The Scene, Woven Anew
A voice, cold and final, echoed in the void. "The third trial starts now."
The world of snow and wrath began to unravel like a forgotten dream. The gluttonous leader, bound fast in ropes of shimmering soul, could do naught but glare at Ryan, his eyes coals of hatred. "You have bested me, Ryan," he spat, "but know this: there is a version of you, more powerful than you can fathom, who will be your end!"
Ryan met his gaze, and in his own eyes was not fire, but the steady, cold light of stars. "They will all share your fate," he said, his voice quiet yet absolute. He turned his face to the vanishing mountain for the last time, and a crack appeared in his resolve. "Sora," he whispered to the wind, "for the first time in an age, my heart wished to stay. To know another. But I could not save you. Forgive me. I will carry your memory into eternity."
And then, the snow was gone.
Ryan's eyes, strained from the dying light, fluttered open. He beheld a sight that stole his breath. No longer in a world of white death, he stood in a jungle of impossible life. But these were no ordinary trees. They were Trees of Soul, their trunks the colour of beaten gold, their leaves shimmering crystals of emerald and jade, humming with the quiet music of countless lives.
Hesitant, Ryan reached out and laid his palm upon a nearby tree.
At once, his soul flowed into the wood. A vision flooded his mind: the memory of a stranger. A babe's first cry, a boy's laughter, a man's proud stride, a wedding vow, the joy of a child in his arms… and then, a gentle end. The memory was not his own, yet he felt its truth as keenly as his own heartbeat.
He pulled his hand back as if burned. "What sorcery is this?" he breathed. "The memory of a life I never knew... What world have I entered?"
He ventured deeper, past trees of vibrant green and fiery red, until he saw it: an ancient tree, stark and alone. Its bark was black as a starless midnight, a void amidst the brilliance. Drawn by a morbid pull, Ryan touched it.
He was plunged into the life of a noble lord—a youth of steel and discipline, a man of love and legacy, a slow decline into aged frailty, and the final, quiet surrender of death. When Ryan stumbled back into his own mind, he fell to his knees, gasping. The weight of seventy years pressed upon his spirit; he felt hollowed, his own life-force dimmed by the echo of another's.
"This place... is it a vision? Or the true afterlife, where lives are born and end?" His face was a map of confusion. "But of course... the power of the one who brought me here... it surpasses even this."
He pressed on, understanding dawning. The height and hue of each tree spoke of the life it contained—long or short, vibrant or weary.
Then, he came upon a clearing. A place of bare earth where no tree grew. And there, upon the ground, a figure lay sleeping.
"Who rests in the heart of the afterlife?" Ryan wondered, his hand tightening on his weapon. "Is it a reflection of myself? Or a guardian beast?"
Cautious, he approached and reached out to touch the slumbering form.
The figure awoke.
A voice, thick with the dust of eons, slithered into his mind. "I am with you."
Before Ryan could react, the figure stirred, casting off its simple blanket. A force like a mountain gale erupted, hurling Ryan backward through the air. He landed hard, his bones ringing. The figure, still lying with its back to him, spoke again, slow and dripping with menace. "You fool. How dare you interrupt my slumber?"
He was turned, not by his own will, but by an unseen hand of wind, forced to look upon the sleeper's face.
It was a boy, pale and gaunt, with hair the colour of ash and eyes like a winter fog. He looked weary unto death, fragile enough to snap in a breeze. But the face... the face was his own.
"Who...?" Ryan choked out. "Is that... me?"
The boy with Ryan's own eyes looked through him, a bottomless well of exhaustion and annoyance.
"Ryan," he said, the name a curse on his lips. "Would you be so kind as to perish? I have so little time left to sleep."The Confrontation, Woven Anew
Ryan stared at the gaunt, weary boy who wore his own face. The words of the gluttonous leader echoed in his mind. "So you are the one," Ryan said, the truth settling like a stone in his gut. "The version of me that can break me. You are my 'Sloth'."
The other Ryan did not stand. He did not even muster the energy for a proper glare. Instead, he let out a dry, hollow laugh that held no mirth. "Hahaha... I want only to sleep. Why did you have to come here? Why not go and shout your fury at some other tree? I am so very bored with it all. Go away. Let me sleep."
"Ryan, what in the hells are you saying?" the true Ryan roared, his voice raw with betrayal. "Stand up! Get ready to fight! If I break you, this trial ends, and I can claim the power for my revenge! You fool!"
"Revenge?" the slothful one repeated, as if tasting a strange and bitter fruit. "Revenge? Why would a person burden himself with such a heavy thing? Just sleep. It washes all those noisy thoughts away."
This apathy, this profound dismissal of the fire that had kept him alive, was the deepest insult. "Ryan, how dare you?" he screamed, his voice cracking with the memory of smoke and blood. "The Black Dragon Emperor's soldiers slaughtered our villagers! Our family! Everyone! And you do not care? I will kill you for this alone, god damn you!"
A sigh, long and weary, escaped the slothful one's lips. It was the sound of a man carrying the weight of all the worlds. "Ryan... you have truly and utterly destroyed my sleep."
There was no grand movement, no summoning of a great weapon. But in that moment, Ryan's own soul answered his fury. Six claws of shimmering, blood-red energy erupted from his hand—a weapon forged from his very vengeance. With a cry torn from his soul, he launched himself forward, a red comet of rage.
He never reached his target.
A wall of wind, silent and invisible, slammed into him. It was not the blow of a fist, but the indifferent force of a hurricane. It lifted him from his feet and threw him back through the air, crashing him against the trunk of a golden tree in a shower of shimmering leaves.
The slothful Ryan finally, slowly, sat up. He turned his grey, sleepless eyes upon his counterpart. For the first time, a flicker of something stirred within them—not anger, not hatred, but a deep, cosmic annoyance.
"Very well, Ryan," he said, his voice still a low monotone, yet now carrying a deadly finality. "Let us play this little game. After I have killed you... I shall sleep for a very, very long time."