God's Tree-Chapter 207: The Shape of Connection & The Cold World Without Magic

The forge was quiet.

No sparks flew. No hammer struck. No glowing metals boiled beneath spellflame or sacred rune.

And yet, Argolaith worked.

Not with fire, but with intention.

He stood at the center of the void-forge, holding only a single sheet of skybark parchment, its surface smooth as silence, untouched by ink or rune.

He whispered to it.

Not in words—but in memories.

Of the boy named Illen.

Of the broken world that healed with gestures.

Of the thousand planets that had taught him what people truly needed.

And the bark began to change.

Not visibly. Not with light.

But it responded—its surface rippling faintly, as if breathing for the first time.

Argolaith didn't draw on it.

He placed it flat on a floating slab of memory-stone and circled it.

He spoke softly to the forge itself:

"This isn't a weapon."

"This isn't a tool."

"This isn't something you use."

And still, he circled.

"This is something you share."

He gathered fibers of memory-thread from his ring—fragments of thread he had been gifted on the 14th world, from a people who wove their thoughts into fabric.

He wrapped them around the edges of the parchment. Not to bind it.

To invite.

Then, he opened his palm and whispered a rune of recognition.

Not power.

Not activation.

Just acknowledgment.

And into the center of the parchment, a small circle bloomed.

No glow. No heat. Just a space.

Empty.

But… ready.

He had created the Frame of Being.

A living page.

Not to write on.

Not to speak into.

But to sit between two people—and reflect who they are in each other's presence.

Not thoughts. Not emotions.

Not truths.

Only connection.

If two people sat before it in silence, it would shift color, pattern, shape—according to how they responded to each other's presence.

It would not speak.

It would not record.

But it would invite vulnerability.

Argolaith tested it.

He placed it before himself, and a lingering shard of a voice—recorded from a dying starborn on the 503rd world.

They had never spoken in life.

But their presence had touched him.

And when he sat down—

The page shimmered.

Soft gold lines curled across the parchment's center, weaving a symbol that had no name. It pulsed gently—like breath. Like yes.

It did not speak to the mind.

It spoke to the space between souls.

Argolaith carried it to the base of the Heartroot.

He knelt.

Placed the Frame upon the plinth of judgment.

And did not speak.

This time, he let the creation speak for him.

Let it simply be.

For a long moment, the Heartroot was still.

Then—slowly—its branches stirred.

A soft pulse echoed through the void, not loud, not bright. Just present.

Then, the voice of the tree came, deep and slow, carrying the weight of a realm:

"This is new."

"This is useful."

"And this… has never been made."

Argolaith closed his eyes.

The second trial—

was complete.

But the voice was not done.

"Rise, Argolaith."

"There is one trial more."

And his breath caught.

Because now…

The final trial began.

The Heartroot stood silent.

For the first time in centuries, Argolaith stood beneath it with nothing in his hands.

No artifact.

No rune.

No flame-wrought wonder.

Only the weight of everything he had become.

He had taught a thousand worlds.

Crafted something never imagined.

Carried time without aging.

Carried failure without faltering.

And now…

The Heartroot stirred.

The branches of the tree groaned—not in resistance, but in reverence. Leaves that spanned galaxies fluttered softly as if the entire realm exhaled.

And then the voice came:

"You have completed the second trial."

Argolaith remained still, listening.

"You have created what none before you could. You have endured what none before you dared."

The bark at the tree's base shifted.

Roots pulled apart, revealing a spiral stairway descending not into darkness—but into light.

Pale, endless light.

Not harsh. Not warm.

Just true.

And then the voice deepened.

"Your third and final trial is called…"

"The Path of Reincarnation."

Argolaith's breath caught.

But he didn't speak.

The Heartroot continued.

"Before you is the Stair of Rebirth."

"Each step will carry your mind into a new world—a new life."

"You will not remember who you are in those lives."

"You will be born anew in spirit, not body, to live as that world shapes you."

"You may be rich, or poor."

"Feared, or forgotten."

"Human, or something else."

"And only in death will your soul return… to take the next step."

Argolaith's fingers curled slightly.

"So… I won't remember this?"

"No."

"Not until the final stair."

"But everything you learn across those lives will still shape you. Your soul will grow, piece by piece."

He looked into the stairwell.

It shimmered.

Not with promise.

With truth.

And then, the question he feared most:

"How many steps are there?"

The Heartroot did not answer.

Only a long pause.

A breath of timeless space.

Then—

"You will know when you have reached the end."

Argolaith closed his eyes.

No beginning.

No middle.

No end.

Only life, again and again, until something more than memory remained.

And when he opened his eyes again—

They did not burn with fear.

They burned with quiet acceptance.

"Then I'll walk."

He took one last look at the vastness above—the forge, the void, the sacred tree.

And then, barefoot and unarmed, he stepped forward.

The light swallowed him.

And the final trial began.

He opened his eyes.

And for the first time in centuries… he didn't recognize the sky.

It was gray.

Featureless.

Sickly pale, like the color of dust swallowed by winter.

A thin layer of ash drifted through the air, silent as sorrow.

He was a child.

Seven—maybe eight.

His limbs were thin, malnourished.

He wore a uniform. Coarse fabric. No shoes.

He looked around.

Endless rows of metal buildings rose from the ground like gravestones. Windows glowed not with firelight, but with flickering screens that hummed softly.

No stars. No sun.

Only the drone of distant engines, and the cold white glow of artificial moons hanging in static orbit.

What is this place?

But he did not remember the Heartroot.

He did not remember his name.

Not Argolaith.

Not the trials.

Only a vague feeling in his chest, like a longing that hadn't yet learned what it was missing.

He lived in a structure called Sector Dorm 17-B.

Assigned unit: 143.

He was known as "Unit Boy." No one used real names anymore.

They had been stripped for "efficiency."

He was fed nutrient paste from tubes. Schooled through headsets. Punished for asking questions.

Magic did not exist here.

Wonder was forgotten.

The people around him moved like ghosts—efficient, cold, obedient.

But sometimes… he looked up at the gray sky and felt something ache.

One night, while sweeping the hallway floor, he came across an old maintenance bot, half-buried in rubble.

Its eye flickered weakly.

"Malfunction… 72% systems offline…"

He didn't know why, but he knelt beside it.

Touched its metal plating.

Not with curiosity. Not with pity.

Just presence.

"Do you want to wake up?" he asked it, not expecting an answer.

The bot clicked. Whirred.

Then, faintly: "Yes…"

He returned each night with scraps.

Wires. Energy cells. Repaired plating.

He had no tools, no manuals—only instinct.

But his hands remembered things his mind had forgotten.

And after weeks of quiet work, the bot sat up fully, its eye glowing blue.

"You are… kind," it said.

"No one's said that in a long time," the boy whispered.

They sat there in silence.

Word spread.

Unit Boy was strange.

He asked broken machines how they felt.

He made contraband drawings of trees, even though he'd never seen one.

He gave part of his food ration to a dying bird no one believed existed.

He was wrong.

He was unfit.

But slowly…

Others began to sit beside him.

One by one.

Not because they understood.

But because he didn't need them to.

And somehow… that was enough.

He grew.

Not in strength. Not in power.

But in presence.

The world around him remained bleak, uncaring.

But he became a flicker of warmth in a place that had long since forgotten how to feel.

And when his body, old and fragile at last, finally faded beneath the cold light of the artificial sky—

He smiled.

Because in the final moments of that life…

He remembered nothing.

But he felt everything.

And then—

The light returned.

He stood again, older in soul, not body.

Before him: the next stair.

The next life.

And he stepped forward.