Chapter 638 The Final Cut — Name the Wound

The Stones fell silent once more.

Not a silence born of fear. Not a silence from defeat. But a silence that came after all voices had been heard, and the world now waited for what would be written as its conclusion.

The roots that had once raged now lay limp, soaking in the sunlight once again. The Proto-Speech that floated in the air slowly crumbled, one by one, like leaves that had finished their conversation. Each whisper that faded added depth to the stillness, as if nature held its breath, making space for the story that had been put on hold.

Amidst the enveloping silence, the gentle glow of the moonlight began to dance, casting soft shadows on the majestic root walls. Each light and shadow seemed to tell an ancient tale of life and death, blending in an eternal harmony. The deeper they gazed, the clearer they saw the unwritten narrative etched in every offshoot of the roots.

Yet one place remained dark: the Core of the Tree of Life. A place where its own wounds had never been named. The darkness held unspoken secrets, a pain that enveloped its soul, igniting a burning curiosity within them.

Fitran stood at the center of the Spiral Harmonic altar. Around him, Sheena and Rinoa sat cross-legged, regaining their strength. But from deep within the roots… there was a call. It could be felt in every heartbeat, as if the world urged them to listen more deeply.

Not in the form of sound.

But an existential pull. A tug that reminded Fitran of the origins of his humanity, creating a bridge between himself and all that had been forgotten.

As if the entire world had paused, allowing that magical force to envelop them like a soft blanket. The roots, smeared with magic, stretched out like delicate hands, ready to reach out and draw Fitran into the unsolved mystery. Each strand of root told a story, guiding him along an unseen path, promising knowledge and understanding, but also great risk.

"Only you, Fitran Fate," Sheena said in a low tone,

"who has ever carried magic, will, and wounds in one body. So only you… can enter there." Yet, as she spoke, uncertainty lingered between them, like a dark fog that obscured hope and fear. She herself reflected doubt, her voice soft yet profound, as if she were conveying a message from nature itself.

Fitran walked down through the layers of silver and blood roots. At the end of the corridor, there was no light. No sound. As his footsteps echoed in the silence, a chill that tickled his skin carried a thousand buried stories, as if space and time merged in a single breath.

As if crossing the space between worlds, he felt a subtle vibration in the earth, a breath from the hidden core of life, a whisper from the buried history. Each vibration carried traces of forgotten feelings, urging him to delve deeper into the mystery that burned within his soul.

There was only one altar of roots, and a crystal knife embedded in the flesh of the world. With sharp focus and a trembling body, Fitran felt the heartbeat of nature, as if the knife became a bridge between two realities: the seen and the hidden.

Around him, the twisting roots sparkled like stars in the quiet night, holding unspoken power, connecting the dead and the living in their eternal dance. In that silent crowd, perhaps, there were whispers from lost souls, trapped in stories yet to be revealed.

He understood the meaning of this place:

the core of the Tree of Life was not a source of magic.

It was an empty space, where all that could not be explained was kept to maintain the balance of the world. In Fitran's mind, this place evoked nostalgia; like longing for a figure never known, yet felt so close, like the invisible air surrounding him.

Every second felt like a melody yet to be played, merging with the silence that carried the secrets of time, waiting for the right moment to be revealed.

And now… the world awaited the final word. The voice of the wind whispered among the trees, as if feeling the weight of this moment, adjusting the heartbeat of nature that lingered in anticipation.

The knife was not a weapon. It was a writing tool. For in the root system of the world, the only way to ensure that something would be remembered was to wound it deliberately… and write its name upon that wound. When Fitran's eyes fell upon the knife, he felt as if time had stopped, and everything around him melted into another dimension.

The knife glimmered softly in the dark, as if holding the illusion of long-lost moonlight, ready to grasp the stories left behind in the darkness.

Fitran took the knife. His hand trembled. But he knew what he had to write. With a deep breath, he gathered his courage, feeling energy flow from the heart of the earth into him, a call that was hard to ignore.

In the recesses of his heart, he felt the flow of energy, as if the heart of the earth guided him in an unbroken circle of hope and despair.

He sliced into the root earth. Each stroke etched a communication between soul and nature, like a dialogue between disconnected generations.

And he wrote one line of Proto-Speech:

ꦲꦶꦤ꧀ꦢꦺꦏꦼꦤ꧀ꦢꦁꦒꦺꦴꦤꦸꦁꦭꦸꦏꦃ —

Inde Kendang Gonung Lukah

(The wound that is not healed… will become the place where the world remembers who it is.)

With every stroke, he felt the vibration of the roots merging with his name, forming a bridge between the past and the future as if history spilled into a new understanding. Each letter seemed to dance, awakening long-forgotten memories, pulling him into the harsh current of time.

The altar trembled. The main tree ignited. The blaze of light spread like unending hope, providing warmth and spirit to all beings longing for peace.

And from all corners of the Stones, a small voice was heard: Children calling the names of their lost ancestors. The voices of the children, though soft, echoed with a power that transcended time, delivering a sense of longing to the lost souls.

The guardian spirits called back names that were no longer recorded. Each name spoken resonated in the silence, creating a resonance that connected the past with the neglected truth.

Cities rewrote history not as winners or losers, but as beings who had once been wounded and still chose to live. They carved stories into the stone walls so that future generations would not forget the winding journey.

The Tree of Life grew new leaves.

They were not healing leaves.

But reminder leaves, symbols of hope that would never fade. Each leaf was a mirror of stories flowing like the currents of a river, inviting reflection and contemplation.

Among the outstretched branches, moonlight filtered through the dark green gaps, casting a cool shimmer that soothed the soul. As if every new leaf that grew contained the secrets of lost ages, waiting to be revealed in soft whispers. Thin smoke circled the base of the tree, carrying the scent of damp earth and deep sorrow, creating a magical circle around them. At that moment, it felt as if nature itself was listening, and the silence of the night deepened.

Fitran climbed back up, his body scratched. But his soul was at peace. Rinoa welcomed him with a small smile, a glimmer of hope stored in her eyes. Sheena stood and said:

"What you wrote… cannot be erased."

Sheena's voice trembled, holding back the surging emotions, as if the honesty in her words was a mantra to be believed.

Fitran nodded, the weight on his chest lifting slightly, making room for new strength. He felt the presence of every promise contained in those words.

"That is not a sentence of forgiveness. It is a sentence of affirmation. That even wounds… can become roots."

Between them, the meaning of those words flowed like a river, connecting the separated souls, building a bridge between the hopes of the past and the present.

Around them, shadows began to tremble, as if the world responded to the words that had been spoken. Mystic light crept from beneath the earth, revealing beautiful patterns symbolizing the cycles of life and death. Every note, every vibration, like an eternal melody dancing within their souls, reminded them of the eternity of the bonds forged by love and loss. In that moment, they felt a connection deeper than mere coincidence, as if they were destined to find each other amidst the noise of the world.

The sky above the Stones slowly cleared. But in that sky, one phrase of Proto-Speech was written in faint light:

ꦏꦸꦠꦺꦴꦁꦏꦤ꧀ꦢꦺꦭ꧀ꦩꦼꦤ꧀ꦝꦶꦁꦒꦺꦴꦤꦸ —

Kutong Kandhel Mendhinggonu

(What we call a wound today… may become the home of the world tomorrow.)

And beneath the calm sky,

Fitran, Sheena, and Rinoa stood.

Three imperfect wills. As if there was an unspoken bond between them, a tension filling the space around them.

Among the three figures, a gentle breeze whispered softly, as if recounting the traces of unseen footsteps. The leaves of the distant Tree of Life trembled, creating an endless melody, like the call of wise spirits, reminding them of the days gone by and the hopeful future ahead. Soft light, as if the tears of stars, seeped through the branches, reflecting bright colors reminiscent of flowers blooming at all times, even in darkness. "Don't you feel it?" Sheena asked with a trembling voice, her eyes shining with hope. Rinoa looked at her, nodding slowly, as if feeling the same weight on her shoulders.

But enough to remember the world.

Every light radiating from the Tree of Life seemed like a reminder, signaling that every wound, every loss, leads to rebirth and new beauty. The majestic trunk symbolized unexpected strength, its roots firmly penetrating the earth, holding secrets within and connecting separated stories. At the same time, its branches waved, as if embracing wanderers seeking direction, inviting their steps toward a bright and unpredictable future. "Our courage is the answer to all sorrow," Fitran declared, his voice firm yet gentle, as if hope was a promise he could hold onto.