Chapter 407: The World Tree (5)
Lindarion didn’t answer. His chest burned.
The scene shifted, faster now. His father in that world. A weary man, eyes sunken from overwork, patting his head with a faint smile. Promising he’d come to the next tournament. Promising things he couldn’t always keep.
And then the hospital room. Beeping monitors. The man’s chest rising slower, slower, until it stopped.
The boy had cried until his voice broke. Alone. Sixteen years old, gripping his foil like it was the only anchor left.
Then—
The truck. Headlights. Screeching brakes.
Impact. Darkness.
Ashwing whimpered in his head. ’Lindarion... stop. Please, stop looking.’
But he couldn’t. The illusions didn’t give him the mercy of closing his eyes. They forced him to watch, to feel. His past life unraveling in merciless fragments, his regrets sharper than any blade.
The chamber pulsed with light, as if the Tree itself whispered: This is what you were. This is what you left unfinished.
The system chimed again.
[Trial continues. Heart measured. Resolve weighed.]
The gymnasium faded. The hospital faded. The boy vanished.
And Lindarion stood there, sword in hand, chest heaving.
His voice was rough. "I know who I was."
Ashwing’s small claws dug into his cloak. ’You died back then... but you’re here now. You’re you. Not that boy anymore.’
"...No," Lindarion whispered. His eyes burned gold-silver, fierce even against the silence. "I am both. His dreams, his failures, they didn’t end under that truck. They live here, in me."
The motes swirled, brighter now, as though acknowledging his defiance.
[Resolve accepted. Progression unlocked.]
For a moment, warmth wrapped around him. Not Selene’s embrace, not Ashwing’s chatter, something older. The Tree itself, reaching.
It did not soothe. It reminded.
The weight of who he was, and who he had become.
The chamber returned, roots pulsing gently. Ashwing’s tail tightened around his neck, his voice a whisper. ’I don’t like this place anymore... it hurts you.’
Lindarion exhaled slowly. "No... it’s showing me truth." His knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sword. "And truth is the sharpest blade of all."
Ahead, the path split again, two tunnels diverging into deeper shadow. The motes did not choose. They lingered, waiting for him.
The two tunnels yawned before him, mouths of black wood and root, as if daring him to choose. Lindarion tightened his grip on his sword, but the system decided for him.
[Path locked. Trial continuation required.]
The left tunnel flickered with light, not gold this time but pale, sterile white.
Lindarion stepped in, Ashwing clinging close. The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the world bent again.
He stood not in a cavern but in a tournament hall. Banners fluttered overhead. The sound of voices, dozens, hundreds, swelled like waves.
On the floor, that same boy, his past self, was dressed in white, foil gleaming under harsh lights. His face was pale with nerves, eyes flicking toward the audience where empty seats stretched like a wound. No father in the crowd. No one to cheer.
Lindarion’s chest tightened. He had lived this. The match where he had fought with everything he had, yet no one was there to see him win, or lose.
The bout began. The faceless opponent lunged with perfect form. His younger self stumbled, blocked too late, thrust too slow. Point lost. Then another. And another.
The jeers began, not from the real past, but twisted here, magnified, voices dripping with venom.
Pathetic.
Not a champion. Never was.
Your father didn’t even come. He knew.
The boy faltered, steps clumsy, foil shaking.
Ashwing’s small voice broke into Lindarion’s head. ’They’re lying, right? This isn’t real. It’s... it’s not real, is it?’
"It was real," Lindarion murmured, his jaw tight. "The failure was real. The loneliness was real."
Ashwing whimpered. ’But you’re stronger now, way stronger! You could crush them all—’
"That boy couldn’t."
The match ended in brutal silence. The referee’s hand lifted, pointing at the faceless victor. The boy dropped his foil, shoulders hunched, shame so heavy it bent him like steel under a hammer.
And then, the scene shifted again.
He was outside, sitting on the curb with his foil bag beside him, staring at the asphalt. Rain dripped down, soaking his hair, his jacket, his dreams. His phone screen glowed with a message unread: Sorry, couldn’t make it. Work called. Next time.
His father’s last message.
Lindarion’s throat ached. He wanted to look away. He couldn’t.
The system’s voice whispered in his mind, cold, merciless.
[Will you deny this failure, or claim it?]
The boy lifted his head. But this time, when Lindarion blinked, the boy’s eyes weren’t brown anymore. They glowed faintly, like his own now, a mix of gold and silver.
The boy stared at him. You’re me, aren’t you? You became something I never could.
Lindarion’s hand shook, but he nodded once.
The boy’s lips curved into a bitter smile. Then prove it. Prove that my pain wasn’t wasted.
The illusion shattered. The tournament, the rain, the boy, all dissolved into light.
[Memory fragment integrated.]
[Skill awakened: Enduring Will — resistance to mental and emotional debuffs increased by 70%.]
[Passive effect: Despair cannot cripple focus.]
The chamber around him steadied again, roots pulsing with approval.
Ashwing blinked rapidly. ’So... it was real, but it was also like... a test? Like the tree’s poking into your chest and pulling out the worst bits?’
"Yes," Lindarion said softly. He closed his eyes, letting the weight settle. "And it won’t stop. Not until I face everything."
Ashwing shuddered. ’I don’t like it. But... if it makes you stronger, I’ll stay with you. Even if it’s scary.’
Lindarion reached up and brushed Ashwing’s scales with his thumb. "Good. Because I’ll need you."
The tunnel split again, the motes drifting onward. Ahead, faint echoes stirred, not his father this time, not yet. Still the boy. Still the life cut short.
The Tree wasn’t finished showing him who he had been.
And he wasn’t finished proving that boy had not died for nothing.
The roots quieted, the illusions thinning like mist burned away by morning.
The tunnels, the voices, the echoes of a boy long dead, all collapsed into silence. For the first time since he had entered, Lindarion could breathe without the weight of memory pressing against his chest.
Ashwing peeked around, wings twitching nervously. ’...Is it done? Did the tree finish poking you with all that sad stuff?’
Lindarion exhaled, the sound low, ragged but steady. "Yes. For now."
Then the chamber changed.
Light pooled above him, not the drifting motes that had guided his steps, but a radiance so pure it was almost blinding.
From the heart of that brilliance coalesced a sphere: a golden orb, its surface etched with patterns like flowing script, shifting and alive.
The air trembled with its presence. Not oppressive, not hostile, simply absolute, as though the roots, the tree, even the mana itself bent toward it in reverence.
Ashwing ducked behind Lindarion’s neck with a squeak. ’What—what is that?!’
The orb pulsed once, and a voice filled the chamber. Not loud, but layered, ancient and resonant. It was neither male nor female, yet it carried the cadence of wisdom carved across ages.
"Child of Sunblood. You have come far."
Lindarion’s sword remained at his side, though his body tensed. "And you are?"
The orb’s patterns shifted, flaring like veins of molten gold.
"I am the Guardian. The heart-echo of the World Tree. The sentinel who weighs all who pass beneath her roots."
Ashwing’s voice was a nervous whisper. ’It... it’s like the tree’s voice? Or its... pet?’
The orb pulsed again. "I am neither voice nor servant. I am her fragment, her judge, her memory." It drifted closer, hovering just above Lindarion’s head. "And you, Lindarion, have walked the edge of memory. You carry the mark of a soul reborn."
Lindarion’s jaw tightened. He had not spoken that truth aloud, not to Nysha, not to the humans, not to anyone. Yet this entity named it without hesitation.
"Then you know why I am here," he said. "I need strength. Guidance. If the Tree deems me worthy, grant it."
The orb’s glow deepened, the patterns folding into spirals.
"Strength is not a gift. It is a burden. You have carried one life already and failed. You now carry another, bound by blood, bound by fate, bound by shadows unseen. Do you believe yourself capable of bearing a third weight, hers?"
The golden light flickered, casting vague outlines of the World Tree’s towering form, roots coiling like endless rivers.
Lindarion’s breath caught. He knew, it knew, Selene.
"...She is mine to bear," he said at last, voice cold but steady.
The orb thrummed, low and deep. "So you claim."
Ashwing piped up, almost defensively. ’He’s not lying! He always carries too much! He’s annoying like that, but he doesn’t quit!’
The orb regarded the small dragon for a moment before returning its focus to Lindarion.
"Your companion speaks with fire. Yet fire can consume as swiftly as it warms."
Its glow flared again, casting ripples across the chamber.
"Then hear this, son of Eldrin. The path you walk does not lead only to battle against Maeven, nor even the shadow of Dythrael. You stand at the root of something older. Something fractured. And the Tree remembers what the world has forgotten."
The roots around them stirred, shifting like the pulse of a colossal heart. The orb’s patterns slowed, steady as breath.
"You seek answers. You will have them, but only if you survive the descent."
Ashwing tilted his head. ’Descent? That doesn’t sound fun at all.’
The orb’s glow dimmed slightly, as though it smiled in silence.
"The descent begins now. Step forward, Lindarion Sunblade. Prove you can bear not just your past, but the weight of what was lost before you."
The ground rumbled. A path unfurled ahead, roots splitting to reveal stairs carved into the earth, spiraling downward. The air that rose from below was older, thicker, rich with mana so pure it made his skin prickle.
The orb hovered above the passage, waiting.