter never delivered.

The final message left unopened.

The name of a baby that was never spoken.

Each swing of this sword erased the meaning from whatever it touched. Each friction conjured new shadows, as if wiping away past tracks, transforming history into disjointed fragments that soared far from the memories that once existed.

Fitran's gaze was momentarily drawn to the softly glowing sword, reminiscent of morning dew waiting to melt away. In that instant, he felt a profound awareness that each fragment of memory held within the sword was a part of a tale far too sorrowful to recount. He sensed that within the sword's power lay souls trapped in the twists of time, silently screaming to be freed from their painful bindings.

"This is not a weapon," Sheena murmured.

"It is a lifewiper… in a form that cannot be called murder."

Before them stood not a monster.

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

Like the wind refusing to sing melodies of emptiness, the creature stood still, its gaze piercing through the fog of time and memory. It seemed to recall every second shrouded in pain, as if attempting to quell the rumbling sorrow trapped within its soul.

And the world… began to tremble.

Leaves fell, as if mourning the emptiness born among them. For a brief moment, the wind whispered, delivering a faint fragrance of forgotten memories, filling the vacant space with endless murmurs.

Proto-Speech in the air inscribed a single sentence before fading:

ꦲꦶꦤ꧀ꦠꦺ ꦧꦼꦩ ꦏꦸꦭꦃ ꦱꦤ꧀ꦠꦶꦁ —

Inde Béma Kulah Santing

(It does not come to destroy. It comes to make the world stop singing.)

In the suffocating silence, the sun, once shining brightly, began to slowly sink, casting a red glow reminiscent of a tragic painting. Each passing second felt like an unbearable weight, allowing the stillness to seep deep into her bones. At that moment, Rinoa felt her heart slow down, as if time was conquering every hope within her, and the world that was once vibrant faded into a suffocating gray shadow.

They realized that the song of the world was about to cease, trapped in an unspoken sense of loss.