Damon slowly tore himself free from the vines that had pierced his flesh. Each pull left shallow wounds that stung as sap and shadow mixed along his skin.

He gasped softly, clutching his chest, his heart constricted in pain, the image of his mother's final expression burning in his mind.

He could still feel her anguish. Even knowing she wasn't real just an illusion didn't make it any easier. It had been the most beautiful illusion he'd ever known.

Above him, golden roots pulsed faintly as the tree freed his body.

Damon's eyes lifted to the wide lake spread before him. He didn't even remember crossing it, nor how he'd been taken into the tree's depths. Only that he had been in danger, and somehow his own mind had pulled him from the dream.

But the gaze was still there.

The entity perched among the crimson branches watched him silently. It had long fur and a vaguely human form, though its outline was blurred, as if backlit by a blinding light that hid its features.

Damon couldn't see its face, only the faint gleam of its eyes beneath the canopy.

They glowed faintly, like dying stars behind a dark veil.

"The prisoners of the Deep are worse than I've heard," the creature murmured.

Damon's gaze remained locked on it, his breathing steadying as his heartbeat slowed.

"May I ask you a question?" the creature asked softly.

Damon's thoughts were still scattered, half of him lingering in the echo of his mother's voice. Still, he answered.

"Go ahead. On one condition, you tell me something helpful in return."

The creature shifted slightly, its outline rippling like water before nodding.

"Very well. So be it."

It paused, then spoke again. "Why didn't you kill her? You knew she was a dream. Yet you chose to kill yourself instead."

Damon lowered his head.

"Even if she was born from my mind, that was still my mother," he said quietly. "And I would die a million deaths for her."

The branches rustled softly, as though the tree itself sighed. The creature's presence seemed to rustle with the leaves, reading his heart, his philosophy, his conviction.

"You didn't ask to be born," the entity continued. "It was her decision. She brought you into a world of suffering. Surely you must hate her most of all. Is that why you killed yourself, so she could watch her own child die?"

Damon gave a faint, tired smile and shook his head.

"I didn't ask to be born. But I was blessed to have her. That alone makes it worth it. I can't choose how I came into this world… but I can choose how I exist in it."

Silence settled again. The crimson leaves drifted down from above, landing softly on the still surface of the lake.

Damon waited, but the creature didn't speak further.

"Now it's my turn," Damon said quietly. "How do I undo the mechanism that locks the chains of the prisoners in the Deepest layer?"

The entity tilted its head, its glowing eyes narrowing.

"You already have," it replied after a pause.

"There is no key here. The way of passing is death. This is the Fifth Lock — the Lock of Self."

Its voice was husky, carrying an age-old loneliness. "You must awaken through sacrifice to pass. I am a prisoner here, as you were, but I am also this lock's warden. I am Root Ore."

Damon listened silently, his expression unreadable.

"We are all prisoners in Eidolon," the creature said. "And none of us can ever truly leave."

As it spoke, the air trembled. Damon heard it, the heavy fall of chains. The branches shuddered as massive links of metal slipped away from the tree's trunk, crashing into the dark waters below.

The chains that had once bound Damon and Lazarak, the chains that held them deep within the lowest realm were gone.

The first lock on their prison had been broken.

Damon felt something stir within him, a sweet release. His soul felt lighter, his strength flowing back like returning breath.

He glanced up through the falling leaves.

"If this is the fifth level, and you called it Self, then there must be four more above it each with their own key, their own trial."

"Yes," the entity said, its voice echoing like wind through the branches.

"But finding them… that is up to you."

Damon's expression didn't change. He had one more question.

"How do I reach the next level?"

The creature was quiet for a long moment, then answered simply, "The tree is the gateway."

Damon looked at it, confused. "The tree?"

"All you need do is touch it," the warden replied.

Damon's eyes were calm now. He'd endured ordeal after ordeal, and he had finally succeeded, freed himself, and broken the chains.

Still, one thought lingered.

"Is this what the old woman in the garden meant," he asked, "when she said, wake the one who slumbers?"

Root Ore tilted its head slightly. "I do not know. Each prisoner here follows its own design. I would not trust the words of any who dwell in this place."

Damon nodded. He turned slowly, walking back the way he'd come, his steps quiet and measured.

His heart was calm and heavy, but still. The ordeal had been grueling, yet strangely, he felt peace. That brief moment with her illusion or not had been worth everything.

Without his crown's protection, he had seen something true about himself.

He paused mid-step, then looked back toward the tree.

"Tell me," he said, his voice low. "Was she real?"

The entity perched above him was silent for a long while.

"I do not know," it said at last. "This place is deeply tied to the Metaverse. The roots of this tree reach into depths even I cannot fathom."

Its voice softened. "The mind is powerful. Reality and illusion are often the same thing separated only by belief. She is whatever you believe she is."

Damon smiled faintly, his expression calm. He nodded once to the warden to the prisoner who called itself Root Ore, guardian of the Fifth Door.

Then he turned, and walked toward the garden hunger.

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