A SEARING AGONY ignited within Maze's marrow, a hellish heat that transformed his veins into the flues of a stoked fire pit. Outside, his physical frame writhed in the grip of the ritual, but within the Phantasm, his soul plummeted through a void teeming with specks of colorful dust.
He was both burning and falling.
As he fell, the dust ceased to be mere light. The motes became a buoyant current, a swirling void that caught his weight to allow him to experience levitation. Even without his soul experiencing the incineration, his body inside the Chamber of Sanctum did so for him, like a split reality he was bound to harness. With him being anchored and having no choice but not to lose consciousness, he was both punished and blessed.
Then there came falling rocks from every direction, surging toward the center in front of Maze. While the observing soul had no choice but to watch, the stones collided and eroded against each other, with embers feeling like sparks made by fireworks. Boom! Boom!
With every collision, the entire space roared and writhed in tandem with his physical frame, as if producing sounds of terror and the otherworldly; the debris fused into a land with a flat surface and a deep, hardened foundation of soil beneath it that reached into the dark. The colorful motes clustered as Maze was subjected to draw nearer the landmass, until his feet met the cooling crust. He stood as a solitary subject upon an island in a deep space that abhorred him with chaos. Until the sound stopped resonating, and everything went still and quiet.
Just as Maze thought it had come to an end with peace, his body groaned and shook to the blistering pain, suffering a gruesome fatigue, as though he were about to lose his senses.
But slowly, something was blooming inside Maze's body, deep within his chest, like a beating whisper that was cold and restful. This cooling effect fluctuated and began to grow, and before he knew it, even when he did not want to cry, tears had begun falling on his cheeks. It was a feeling that was . . . healing him.
From his Vision, moss grew from the landmass and covered the surface, and the colorful specks of dust and space around the island were blanketed by a blackened sky. Even in that darkness, six stars appeared, not as sources of light, but as objects of guidance like stars in the night; without the presence of a moon, they surrounded a sun in the center, much bigger and more looming than them.
Soon, the incineration of Maze's body had ceased, as the cold was now enveloping him, yet not enough to freeze him to death, merely sufficing for his sweat to turn chilled as well. He still could not feel Vaelstrom's presence, but he was not lacking awareness that he possessed a physical frame, and his spirit was being birthed inside him, with his soul as the witness.
This . . . Maze went mum.
Beneath the surface, wooden, tentacle-like roots emerged and wreaked havoc, a violent tremor as if they were plowing the very ground. Crack, crack! At the center, others entangled with one another in an upward direction. At first, Maze had no inkling of the intent, but as he realized a trunk was being shaped, he now knew a tree was being born. The intertwining roots became smaller as they climbed, and without satisfaction, they stretched toward different corners to form branch after branch, leaving Maze bewildered by the view.
Then several pale green leaves began to sprout at the branches, with Maze unexpectedly coming to realize that he could count how many there were, as he could clearly measure about a hundred of them.
"Maze?"
The voice echoed within the landmass, causing a slight vibration.
That voice . . . It seemed familiar to him. Maze had a hunch of who the voice could be, and yet, when he looked around, he could not see anyone else within the expanse.
"Maze, this is Vaelstrom, can you hear me?"
He tried to feel his body and let his finger twitch a bit, and although still struggling, he responded: "Yes."
"Better." Vaelstrom sighed in relief before he knelt on one knee and scrutinized the relaxed body of the new Child. "I require your attention. Can you grant it?"
The body responded, "Yes."
"It is a trial at first, but soon, you shall master the art of governing your three-fold existence at once." Vaelstrom seemed to think for a moment. "For now, remain as observant as your replies allow, so we may determine the nature of your experience and glean wisdom along the way. Do you, er . . . copy?" There was slight tension evident in his tone.
"I copy."
With his soul now looking at the tree, Maze was hearing Vaelstrom as the sound of the wind brushing past him.
"Where do you find yourself right now?"
"I am on an island that floats in space. It seems that . . . there is a tree in front of me, which bears slightly transparent, glowing pale leaves."
"It is your soul space, Maze."
Maze was silent, as the wind talked again.
"A soul space is your inner world, and it reflects your essence entirely. Specifically, it is called a Soul Tree."
"Why . . . " Maze was hesitant. "Why Soul Tree?"
"Because it defines the very space itself. It is the tree which you are seeing right now. The roots, bark, and leaves, they are the structure of your soul. So . . . attend to me and answer: Is the color of your tree bark dark brown?"
Maze inspected the trunk for confirmation, and when he realized that indeed it was, he answered with compliance: "Yes."
"That is the color of your path."
Maze tried to make it make sense. "What exactly is a path?"
"A path is a road the Child can take to ascend and descend. In your case, as a Child of the Widower, and as a subject of the Tower of the Widower, you are treading a specific fate which aligns to your existence. Such fate is the Path of Orphanhood."
Orphanhood . . . It was something vague but also something understandable for Maze. It was solely due to the truth that the Tower is of the Widower. In terms of logic, a widow or a widower had the very fate of losing their loved one to death, and hence, becoming a victim of grief. The very same could be said of orphans, a child abandoned by a parent, experiencing the absence of parentage. Although facing separate tragedy, they shared the same grief: abandonment.
"As one who walks the Path of Orphanhood, you are identified as an Orphan. But this path, it is not your ascension path yet. You may call it as your descension path."
By that logic, it could only signify that he was losing something, if descension indeed functions as something that Maze knew of.
"Do I get to lose humanity?" he asked, at last.
"Hmm . . . Imagine a tightrope and you are walking on that. You take a path ahead, but you dread the fall. Then, what should you do? Stabilize your stride." Vaelstrom paused for a while. "There are many ways to seek equilibrium, but understand this: a Descension Path does not necessarily mean that you lose your humanity, although you can become a victim of corruption. Simply put, the color of the bark on your tree signifies what you can become, not what you are becoming."
"Then, is my path the path of the Widower?"
"No." It was a quick response from Vaelstrom. "The Towers have a maxim you must follow through and remember always, and that is: if one ascends, one also descends, and that is the philosophy of stability. Let it sink in within you like this . . . you ascend in power and, at the same time, descend to your true self. Which means that as you are an Orphan Child, you are a subject of an ascension similar to an orphan, and that is: Selfhood."
Ascension Path of Selfhood —that makes it more vivid. Clearly, there are other paths, but what makes the path that I tread special above the others? Like those from the towers yonder . . . As Maze wondered, he might need to recall the matters he learned and perhaps write them.
"Now that you have learned about your paths," Vaelstrom halted, "let us turn to the color of your leaves. Are they . . . er, pale green?"
"Yes."
"If the color of the bark determines your path, the color of the leaves determines your progress, Maze. The first of your progress is called Fertile. It is like a beginner's stage. Now, tell me how many leaves are there."
"A hundred."
Vaelstrom was not heard for several seconds, as if he had been shunned.
"Are you certain, Maze?"
He even sought to confirm the matter, and so Maze was somehow confused by the sudden reaction.
"I . . . am."
Vaelstrom cleared his throat. "It seems that it should have been Sir Azaniel to guide you here, so . . . " he heaved a sigh, ". . . let us stop at this point. Less knowledge is more knowledge for beginners, although I might say, you impressed me."
Maze looked at the tree and asked, "How do I get out?"
"Focus and open your eyes, and you will meet me eye to eye."
As Maze did as he was told, he did see Vaelstrom kneeling in front of him; but due to fatigue that caused his body to almost fall down and his sight to blur, he unintentionally leaned a hand against Vaelstrom's frame.
Rasping, he almost fainted!
"Let us get you to your own room first."
Vaelstrom pulled Maze up and supported his walking.
"Now that you are in your truest form as an Orphan, I am also welcoming you to our sect: the Sect of the Orphans."