The deeper we ventured, the more the forest rebelled against the idea of life.
Trees no longer just stood—they loomed. Their trunks were gnarled in twisted knots, as if writhing against some silent pain. Branches stretched like fingers reaching for salvation, only to be held in place by unseen chains. The very air pressed down on my chest, thick with the scent of damp earth, moss, and something burnt—ancient, like ash that had never quite finished falling.
Lira walked beside me, quieter than usual. Her eyes moved constantly, sweeping the gloom as if expecting something to leap out.
I didn't blame her. I felt it too.
We were getting close.
[System Notice: Echo Node Proximity – 87% Resonance]
The pull wasn't just directional anymore—it tugged at my chest like a magnetic thread wound through bone. I turned my head toward the pressure, and there—tucked between two ancient trees, their trunks coiled like serpents—I saw a barrier of blackened thorns.
No natural growth formed that. The thorns were too sharp, too deliberate. They bent in spirals. Symbols etched by life cursed to grow with intent.
Lira reached out and touched them gently. "It's like they're breathing…"
I stepped forward. "Let's see how well they breathe against decay."
A surge of crimson energy built in my palm as I activated Rot Pulse. Corruption flared along my arm, then leapt toward the barrier. The thorns shriveled on contact, wilting like salted slugs, collapsing into curling smoke and twitching fragments.
The wall parted. Behind it lay a grove.
No—an altar.
Crumbled. Desecrated. But still sacred in the way a battlefield is sacred. It sat in the center of the grove like a wound that never healed. Spiral markings had been carved into every surface, some faded, others sharp—fresh. Someone had been maintaining this ruin. Honoring it. Or corrupting it.
The stone platform at its center held a shallow basin.
Within the basin: fire.
A pale, silver-blue flame that danced with no fuel.
My chest ached.
'I've seen that flame before.'
The same flame from the first memory—the one burning in Seluriel's eyes.
[System Notice: Echo Node Detected – Activation Possible]
I stepped forward, slowly, reverently. Even the system's voice felt subdued, as if recognizing the weight of what lay before me. Lira stayed close, her eyes wide, breath shallow.
I knelt beside the basin and touched the stone.
[Memory Vision: Seluriel – Year 312 Before Spiral Fall]
The air smells of incense and cold metal.
Seluriel stands at the altar, unchained but not yet free. Her hands are bandaged. Her eyes carry the exhaustion of one who has fought too many battles without raising a blade.
Around her: acolytes in pale robes. They chant her name—not as worshippers, but as witnesses.
She speaks in a language I cannot understand, but I feel the words in my bones. Oaths. Promises. Grief.
She places her hand into the flame.
No scream.
No hesitation.
The fire engulfs her—and for a moment, her whole body shines.
The chains around her wrists crumble to dust.
The acolytes fall to their knees.
All but one.
A man in the back does not kneel. He stands tall, head bowed, face hidden behind a metal mask carved with the first spiral.
The memory ends.
I gasped, tearing my hand from the stone.
The flame in the basin danced higher now, reaching toward me like it knew me. Or remembered me.
[Echo Node Unlocked – Memory Flame (Seluriel's Uprising)][Resonance Increased: 42%][Memory Insight: The Spiral Cult originated from betrayal—not revelation.]
Lira knelt beside me, helping steady my shoulder. "What did you see?"
"She was... chosen. Not born divine. They gave her their trust, their hope."
"And someone took it from her," Lira whispered.
I nodded. "The Spiral wasn't always a curse. It was stolen. Twisted."
Lira looked down at the flame. "Then maybe it can be untwisted."
Maybe.
But my gut told me something else.
It wasn't just a matter of burning out the Spiral.
Something had to be restored.
Reignited.
I looked at the flame, and it flickered—once.
Then the wind carried it out.
Not extinguished.
Released.
"Come on," I said, rising. "The final node waits."
As we turned back toward the trail, the trees swayed despite the still air.
Watching us.
Not with fear.
With expectation.