The Crossroads of Odysseys
Chapter 28: The Crossroads of Odysseys
Fascinated and awestruck, he found himself walking towards the shimmering rifts. Each step he took seemed to sync with the slow, deep pulse of the wooden room, a rhythm that felt like the heartbeat of the world itself. His mind was a whirlpool--was it fascination or hope driving him? He couldn't tell. All he knew was that he felt awfully drawn to the phenomenon, pulled by an invisible string tied to his very core.
Cautiously, he arrived at the base of the altar-like elevation. From here, he could see them clearly. Suspended in the still air just above the platform, they were like glowing doorframes without doors, two perfect circles of shimmering energy. They hung there not as mere objects, but as pronouncements, as if their very existence was a law of nature that could not be challenged. They emanated a palpable pressure, a silent, thrumming force that seemed to both repel and attract everything in the chamber, holding the air itself in a tense, quiet grip.
Are those passageways? he wondered, his gaze locked on the swirling light. Where do they lead? Or are they choices? Do I have to pick one?
It felt like a riddle, and dread began to creep up his spine. He knew from brutal experience that any phenomenon from the Soul Tree was inherently dreadful and horrifying. There was no way this one was different. A cowardly part of him suggested he just wait here until his body woke up in the real world—maybe when Tiffany slammed into his room, his consciousness would snap back. But that was a huge gamble with terrible odds. Last time, the Tree had manipulated his body, moving it without his consent. It could easily do the same again. Didn't that mean he was trapped, forced to make a choice between these two doors?
Ugh, he groaned inwardly. I really could have just slept.
And there were no guidelines, no helpful instructions to refer to. How cruel. Well, he had to make a choice. He wasn't going to be imprisoned here for the rest of his life, letting some colossal fiend toy with his body like a puppet. Yet, he still felt a deep, primal reluctance. Who knew what fresh damnation awaited beyond those ethereal doors? But the alternative was worse. He couldn't give up his freedom. That was the one thing he lived for, the only thing that was truly his in the bewildering chaos his life had become.
Steeling himself, he cautiously climbed the altar elevation. The hard, polished wood felt cool and unyielding beneath his bare feet, its smooth surface etched with faint, swirling patterns that seemed to drink the blue-black light. Now standing level with the rifts, he could feel their energy washing over him in ripples. It was a strange sensation, like static electricity mixed with a deep, gravitational pull.
"Man, they're both giving off seriously eerie vibes," he muttered under his breath. "How am I supposed to pick one?"
He wished his inner voice, that other part of himself, was still active. It was always better at this sort of thing. As if in response to his thought, a change began in the chamber. Faint, shrill whispers started to encircle the room, too fragmented and inaudible to understand. The cathedral-like center began to pulse more rapidly, its light shifting and fluttering like a distressed heart. The very walls of the room convulsed. The intricate wooden designs twisted and morphed, shaping into visages of different faces, their mouths agape, screaming in silent, inaudible terror. It was like a high-pitched note felt rather than heard, a wave of psychic distress.
Terror and sheer fear shot through him. Had he triggered this? Whatever was about to happen, he knew with cold certainty it wasn't going to be nice. Not exactly a memorable experience, he thought with a spike of sarcastic panic.
Then, from the cacophony of shrill whispers, a single, bold voice thundered forth. It was not a sound that traveled through the air, but one that manifested directly inside his skull, layered with the weight of epochs and the cold authority of stone. It spoke with a grand, scriptural cadence, like a high priest reading an excerpt from a forbidden tome.
"O Nameless One," the voice boomed, its tone resonant and final. "A man traversed the desolate, flaming ruins of the fallen City of Eden, paving through it like a burning light illuminating a world remembered only in smoke and debris. He stumbled upon the vastness of the towering monolith of withered souls. Boundless, he unraveled the sealed and forbidden mysteries behind its grand descent, and the Hand Eternal, haloed in seven stars of the Divine Angel of Miracles. He encompassed the truth behind it, enforcing it within Thy Domain... a halo among the sanctities of the Revered Divine. Scrupulous and audacious... a threat to the grand scheme of things."
What in the hell was that? The words were like jumbled puzzles to him. He knew he had stumbled upon the great tree, and yes, out of sheer, stupid curiosity, he had discovered memories that almost cost him his sanity. It wasn't like he had done it gloriously, as the voice so grandly exaggerated. And he never knew the giant, radiant hand belonged to some "Angel of Miracles." A cold knot tightened in his stomach. Why couldn't he shake the feeling that he had, entirely by accident, kicked a hornet's nest on a cosmic scale? The attention of something so far beyond his mortal scope was the last thing he wanted. Panic set in, a sharp, cold sensation that made his heart hammer against his ribs and his breath come in short, shallow gasps. He was in over his head, drowning in a ocean he never knew existed.
The voice bellowed once more, its pronouncement absolute. "Now before you, O Mortal of Audacious Fate, lie two odysseys at the end of paths. The Odyssey of Ascension to the right. The Odyssey of Oblivion to the left. Choose, O Mortal, watched by the Divine, the fragile fate of yours."
As abruptly as it began, the voice ceased. The whispering faces faded back into the wood, the pulsating light slowed to its original rhythm, and the crushing pressure in the air vanished. A wave of sheer relief washed over him, so potent his knees felt weak. But it was quickly followed by a heavy dismay. The silence felt heavier now, laden with the significance of the choice he had to make.
Wow. That was some huge information dump. One that carried both dread and truth. First, he was being watched by the Divine. That was catastrophically bad news. The last thing he had ever wanted had finally happened. Second, this was it--the crossroads. The Tree was giving him a choice, a chance to steer his own fate, however fragile it might be.
But now wasn't the time to hesitate. The path to "Oblivion" died the instant he realized he was in the sights of something so powerful that the mere memory of its seven-starred crown had almost unmade him existentially and mentally. There was no normalcy for him, not anymore. There never really had been. The only choice left was the Odyssey of Ascension.
To the right.
Wait, no, it was to the right, you dummy, he corrected himself, a faint, hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. He never knew the great tree had it in it to grant him such a path. Guess it wasn't always about the terror, he muttered inwardly. But a doubt nagged at him: how great could this power possibly be to shield him from the wrath of something that Divine? He seriously doubted the tree possessed such capabilities. But well, it was worth a try. It was the only option that didn't end in silence or servitude.
"Time to embrace the abnormality," he whispered into the quiet, echoing Tiffany's words with a heart heavy and laden with fear, dread, and the faintest, most desperate prayers of hope. For he knew not what lay beyond the veil he was now walking towards.
The presence of the right-hand rift was intimidating, a silent maelstrom of potential. He heaved a shaky breath as he stood directly before it, his body screaming at him to turn back. Why the hell was he so hesitant? This was it. Power. Glory. Freedom. He repeated the words like a mantra to his subconscious, trying to manufacture a confidence he didn't feel, trying to half-convince a mind that had suddenly, traitorously, begun to see the cowardly appeal of Oblivion.
This is freedom, he told himself, the thought feeling both empowering and terrifyingly fragile. This was his choice. To fight back.
He took a step forward. Yes. Just two steps remained to cross the threshold. Two steps.
"Xiall..."
He took another step, and his foot kicked against a protruding root he hadn't seen. With a startled yelp, he stumbled forward, his arms flailing in a wild, useless attempt to stabilize himself. There was no grace, no heroic leap--only a clumsy, absurd trip. His brain barely had time to process the fall before he was pitching face-first into the dark, shimmering surface of the rift.
The world twisted, turned inside out, and went dark.
The first thing that greeted him was the scent. A thick, coppery, rusty smell that hung heavy in the air. He opened his eyes, his vision blurred. His face was pressed into the earth. The air smelled of rotting matter, a pungent odor underlying the metallic tang. He felt a strange, warm moisture seeping into the fabric of his clothes, slickening his hands. He pushed himself up and looked down.
His hands were dyed a deep, vivid crimson.
He looked back at the ground where he had lain. It was soaked through, a saturated bog of scarlet mud. The familiar, iron-rich stench stung his nose, undeniable and horrifying.
It was blood...
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