Chapter 536: We’ll see who lives to tell the tale.
The protector stared at her for a moment, a hard glint in her eyes. “If every step is calculated, no one need die. But if you enter with your heads in a rage… then the Tree will recognize you as predators, and the forest will respond with what it has learned to devour.”
Vany hissed, already impatient with rules. “Say that now, after we’ve nearly fried enough. Who’s to say this ‘guardian’ here isn’t just saying it to spare your memories?”
Raphaeline, who walked with her scythe resting on her shoulder, gave a short laugh. “No one here will waste time doubting. Either we trust the instrument that knows how to hold doors, or we trust only our own claws. I, for example, prefer my scythe.”
The protector gave Raphaeline a look that held both recognition and warning. “You are a warrior. I have nothing to teach you about strikes. But learn to listen to the place. It has a tongue. It speaks of pressure and climbs.” And he remembers with resentment.
They descended a steep slope where the roots formed blackened steps. As they advanced, the light changed: first a bluish shadow, then veins of silvery brilliance that pulsed like the veins of a gigantic organism. Soon they saw the trunk—a colossal, living scar at the center of the world. The World Tree rose like a twisted tower, its black bark intertwined with roots like twisted metal; between the lower branches, veins of light would circulate, mounds of magical sapropel, and the carapaces of petrified creatures.
An ancient scent prevailed: not just resin, but seared memories. The Tree emitted a sound, not a roar, but a sequence of pulsations, harmonies so ancient they echoed in the inner chords of the chests of those listening.
“She is… waking slowly,” the protector murmured. Her fingers tapped her chest in an ancient gesture. “It will feel your arrival. Don’t be greedy. Touch only what is necessary. A root, a node, a secret that allows it to escape. Nothing more.”
Katharina managed a peek, eyes glowing like embers, and whispered to Roxanne, “It’s… beautiful, in a sickly way.”
Sapphire flexed her fists, heat flickering in her fingers. “I won’t play with beauty. I want the fruit. I want the core.” She spoke bluntly, and the word “want” sounded like a sentence.
Naberius smiled, approaching the trunk with the reverence of someone rediscovering a lover. “The essence is here,” she murmured, “and I can feel the buried names. But I also feel traps. The Tree protects wounds. And wounds bite back.”
Sepphirothy stepped to the first exposed root and touched it, her skin darkening like ice beneath the contact. “Connect,” she ordered the others. “Feel where the Tree is most alive. Speak to it through touch. Not with words. With pain and balance.”
The others obeyed, with varying degrees of reluctance. Vergil placed the tip of the katana against the bark and let the blade vibrate; it was a harsh dialogue of steel and wood. Roxanne placed her palms on the shimmering runes and closed her eyes, trying to understand the language the protector called the “language of the roots.”
Time seemed to stretch. Each breath was a beat. The entire clearing sharpened, waiting for the outcome. And as they touched, each felt something: a whisper of memories, a seasoned memory of ancient wars, fragments of pacts made and betrayed. There were painful images that hurled Vanny into a smaller interior, and visions that made Ada tremble in her boots.
The protector watched with a hard expression, but there was relief in the way her fingers intertwined behind her—a tense watchfulness. Raphaeline pressed her scythe to the earth, her eyes alert. Vergil smiled with a forbidden desire; not only for destruction, but for discovery. Naberius murmured names that seemed like echoes of fallen gods.
“Remember,” the protector spoke in a low, almost barking voice, “if you take too much, prepare your bodies and hearts to pay the debt. The Tree gives, and the Tree demands.”
Vergil raised his head, his smile transformed into a promise. “Then let the demands come. I will take what belongs to me and pay with the remains.”
The woman in the white kimono closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, the entire clearing seemed to calm a little more, as if in agreement. “Follow me,” she said, and pointed to a larger root, twisted like a spine, that dug deep into the womb of the world. “There. The entrance is there. And I will not allow you to die like fools.”
One by one, with measured steps, the group approached the entrance. The wind died down. The light changed color. The Tree’s pulse quickened.
The line entered the opening as if penetrating a monster’s throat. The tunnel was narrow: twisted bark seemed carved by gigantic fingers, veins of light pulsating like arteries. The smell was thick—damp earth, dried blood, burnt leaves—and with each step, the group felt the weight of history pressing against their shoulder blades.
Vergil walked ahead, his steps precise, his blade dragging lightly across the bark in time with his breathing. Behind him, Raphaeline and Ada moved with the familiarity of hunters; Raphaeline always alert, Ada pale-faced but firm. Sepphirothy folded wings within the armor of her aura, as if conserving strength for a blow she didn’t even know would land. Naberius followed with his sword strapped to his waist, his smile unstable in the face of the silence; Safira and Sepphirothy—the three titans—remained like contained storms.
The protector in a white kimono walked in the center, her hands clasped in front of her, her body still and fluid. Every now and then she touched the bark with her fingertips; upon contact, the wood creaked, as if awakening and remembering names. The walls vibrated with a primal melody, and blood—not necessarily human—seemed to run in veins beneath the surface.
“There are knots of ancient protections,” the protector murmured softly, so only those nearby could hear. “They are not simple defenses. They are memories stored in iron and will. Touch without thinking, and you will open much more than compartments.”
Roxanne advanced with the caution of one who knows traps; her fingers slid along a crevice: small runes appeared, shimmered, and quieted at the contact of her skin. There was a rite there, a test of respect, not merely of strength. Rize, still trembling, spread some of her demonic webs across the bark, as if probing. The webs vibrated and retreated, as if the Tree itself refused their help.
“This here…” Rize murmured, “has a will of its own. There’s no point in trying to force it.”
Vany gritted her teeth impatiently. “Then let’s cut that will. Lower your posture, plant!”
The protector shot Vanny a brief look—almost maternal and lethal—and it was enough to silence the young woman. The clearing had always been a reminder of her guide; and there, deep within the world, memories held authority.
They advanced to a node where the bark opened into volutes that resembled interlocking shields. The protector pointed, and where she pointed, there was a circle of black stones embedded in the wood: smaller symbols that moved like ants. She placed her hand on the first and murmured a short sequence. The runes responded, one by one, exhaling silvery vapor.
“They are tribute seals,” she explained gravely. “Each one linked to two memories—trust and pain.” Touch with intention, and the memory will be released—but only the memory, not the being. Pull too hard, and the memory will become a living thing.
Vergil pushed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and smiled weakly, but out of caution, he let the protector make the first touches. As the first rune faded, a sigh escaped the wood; the Tree’s vibration slowed as if it had untied a knot. Raphaeline felt her skin tingle—a fleeting memory: screams, a moonlit battlefield, and then the image of a blade cutting through promises.
“Open,” the protector said, and the wood gave way with a long creak. “Take what you need. But remember: the Tree does not lend. It gives and takes in equal measure.”
Vergil leaned forward instantly and reached into the crack. The interior smelled like an ancient metal chamber; something cold scraped against her skin. Her fingers closed around an object that, for a second, illuminated the tunnel: a small black gem, pulsing with an inner glow that resembled a heart.
“Hmph,” Vergil whispered, removing the gem and wiping it with the back of his blood-stained hand. “A bonding gem. This can amplify…” He didn’t finish the sentence; it was obvious.
Naberius approached in a fluid motion, eyes narrowed in adoration and desire. “That kind of thing…” she murmured. “Wow. If you use it carelessly, boy, you’ll open more than doors.” The blade near her waist hissed.
Sepphirothy watched with a coolness that was almost detachment. “Take it. Sit. And tell me if your hunger is for power or for memories. Don’t mix them up.”
As Vergil nibbled at the possibility, Sapphire approached another crevice. Her hands were embers, and with a gesture, she plucked a flexible root—and from it sprouted a sprout that turned to dust of floating ash. When she touched her palms, she saw a vision: her army, scenes of incense and war—a fiery memory with more faces. Her fist clenched.
Naberius stepped back and, without warning, drew a hidden blade—a fragment of an ancient spirit. The sword vibrated and sang like a wounded animal; the protector glanced sideways, and in that gaze was both warning and astonishment, almost as if she saw old wounds revived.
“Be careful,” the protector repeated. “You have everything to gain and lose in the same instant. If you pull the wrong knot, the price will be immediate.”
Katharina, who had remained beside her mother, clenched her fist and took a breath. “I’d rather pay a hundred prices than lose the chance to let the flames run wild,” he murmured. “I don’t know if your Tree understands hunger.”
The Tree, somehow, heard. A vibration ran through its roots, and a shadow—not hostile, but firm—crept up the trunk. It was the ancient voice of the world, a whisper that reverberated without words.
Vergil, the black gem now glowing in his palm, felt an inner current swirl. It was as if something within the forest recognized him as a diner—and as a thief. He felt the thread of power lace his flesh; for milliseconds he noticed echoes—old names, faces he’d never seen, cries for justice and vengeance. It was satiety and hunger at the same time.
The protector observed each of them with a gaze that weighed intent. “You seek things to complete yourselves,” he said finally. “But remember: completion here can mean crushing. The Tree retains echoes.” You will be able to take back weapons, knowledge, memories… and also avalanches of debt.
Naberius, his eyes shining with greed, toyed with the blade he had pulled out. “Debt?” he laughed. “Good. Give me the bill. I love paying with blood.”
Sepphirothy crossed her arms, and the freezing aura surrounding her thickened like fog. “It’s not about bravery, Naberius. It’s about balance. If you go for power; if you pull to satisfy impulse, the bill will come in the form of collapse.”
Vergil lifted the gem, studying its glow as if finding an answer to something that had always been missing within him. “Then bring it,” he murmured. “Let the bill come. I’ll pay it gladly.”
The protector sighed, and for the first time, a line of weariness creased her face. “You talk easily about price when you don’t feel the weight of debt. Go, take it, and leave.” But listen: buried in the deepest roots is a knot that refuses to yield to touch. If anyone insists on pulling it, the Tree will scream louder than I. And I won’t be here to quell the revolt.
Raphaeline touched the scythe to a root and smiled, weary and dangerous. “We know how to listen. But we also know how to cut.”
Ada closed her eyes, touching the bark lightly, as if asking permission from something that could shatter her soul. “I want to help,” she murmured, her voice small but firm.
Roxanne looked at Vergil. He, the black jewel now pulsing like someone else’s heart, offered the corner of his mouth in a smile that was both promise and confession.
“Then let’s go. Take it,” she said. “And then… we’ll see who lives to tell the tale.”