The gentle wind rustles along the backs of the rocky hills, caressing the ancient stones with a false tenderness that masks the inevitable cruelty of time. Red dust crackles softly each time it is blown, creating a thin fog that covers the sky above a vast unnamed basin—a wound in the skin of the earth that never heals and stands as a silent witness to the passage of time.
At the edge of the yawning chasm, two figures stand.
The first wears a long black coat with tassels that have worn out from the journey of a thousand nights. In her eyes, there is no light—only a reflection of the world she once believed in. Hanging from her chest is an asymmetrical metal pendant, pulsing softly with a bluish light. She is Fitran Fate, the only one brave enough to step into a place that even history refuses to name. In silence, she feels the burden that cannot be contained in her heart—as if every step she takes is a sign from an unavoidable fate. Each gust of wind brings her back to bitter memories, reminding her of the world she left behind, a world that became the backbone of hope and emptiness.
Beside her stands another creature—tall, thin, and repulsive in her terrifying beauty. Her hair is long and white, as if time itself has surrendered to aging her. Her body is draped in a luxurious robe woven from flesh, threads of magic, and remnants of forgotten cruelty. Her eyes—three pairs, one in her forehead—gaze down into the chasm with a hunger wrapped in a blanket of laziness.
Beelzebub. The Predator. The Ninth Form of the Never-Full Stomach. In the dark aura surrounding her, she is not merely a terrifying creature; she is a reminder of human greed, of all that has been wagered in the pursuit of power. The cold air of the night wind seems to be a whisper from trapped souls, highlighting the departure of hope that has long been lost. With a cynical smile, Beelzebub fully understands who Fitran is—a person trapped between strength and vulnerability.
"So... this is Narthrador," Beelzebub says lightly, as if gazing at the ruins of a night market, not an ancient city full of curses.
Fitran is silent. She raises her left hand. In her grasp—covered by black Voidmark gloves—pulses a small artifact: Origin Code. A piece of the Gödelian Labyrinth, a symbol of an incomplete system, which can only be solved by something outside the system itself.
Amidst the roar of the wind battering the ruins, Fitran's heart beats faster, as if the artifact in her hand is sending direct signals into her being. She knows that in every pulse of light emanating from the Origin Code, there lies both hope and threat; an opportunity to understand what has been lost from her life, while also becoming a prison of what she cannot change.
The Origin Code glows. Lines of light spread to the ground, bouncing off debris, and redrawing the contours of the chasm. Slowly, the image painted beneath the dust fog becomes clear.
A large spiral staircase. Cracked pillars rising from the depths. A mechanical gate half-closed by stone. A giant gear symbol carved in the middle of the valley, resembling an eye that never sleeps. As she gazes toward the gate, the dark interlude in her mind is suffocating. How sad it is, this city is a remnant of glory now imprisoned in silence, like her memories trapped in shadows.
"Narthrador," Fitran finally says, her voice almost older than the air itself. "The city rejected by time. Created by humans, abandoned by machines. Now... the burial place of the only entity that might lead me to that memory."
In an instant, Fitran feels Beelzebub's sharp gaze, filled with cynical inclination. There is something within that demon that radiates a deep knowledge of unspoken sorrow; an experience that burdens every smile of hers, as if their existence is tied to the eternity of suffering. She knows, if Beelzebub had a heart, there would be emptiness there. Yet, they are both bound to a world that demands sacrifices beyond love or hope.
"Rinoa," Beelzebub whispers, grinning. "You still speak her name with despair. How sweet. You know, even her name tastes bitter on my tongue. She does not deserve to be the final destination. But, hey... who am I to judge love? I just consume it."
Fitran stares at her for a moment. In that gaze, there is a resurgence of determination that is almost imperceptible—a small light in the darkness. "Love is the only thing that can save us from madness," she murmurs in her heart, weaving hope from the fragments of her memory. Then she turns, beginning to descend the first step leading to Narthrador.
"I'm not here for love," she says softly. "I'm here... to touch one possibility—that meaning can be reborn, even from the machines that have rejected life."
The staircase is unstable. Its stones wobble, covered in metallic moss and mechanical dust. But with each step Fitran takes, it feels as if silence follows her, giving her space. Beelzebub floats lightly, her steps not touching the ground, yet each footfall leaves a trace of burnt magic in the air. Along the way, Fitran feels a weight in her chest, as if each step carries the heavy history buried within, reminding her of failures and unfulfilled hopes.
As they reach the bottom of the chasm, the sound of the world changes. The wind no longer blows. The sound of a heartbeat—not Fitran's—can be faintly heard.
It is an echo... from underground.
Before them stands a colossal gate as tall as a palace, closed with unknown metal. Its surface is adorned with rune patterns and magical circles, but none of it belongs to any culture. In the center is carved a single symbol: Fitran examines the symbol closely, trying to decipher the meaning behind it. She feels a deep calling from that place, like the voice of a forsaken soul, urging her to do something.
⊗
Not a cross. Not a zero. But something in between— a symbol of emptiness that reverses existence. "This is the Glyph Harmonic Seal," Beelzebub murmurs while touching the wall. "It will not open by force. Only by a will that can be attuned to the frequency of the city itself." Beelzebub's voice seems to carry an aroma of nostalgia, where Fitran feels bound to that monster, like two beings trapped in an endless cycle of time.
Fitran approaches. She presses the Origin Code against the symbol.
The runes glow. Numbers are etched in the air. A series of Gödel symbols appear like shooting stars in machine language: ∀x ¬Provable(x) ⇒ Exist(x)
The system tries to read Fitran's will, clearly felt in the pulse of her heartbeat. In her heart, there is a deep sorrow, a chasm of questions that crushes. What does all this mean? Is she merely a tool in a larger game, or is there a deeper meaning behind her quest? That unanswered question gnaws at her, like a reward that never comes, forcing her to reflect on the true purpose of her existence.
But nothing happens.
The gate remains silent.
Beelzebub raises her right hand. Her fingers move to form a rhythmic pattern. The sound... not magic, not language, but rhythm—hunger, vengeance, and hope that has turned into poison—fills the air.
The notes dance, touching the glyph.
The glyph begins to open.
In that instant, the gate groans. Metal shifts. The sound of creaking echoes like a lament from the grave of a failed world.
As the door fully opens, there is only darkness inside. No light. No lamps. But one voice emerges... from the air.
"Welcome, error."
Fitran looks at Beelzebub. "Did you make that sound?"
Beelzebub shakes her head. "Not me. That's the city's system. And they just called you an error."
Fitran steps into the darkness, penetrating the void. Her feet touch the first floor of the city buried by time. She can feel the remnants of life trapped in the falling dust. Memories linger, like shadows, haunting her steps.
On the walls, the symbol of Deus Ex Machina is faintly etched—a large circle surrounded by mechanical teeth encircling a blind eye, a symbol of the meeting between life and death. Here is where life meets machine, where the boundary between human and technology blurs, creating a tense paradox. Fitran feels the coldness of the metal, as if it holds secrets and memories of the past, dragging her into the depths of alienation and painful nostalgia.
Beelzebub whistles. "Beautiful. Full of rotten memories. I love this place."
Fitran does not smile. She has not smiled since that day.
For a moment, they just stand.
And then, from a distance, a sound is heard... click.
A mechanical sound. One by one,
Beelzebub whistles. "Beautiful. Full of rotten memories. I love this place."
Fitran does not smile. She has not smiled since that day. In the silence, she looks around, feeling the atmosphere seeping into every crack of the walls. Each tick of time seems to add weight to her shoulders, reminding her of the burden she must bear.
For a moment, they just stand.
And then, from a distance, a sound is heard... click.
A mechanical sound. One by one, ancient lights flicker on from the floor, guiding them like blood beginning to flow in a dead body. For a moment, Fitran imagines, if only that light could awaken the lost memories, perhaps she could find something of herself buried in the darkness of the past. This light, like life awakened from the dark, offers hope for the discovery of a self hidden by time.
Narthrador... slowly rises.
In the first corridor they pass through, its walls are filled with moving reliefs. Images of history. But not the history of the human world—rather, the history of machines. Beelzebub steps closer, her fingers touching the cold surface of the wall, as if calling back the stories stored within, while Fitran feels the darkness enveloping her heart deeper.
The birth of the first automaton.
The unification of man with metal.
The awakening of Deus Ex Machina—not as a tool, but as a questioner.
And then—destruction. The machines refuse commands. Humans shut them down. And the city is buried in a war never mentioned in history books.
Fitran touches one panel. Electricity jolts her hand, flowing images. Cold sweat trickles down her temples, while her fingers grip the panel with an unnatural tension. Thoughts of collapse and emptiness flood her mind, reminding her of all that was lost amidst the noise and smoke of war.
A girl with golden-red hair, smiling amidst the firestorm. Rinoa.
But her image trembles. Shatters. Changes into numbers. As the complex symbols flicker before her, she feels as if the machine is speaking in a language she does not understand, reminding her of lost opportunities and withered hopes.
Access Denied. Emotion Not Recognized.
"She is not even a memory anymore," Beelzebub says softly, her voice filled with bitterness. "She has become an empty variable in a broken system—a symbol of the inevitable loss in a world that no longer remembers her."
For a moment, Beelzebub's gaze wanders to the shadows in the corner of the room, where sorrow and loss unite, creating a profound aura of mystery. "Are you sure, Fitran? Are you truly ready to face this unavoidable reality?" her question hangs in the air, carrying the weight of unease.
"That's exactly why I'm here," Fitran replies, her voice soft as an oath. "If the system cannot recognize her... then I must make the system long for her."
Beelzebub laughs, low and deep.
"I don't know if you're crazy or extraordinary, Fitran. But for the sake of my seventh stomach, I will keep watching how you either destroy or be destroyed by this city."
Fitran stares into the darkness ahead. Her hand grips the Origin Code tighter. In her heart, an emotional turmoil sways between hope and fear, a gamble that will determine not only the future of the city but also her soul.
Behind that corridor, behind hundreds of layers of gears and dead protocols, lies Deus Ex Machina—the being once referred to as The Creator of Meaning Reborn.
And Fitran... is the error that will knock on its door.