Chapter 646 Null Symphony — The Collapse of Tree of Life

The Roots of Stones—having spread across the magical networks of the world for thousands of years—began to tremble and decay. In the chilling silence, as if time had come to a standstill, Fitran felt a gentle vibration in his heart, recalling the beautiful moments when the Stones still functioned. Amidst the gaps of silence, he sensed a thin breeze that seemed to whisper, reminding him of ancient narratives lost yet preserved within the world's memory.

They were not burned. They were not uprooted. They were forgotten.

Made as if they had never grown, as if they had never been a part of the world. Black and desolate, all achievements that once existed felt erased from the collective memory, and Rinoa felt a deep sadness seep into her soul. "What happened to our past?" she asked herself, as if hoping for an answer in the silence that enveloped them.

"Samsara Vekta: Spiral Nullification Protocol."

That phrase still echoed in the sky of the Stones, whispered by Althur's logical structure. The cold, mechanical voice reminded him of how powerlessness could change even the strongest. Each word moved slowly, like dust particles caught in dim light, creating an ancient shadow that cloaked Althur's memory.

The Tree of Life, once shining in harmony, now lost its light. Beneath its drooping branches, Sheena felt this sadness gnawing at her hope. She wanted to scream, but her voice was stolen by the despair that surrounded her. "Is there hope beyond this darkness?" her heart whispered, as the withered leaves fell around her, singing a wordless farewell.

The leaves fell not due to the season, but because the concept of life within the roots had been erased. "This existence feels hollow," Rinoa thought, touching the now barren ground. She felt a subtle vibration, a resonance from the souls that once existed, as if demanding recognition for the suffering of those forgotten.

The wind did not blow. It was still—because there was no longer a will to move. In this silence, Althur felt trapped in a labyrinth of logic that offered no answers. Outside, the shadows of the trees trembled, forming mysterious patterns that seemed to convey a message from another world.

The Proto-Speech in the sky was now just dead letters, falling like dust. Fragments of words that once held power were now neglected, and Fitran could not hold back his tears, remembering the legacy that was now forgotten. A faint light illuminated the ancient stones nearby, awakening memories of a time when words had souls and could change everything.

Rinoa stood beneath the main branch of the tree.

The heart of Alexander in her hand stopped beating. It felt as if her own heart had also ceased, witnessing the emptiness around her with a profound pain. She knew that with every heartbeat that stopped, a story was lost forever. If only there were a way to summon back the dormant power, she thought, a simple incantation might awaken that wonder once more.

"Even this heart… cannot function if the world does not desire direction," she murmured. In the biting silence, she felt the weight of helplessness in her chest. Each heartbeat that ceased became a reminder that without hope, all efforts felt futile. The leaves around her seemed to whisper, responding to her unease and inviting her to listen in the silence; that their presence was not an end, but rather an unexpected beginning.

"I cannot… hear any song." She complained, her voice trembling with doubt, as if confessing to herself that the voice within her was buried in silence. Inspired by the power she desired but could not grasp, Sheena felt despair creeping into her bones. The existence of this world felt increasingly oppressive, like a mysterious fog enveloping their souls, urging them to seek light beyond the darkness that surrounded them. In the silence, she prayed to rediscover that power—a power capable of changing everything, even if only a glimmer of hope remained.

Fitran stood tall. His body was surrounded by a zone of meaninglessness, a place where magic did not apply, and presence was unrecognized. The expression on his face reflected the tension battling within him—often he felt lost, as if wandering through a dark, endless corridor. Yet it was precisely there… that he heard a single voice. In the enveloping silence, that voice vibrated at an indescribable frequency, transcending the limits of understanding. A gentle rustle flowed, like dew falling on dry leaves, adding depth to the tense atmosphere.

It was not Rinoa's voice.

It was not Sheena's voice.

But the voice of old wounds he had once inscribed in Proto-Speech—refusing to be erased. With every memory that surfaced, hope and sorrow intertwined. They whispered in his ear, sharing a longing for the past whose sweet memories felt too distant. It was as if every shadow offered a little light, eroding the darkness that enveloped his mind. With all his effort, he focused on that voice, trying to gather the fragments of lost time.

He took a breath, filling his lungs with rare courage.

And raised his hand, as if trying to grasp all the dreams long abandoned, with newfound determination. Within him, he felt a wave of energy, as if the world around him vibrated with hope clinging to every fingertip. Something magical, like dark clouds ready to birth a storm, awaited the right moment to thunder.

"If the world cannot sing with the old roots, then I will rewrite those notes… from the wounds." His words flowed like an incantation, streaming from a soul filled with scars yet still shining. Each phrase was a challenge to the emptiness threatening to drown him. Around him, shadows seemed to sway in an unexpected dance, moving to a rhythm only understood by those who grasped sorrow. Like a flickering candlelight, hope ignited even amidst the darkness.

Fitran created an unnamed magical formation—not from Corpus, not from Void, not from Proto-Speech, but from emotional script. With every movement, he felt new strength growing, like seeds sprouting from barren soil. Sadness and joy mingled, forming a new harmony ready to shake the world that had been neglected for far too long. The cries of the wind bore silent witness to his magical journey, and the dim light enveloped every movement of Fitran's hands, as if the sky itself sent its energy to support the grand work that was being born.

An imperfect song. Every note flawed. But every crack… carried echoes from a world that wished to endure. The space around him felt both embracing and chilling, as if every wall remembered the voices that had perished and the unspoken hopes.

As if all that was lost struggled to return, fighting against the dark current of time.

Rinoa added her voice. But not as harmony. Rather as conflict—a voice crying in tone. Each finger that touched the beat of the notes intensified the haunting pain, allowing despair to merge with the faint hope.

Within her heart, an inner battle raged between hope and despair, moving her soul to contribute despite the pain that bound her.

Sheena called upon the remnants of the roots. Yet they did not form notes. They vibrated, not to grow, but to remember. The distant light from the center of her soul revealed shadows of a grim past, painting sweet memories amidst the bitterness of inevitable loss, forcing every chord to tremble with inseparable hope and sorrow.

Althur stood at the peak of the altar, witnessing a new Symphony being born. He raised his hand, calling back the Spiral Echo Contract, trying to cancel their notes. On the horizon, the starlight began to fade, as if the embrace of the quiet night supported this arduous effort, but within that peace, a miracle vibrated, waiting to be revealed.

Yet it did not succeed. Frustration enveloped his soul, like a fierce wind trying to destroy all that had been built upon the ruins of hope. In the distance, the sky seemed to tremble with flashes of blue light, as if responding to the turmoil originating from within him, providing a mystical aura that enveloped his surroundings.

"What is this…?" he said.

"A note that cannot be canceled?" An uncertainty shook his conviction, making him feel trapped between two opposing worlds. The wind whispered softly, delivering the voices of the past, assuring him that he was not alone in his despair.

Fitran gazed at him, his face calm. Yet behind that calmness, his mood churned, witnessing Althur's struggle from a distance, as if understanding every ironic pulse of his soul. At that moment, he felt a strong vibration of energy, like unheard lyrics filling the air around them, bridging the dimensions between hope and disappointment.

"This is not a song. This is the scream of the wounds you refuse to hear. And screams do not submit to systems."

His expression seemed to penetrate the depths of Althur's soul, inviting him to understand that every scream was a reminder of unexpressed suffering. In the darkness, a beam of light sparkled, as if showing that behind every wound, there lay potential for new growth.

Slowly, from the dead earth, new roots began to grow. But not like before. Fitran felt the vibration of the ground beneath his feet, as if these roots were the unspoken voice of the heart, whispering in silence. That voice guided him to the awareness that each root connected them to a forgotten history, and this new birth was a manifestation of hope long buried.

These roots were violet-black, glowing from within. They were not roots of harmony. They were roots of contradiction, of unresolved suffering—yet they endured.

"What are we growing here, Althur?" Rinoa asked, her voice trembling. Althur looked at her, his eyes dark like a starless night. "All that remains," he replied, with a tone heavy with burden.

Amidst the vibrations of the roots radiating mysterious energy, a soft light danced, enticing every being around it. In the profound silence, unseen voices began to whisper, singing tales hidden within the earth. Every rise and valley seemed to have its own story, recounting legends of sorrow and hope that never faded.

The Tree of Life began to pulse again. But now… as the Tree of Scars.

The aroma of wet earth filled the air, mingling with the bitter taste of emptiness. The dim moonlight highlighted the curves of the tree's body, as if paying homage to the dark tales etched in every branch. In the midst of this magical atmosphere, Althur felt a strong vibration from the tree, as if calling forth the spirit bound between them. He could see faint shadows, entities embodying pain and strength, united in an indescribable presence.

The sky of the Stones inscribed a single sentence with broken ink:

ꦏꦼꦠꦁꦤ꧀ꦏꦶꦤ꧀ꦢꦭ꧀ꦲꦺꦴꦤ꧀ꦢꦺꦤ꧀ꦢꦺꦴ — Ketangkindal Onde Wanddo

(A flawed song… is a song that can be touched by all worlds.)

Althur was stunned. Sibylla stood behind him, tears streaming down her face. The thrum of pain in their hearts filled the air, as if no words could express it. And Fitran… simply gazed at the cracked sky,

saying:

"You cannot cancel the world, Althur. Because this world… is a wound that chooses to remain."

Deep within his heart, he knew that it was those wounds that connected them all, even though their reactions to it varied.