God's Tree-Chapter 176: The Flame Within the Mirror

Twisted. Burned.

His armor was blackened and cracked, his eyes glowing gold, and his hands—

This 𝓬ontent is taken from fгeewebnovёl.co𝙢.

They held a torch.

The other Argolaith turned slowly.

Smiling.

The real Argolaith took a step back instinctively. The air smelled of blood and scorched memory. The heat clawed at his skin like angry hands. But it wasn't the fire that made his stomach twist—it was the faces.

The villagers.

Children.

Elders.

Even Athos—

All of them were running from him.

Terrified of him.

"No," Argolaith whispered. "This isn't real."

The other Argolaith spoke, his voice layered with static, as if a thousand echoes shared the same throat.

"It doesn't have to be real to be true."

Argolaith gritted his teeth. "This isn't who I am."

The reflection stepped forward, the fire never dimming in his palm.

"But it could be."

He raised the torch.

And from the earth, flames obeyed.

The burning version of himself wasn't an illusion—not in the same way the village had been. He moved with intent, his feet breaking the stone beneath him with each step.

And the fire… it knew Argolaith.

It reached for him like a lost limb, licking at his boots, searing the air around his shoulders. It did not try to consume. It tried to claim.

Argolaith drew his sword, the edge gleaming despite the smoke. "I don't burn for you."

His doppelgänger laughed, and the world shook with it.

"But you could. All it would take is one moment. One mistake. One choice."

"You want power."

"You want to protect."

"You want to survive."

The fire swirled around him, forming a ring.

"So burn it all."

The illusion closed in.

Buildings fell in fiery ruin.

Villagers screamed.

Kaelred, charred and coughing, appeared beside a crumbling wall. "Why, Argolaith? We followed you!"

Malakar stood frozen in firelight, flesh flaking from bone, violet flame fading from his eyes. "I believed in you."

And Thae'Zirak lay in pieces near the well, wings burned to ash.

It wasn't real.

But the guilt was.

Argolaith stood still, gripping his sword.

The rune on his arm blazed white-hot, fighting the illusion now.

His voice cut through the fire like a blade. "I won't become you."

The false Argolaith smiled—softly this time. Sadly.

"Then prove it."

And he vanished—leaving only the torch, still burning, still upright in the scorched earth.

The world paused.

Smoke stilled.

The fire froze mid-flicker.

And the torch waited.

If he took it, the illusion would end.

If he walked away, it might consume what was left of the vision behind him.

A test of restraint.

A trial of will.

Argolaith stepped forward, blade in one hand, firelight dancing in his eyes.

He reached for the torch.

And with a breath, he snuffed it out.

Argolaith collapsed to his knees.

The fire was gone. The illusion shattered. The twisted version of himself, the burning homes, the screams—they vanished like smoke in the wind. Only silence remained, thick and cold.

He was back in the canyon.

The stone was solid beneath him. The runes on the ground had dimmed to soft embers, and the air felt heavier—like the world had been holding its breath.

Malakar stood just beyond the trial's circle, his expression unreadable.

Kaelred knelt beside him, gripping his shoulder. "Hey… you're back."

Argolaith didn't speak right away.

He could still smell the smoke.

The masked figure stood in the center of the circle, the Sentinel of the Folded Roots, its porcelain face unmoving, its hands folded neatly at its chest.

"You have passed two veils," it said, its voice echoing within the canyon walls. "You have broken the illusion of comfort. You have resisted the seduction of destruction."

Argolaith rose slowly, the pain in his chest deeper than the bruises on his body.

"I'm still standing."

"Yes," the Sentinel said. "But the final veil is not about standing."

It raised a single hand.

And the runes flared once more.

Malakar stepped forward. "Wait—he hasn't recovered—"

But it was too late.

The world broke again.

Argolaith stood in a forest.

Not the Forsaken Forest. Not the land of the fourth tree.

A clearing, quiet and familiar.

The sky above was gray, the trees around him pale and twisted, and the wind did not blow.

There was no sound.

No animals.

No voices.

Just… emptiness.

And at the center of the clearing was a single gravestone.

Unmarked. Smooth. Black stone.

He walked forward slowly, swordless again, the rune on his arm cold.

When he reached the gravestone, he saw the truth:

It bore his name.

Argolaith.

And below it, in simple script:

"He tried. And it wasn't enough."

He turned—slowly.

And found himself alone.

No Malakar.

No Kaelred.

No Thae'Zirak.

No trees. No stars. No gods. No path.

Just the hollow wind that did not move, and the sky that did not weep.

The Sentinel's voice echoed, distant now.

"This is the fate you fear most. That you fail. That no matter what you give—what you endure—it won't be enough."

"That the ones you care for will vanish."

"That the world will forget your name."

Argolaith stepped away from the gravestone, fists clenched.

"Is this what you show everyone who comes here?"

"No," the voice answered.

"Most never make it this far."

A second grave rose behind him.

Then another.

And another.

Each with no name.

Each echoing the same hollow promise: They tried.

He fell to his knees again, hands pressed into the dirt.

The silence was deafening.

The isolation pressed like a weight on his chest.

But then—

He remembered.

Kaelred's laughter.

Malakar's voice in the dark.

Thae'Zirak's quiet presence by his side.

The scent of magic-infused herbs. The crackle of fire. The sound of steel meeting steel. The warmth of shared meals. The ache of exhaustion earned.

And the rune on his arm began to glow again.

Not gold.

But blue.