While Elian was still struggling inside the first trial, facing the Tunnel of Guilt, Arthur—who remained trapped in that nowhere-between-worlds—was beginning to feel impatience corrode his calm. The silence of that space was not comforting—it was a heavy, smothered silence, one that seemed to have weight of its own, pressing against his ears and chest.
He looked at the entity that had brought him there. The owl remained motionless, perched atop an ancient stone column, its thin talons gripping the marble like blades driven into flesh. Its golden eyes were an inverted abyss—bright, but without warmth, as if every glint in them were nothing but a cold calculation.
"What are you really?" Arthur asked, breaking the silence with his deep, distrust‑laden voice.
"Me? I'm an owl," it answered without a shred of inflection, as if the question bore no weight or importance.
Arthur frowned.
"I can see that," he replied, impatience slipping into his tone. "I want to know if you're a god, a demon, or… whatever else you might be."
"Something like that," the owl answered in such a neutral way it was impossible to tell whether it was being honest or merely shortening the conversation.
Arthur realized he wouldn't get anything more about its true nature. Still, the doubt grew. He could not shake the feeling that this creature might be using his son for some obscure purpose—or worse, simply amusing itself with his suffering.
The thought wasn't irrational. Even for someone who knew magic was real, accepting that death was not the end required a leap of faith. Arthur was not exactly an atheist, but he had always been a skeptic. Being here, in front of that being, proved to him that souls went somewhere after death… but it also reminded him that not every "somewhere" was paradise.
He had always believed magic to be something natural—a current running through the world and its people, independent of any god's will. And if a god did exist, then why did it remain silent before hunger, torture, and senseless deaths? Why not intervene to save the innocent? Where was such a god when children were ripped from their mothers' arms?
Now, however, even after his own death, Arthur faced the fact: there was something greater. Call it god, spirit, or demon… the thing before him had power. And, whether he liked it or not, it had granted his last request—to speak with Elian one final time.
Perhaps, he thought, judging this entity was not his task. Time would tell whether it was a guide or an executioner.
He decided to set aside his questions and focus on what truly mattered: understanding what was happening to his son.
"What exactly is happening to him?" Arthur asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the owl.
"He is passing through the first sphere," it replied, tilting its head slightly. "The Sphere of Guilt."
"And what exactly are these spheres you keep talking about?" Arthur pressed, glancing at Elian, whose body, bound by black roots, trembled faintly.
"Kabbalah," the owl said, with the ease of one naming something far too ancient to explain. "It is a system from the Judeo‑Christian mysticism of the land he comes from."
The words "the land he comes from" echoed in Arthur's mind. He wondered where that world was… or even that universe. But as if sensing the direction of his thoughts, the owl deliberately ignored them and continued.
"In your world, you know the three great Orders, don't you?" Arthur simply nodded.
"Each of them is based on this system… or variations of it."
Its wings opened slightly, almost as a teaching gesture.
"The Golden Dawn follows the Tree of Life, Sephiroth. Their practitioners do not seek only power or knowledge; they strive to become perfect reflections of the order that sustains all things."
It began to walk along the stone ledge, talons clicking softly against the surface, and went on:
"The Tower of Wisdom represents pure magic. Their goal is not spiritual ecstasy, but the overcoming of physical, mental, and even temporal limitations. They want to transcend human frailty—perfect memory, extended life, mastery over the forces that shape destiny."
Arthur listened, absorbing every word, though never quite letting go of a guarded reserve.
Then the owl stopped, half‑turning, as if awaiting the next question.
"And the Dark Throne… practitioners of the Qliphoth?" Arthur frowned. "What is it they seek, given that they are known as battle mages?"
The mages of the Dark Throne specialized in combat magic. They were trained from a young age, entering the Arcane University around twelve to fifteen years old. But that was a subject for another time.
The owl leapt down to the ground in a soft landing.
"Yes, they are known as battle mages, but that is consequence, not essence. They live in constant inner war, and thus adapt better to the outer one. That does not mean they are good or evil… only that they walk a different path."
It approached the great black tree, whose roots pulsed slowly as though breathing, and concluded:
"The Qliphoth is a system in which the practitioner confronts their own shadows. With each tunnel, they dismantle the masks they created to survive. They seek absolute mastery over themselves and, above all…"—it lifted its head, golden gaze fixed on Arthur—"…to assimilate and transcend spiritually."
Its feathers shifted, turning entirely white. With a beat of its wings, it rose to the top of a tall column and from there looked down, an unmoving sentinel.
Then a different sound broke the weight of the silence.
Arthur turned—and saw.
Elian, still bound by the roots, moved. A tremor ran through his body, as if he were emerging from a nightmare. His breathing was short, uneven. From the dark hollows where his eyes had been, a thick black liquid streamed, staining his pale face.
Arthur ran to him.
And in that instant, it mattered little whether the body before him looked like Elian or Rodrigo. It mattered little the age, the shape, or the shadows clinging to him. He was his son. He always would be.
Even if his soul bore more years and scars than Arthur had ever lived… he was still the boy Arthur had raised.
And nothing in this world—or any other—would change that.
Arthur knelt down beside his son.
"Dad?" whispered Elian, recognizing his presence.
"Yes, son, it's me," replied Arthur. "How did it go? How was it going through those tunnels?"
Arthur's voice held more urgency than Elian's. He wanted to know what his boy had faced, what he had seen, what he had felt. He was still the protective father—perhaps now even more so, weighed down by the grief of knowing he could no longer share in his son's life.
Before Elian could answer, the owl descended from the column above, cutting cleanly through the space between father and son.
"The first tunnel has been conquered," it said—not with ceremony, but with a clarity that carried more weight than celebration ever could. "But do not be deceived, Elian. What you have gained is no prize. It is a burden shaped into a weapon."
It stepped closer, lowering its head until its beak almost touched his chest.
"What Quli'elfi tried to strip from you has been transformed. The pain and guilt that once dragged you down have now formed a seal."
The owl lifted its left wing. Between the feathers, a black spark of light pulsed once before vanishing, swallowed by the air itself.
"This is the Gift of Vigilance," it declared, the voice resonating inside Elian's mind. "It is carved into your soul, not your flesh. As long as it remains, you will feel the weight of what you have seen and done. There is no forgetting. No reprieve."
"What exactly is the Gift of Vigilance?" Elian asked, eyes fixed on the fading glimmer that seemed to linger in the bird's feathers.
The owl studied him in silence for a long moment, as if measuring whether he was ready for the truth. Then it spoke:
"You crossed the Tunnel of Guilt and were not consumed by Quli'elfi. For that, you now bear what few could endure. From this moment on, your mind will not bend so easily to illusions, manipulations, or fear. You have already faced your most intimate terror—the reflection of your own guilt."
It tilted its head, golden eyes catching the dim light.
"When you call upon this gift, your eyes will burn with deep gold, and for one instant, the world will yield to you. An instant long enough to notice what others cannot, to sense the weight of hostility before it shows itself. It is the watch that never sleeps, the foreboding that walks ahead of you."
A cold current of air slid between them, and Elian felt something in those words burrow deep into his soul.
"But the Gift of Vigilance can also wound," the owl went on, lifting the other wing. The air grew heavy, dense with memories not all his own. "You may hurl your pain like an invisible blade—an unseen wave that forces others to taste what you have tasted: the loss, the shame, the crushing weight. The weak will break, the strong will falter, and creatures that feed on fear will burn under the memories you have turned into a weapon."
It slowly lowered its wings, as if closing an invisible book.
"There is a price. There always is. Use it too often, and cracks will open in your own mind. The ghosts you force outward will find their way back in, feeding on you. And the stronger the heart you try to shatter, the deeper the echo will return."
Silence hung between them, heavy as stone, before the owl spoke again:
"The Gift of Vigilance is not only a shield or a sword. It is a mirror. And mirrors… always return what they show."
Elian let the words settle like brands pressed into his thoughts. He could still feel their echo throbbing inside him, as though the gift had already sunk its roots into his being.
"So… it's an ocular magic?" he asked quietly, almost reverently.
"Exactly," the owl confirmed with calculated coldness.
An ocular magic… the thought sparked a faint light in the fog of his exhaustion. He began to imagine ways to wield it—not only to survive, but to protect, perhaps even to ensure the past never repeated itself. But before the thought could grow, the owl's voice sliced through it like a blade:
"It is time for you to return. Your time here is over… and you have fulfilled your first role."
The words were final, like the closing of a door he would never reopen.
Only then did Elian realize he didn't know how long he had been here. Minutes? Hours? Days? This place existed outside of time—and yet he felt he was leaving too soon.
But what burned in him more than the shock of departure was sadness. Deep, heavy sadness that seeped into old cracks like freezing water. He didn't want to go. Not yet. Because part of him feared what he would find upon opening his eyes… and another part knew he was leaving something behind.
The owl stood motionless, simply watching. Then Elian felt another presence draw close. When he turned, Arthur was already there, just a few steps away. His face carried that same trace Elian had known since childhood—the steady strength of a man used to bearing more than he should. But now there was something else: the awareness that this would be their last meeting.
For a long moment, neither spoke. They only looked at each other.
Elian tried to etch every detail into memory: the slightly tousled brown hair, the golden gleam in his eyes, the way Arthur stood straight even when pain was plain to see. He wanted to remember him like this—strong, present, unwavering.
Arthur was the one to break the silence.
"Looks like our time is up, son."
Elian's chest tightened. Son. The word sounded different now—weighted with the meaning of an entire life condensed into a single moment.
"I… I don't want to leave yet," Elian murmured, voice unsteady. "I don't want to leave you here."
Arthur drew a deep breath, heavy but softened by a faint smile.
"You don't have a choice, Elian. You still have much to live for. And much to protect."
Silence pressed down again, but Arthur stepped forward, gripping his son's shoulder firmly.
"Listen to me… stop blaming yourself. I know you think you're responsible for everything, but life… life is more cruel and more complex than that. You don't control it all. No one does."
Elian dropped his gaze, but Arthur lifted it back up, holding his chin.
"Take care of your mother," he said, his voice deep and deliberate. "She's stronger than she looks, but she carries wounds you can't see. Protect Manu—she still believes in the world, and she'll need you to keep that light from dying. And Anthony… he bears the weight of being the oldest, but he's still a boy. Support him. Teach him. Be there for him in the ways I no longer can."
Each name was an anchor sinking into Elian's heart.
"Don't let guilt blind you to what you have now," Arthur went on. "And don't fight only for revenge. Fight because there are things worth protecting."
His fingers tightened slightly on Elian's shoulder, as if to hammer the words into him forever.
"That's my final order to you."
Elian's throat closed. He wanted to speak, but nothing came. In the end, he simply stepped forward and embraced his father tightly, as if he could hold him here for just a few moments more. Arthur returned the embrace, firm and sure, and for an instant, Elian caught the familiar scent of wood and earth—like the days when his father came home from work.
When they pulled apart, Arthur's smile remained—sad, but proud.
"Now go, son. And live."
The light around them began to distort. Arthur's figure unraveled, like sand carried off by the wind. Elian kept his eyes fixed on him until the last grain was gone.
When Arthur vanished completely, only his voice remained, echoing through the void:
"I will always be with you."
It sounded distant, yet everywhere at once—threading through flesh, memory, and soul.
The owl slowly folded its wings, the soft rustle of feathers like the closing of an old book. Its golden eyes stayed locked on Elian, reflecting not only farewell, but the weight of what was yet to come.
"It is time," it said—not a summons, but a sentence that could not be delayed.
The ground—if there even was ground—began to give way in silence, dissolving into a whirl of shadow and light. A cold wind rose around Elian's legs, pulling him down, while Arthur's image receded—not through space, but through the closing gap of time itself.
The world swallowed him back, and the last thing that remained was Arthur's promise, still vibrating inside him like an eternal vow.