Elian crossed the third door without resistance.
There was no strength in his steps. No courage. Only the certainty that he had to keep going— even if each step felt like a nail driven into his flesh.
The tunnel ahead was unlike the ones before.
It was a forest.
But not a living one.
The trees were charred, their bare branches like twisted bones. The sky hung low, stained with a sickly gray. The ground cracked underfoot, as if he were stepping on ribs buried in cold earth.
He knew this place.
Even before seeing any sign, he knew exactly where he was.
The forest behind the house.
The place where Arthur died.
The smell was the same as when he had run back to the farm alongside Elise— burned wood, blood, ash. The scent of losses he had failed to prevent.
The mist closed in around him.
And then, he saw it.
The body.
Not dead. Not yet.
Arthur.
Bound to a trunk with arms spread open, his face covered in bruises, clothes torn and stained with dried blood. Fingers broken at unnatural angles. His legs shook. There was a dark blotch on his thigh, and one knee was swollen like a purple tumor. The skin on his abdomen had been slashed, blood running in slow, reluctant trails.
Arthur still breathed.
Weak. Intermittent.
His head dropped forward with each involuntary spasm of the body. Rodrigo— or Elian— took a step forward. His mouth opened. But no sound came.
That was when he heard it.
"Do you see now?" a voice asked behind him.
Elian turned.
Luciana was there.
But not the gentle sister who had embraced him in the first trial.
Nor the steadfast figure who had guided him in the second.
This was another Luciana.
The one who had seen her own death with open eyes. The one who had trusted him. The one who had been left behind.
Her white dress was now stained with blood across the chest. Her eyes, once warm with tenderness, now burned with contained coldness— as though she had been waiting for this moment, holding it inside at unbearable cost.
"This is what you caused," she said, her voice low, steady. "One by one."
Arthur groaned in the background.
Elian tried to run to him, but the forest reacted.
Roots rose from the ground, snaring his ankles. Branches reached for his shoulders, his ribs, pinning him as if guilt itself had taken root and grown teeth.
"I tried to understand you," Luciana went on, stepping closer. "Tried to see the good in you. Tried to believe you were just lost. Just a broken boy trying to fix what was left."
She stopped two paces away.
"But no matter how many times I close my eyes… I still see it."
She raised her hand.
The air around them shattered like glass.
And the images came.
Maria screaming in childbirth, blood soaking the floor.
Rodrigo wielding an iron bar, crushing the head of a youth in an alley.
A child in the middle of a room, covered in blood, begging for mercy.
Luciana. On the floor. Eyes wide. Chest pierced. Mouth open, trying to say something— but only silence came.
"I died," she said. "And you… lived."
The ground beneath Elian's feet split open.
But he didn't fall.
He was bound.
Condemned to watch.
Arthur groaned again.
The man lifted his gaze with effort.
And for the first time… looked at him.
Not as a father.
Not as a victim.
But as a witness.
"You called him father," Luciana said. "But what did you do for him?"
The forest grew darker.
The sound of fire in the distance.
Explosions. Flames. Screams.
The farm burning.
Emanuelle hiding in the wreckage. Anthony trying to be strong. Maria too weak to stand, calling for her husband. Elise fighting. Marduk wounded. Everything collapsing.
Elian tried to scream.
To beg forgiveness.
To plead.
But the forest sealed his throat.
"You only arrive after it's over," Luciana whispered. "Always after. When it's already too late. When it's already irreversible."
She extended her hand.
And the world went dark.
Not night.
The total absence of light.
The darkness that comes when eyes are torn away.
And then, the pain came.
Not in the bones.
In the consciousness.
Rodrigo felt it.
Felt everything Arthur had felt.
Every snap. Every cut.
The sound of bone breaking. The taste of blood in the mouth.
The moment when you no longer know if you're alive or dead— but still hope, still wish, for your son to come.
And he didn't come.
He didn't arrive in time.
Luciana's voice came from afar, distant but clear.
"You let him die believing it was the end. That all of it had been for nothing."
Elian fell to his knees.
The roots still held him. But he no longer fought.
His eyes wept without tears.
His body folded forward.
His forehead touched the cold, damp ground.
"I'm not worthy of carrying his name…" he murmured. "I should have died. It should have been me. From the start. From Earth."
The whole forest listened.
"I was born of blood. I was made to destroy. And now… here I am again," his voice faltered. "And all of you… you paid for it."
Luciana looked at him in silence.
But not with pity.
With disappointment.
The forest began to close in around him.
The trees bent overhead.
Branches descended like hands about to crush.
And Arthur…
Arthur let out his final breath.
His eyes closed.
His hands fell.
His body collapsed like a broken promise.
Elian screamed.
And this time, sound came.
A muffled, fractured, shameful scream.
Not from someone calling for help.
But from someone who had already said goodbye to salvation.
★★★
The roots tightened around Elian, winding up his torso, squeezing the air from his lungs. Every breath felt like it tore a piece of his soul away.
Luciana— or something wearing her face— watched him. Then, slowly, her lips curved into a sadistic smile.
"Finally… you see?" Her voice was low but cutting. "You're a curse. Everyone suffers because of you. On Earth. Here. Always."
The roots pulled him lower. Elian could already feel the cold viscosity of pitch climbing over his legs.
"You were never meant to exist," the false Luciana leaned closer. "Let it take you. Don't fight. Sink."
The pitch rose to his waist, burning from within, shredding him like invisible blades. Memories splintered, faces vanished. He let it. He didn't fight.
Her smile widened as she watched him give in.
"That's it. Accept it. It's where you've always belonged."
The pitch climbed to his chest. The pressure of the roots increased. Elian closed his eyes.
That was when he heard it.
A distant voice, layered, as if coming from many places at once:
"Elian…"
The false Luciana flinched. Her smile faltered.
"Don't listen," she said, a mix of anger and urgency.
But he listened.
First, the real Luciana:
"Are you going to give up now, Rodrigo? Leave your new family to hand yourself over to pain? Did the first two trials mean nothing?"
The pitch stopped rising.
Then Maria:
"I remember the day you were born… the fear… and the joy. I remember the light that shone from you to Elise… and how it saved me from Death. You gave me the chance to keep living."
The roots trembled.
Then Emanuelle:
"Do you remember? In the Brumaria alley… you saved me. You stood in front of me and didn't let me die. You promised to protect me… and you did."
The pitch receded a few inches.
Finally, Arthur:
"Remember our talk, son. Remember how Maria smiled again because of you. How you protected Emanuelle. And remember… I am proud to have you as my son."
Elian's chest burned.
The accuser before him convulsed, her face twisted with hatred.
Elian raised his head. Even bound, his voice came firm:
"I can't give up on this life."
The roots tried to squeeze harder, but he pushed back against them.
"I can't give up on my family."
The pitch retreated further.
"I'll carry this guilt— but I won't be its prisoner."
And then, they appeared:
Luciana to his left; Emanuelle before him; Arthur to his right; Maria behind him. Each with a hand upon him— warmth, strength, presence.
"…If I give up now," Elian went on, "I'd be spitting on the chance Luciana gave me."
The accuser's body shuddered. Cracks split her skin, spilling pitch. Luciana's features tore apart, revealing something inhuman beneath.
What remained before him was no longer his sister.
It was Quli'elfi— a twisted body coated in pitch, skeletal wings, and countless eyes blinking out of sync. Teeth far too long for its mouth.
The creature screamed without sound— a roar of pure hatred.
Elian stepped forward. The roots crumbled to dust. The pitch tried to surge again, but burned at his touch.
"You don't take me," he said.
The ground beneath Quli'elfi opened. A bubbling sea of pitch swallowed her whole. She thrashed, clawing at the air, but sank quickly. Before disappearing, she cast him one last look of rancor.
The pitch closed over her.
The charred forest dissolved into mist, and the cold from the roots gave way to a still, heavy breeze. The dirt floor vanished beneath his feet, replaced by the cold, uneven stone of black rock.
When the mist fully cleared, Elian saw where he was.
The hall.
The same place where it had all begun.
The Tree of Sephiroth and the Tree of Qliphoth rose side by side, their branches and roots intertwined like an impossible pact.
The owl was there, perched on one of the columns, watching him with golden eyes. Arthur stood further back, gaze fixed on him— serious, but silent.
Elian lay on the floor, flat on his back, his body still heavy as though the pitch clung to his skin. His breathing was uneven. His chest burned. And deep in his soul, the mark of Quli'elfi seared, as if the demon had left a reminder never to be forgotten.
He knew he had won. But he also knew that victory erased nothing. It didn't wash away the blood, didn't undo the losses. It only made him capable of bearing them without breaking— for now.
The silence was not peace. It was an interval.
And above him, the two trees seemed to watch, as though the next tunnel was already waiting.