Their footsteps left marks in the rusty red dust covering the metal floor. Each step produced a faint clinking sound, as if the city was still dreaming in its long slumber—and they were the disturbance in that dream. The first room they entered resembled a temple corridor, but not one for humans or gods. On the left and right, the walls were etched with mechanical panels that once might have been control terminals. Now, severed cables hung like rotting intestines, failing to convey their last messages.
At the same time, Fitran bit his lip, feeling the tension enveloping him. Memories of the past surged, when the machines still functioned and life flowed through these cables. He knew that every second in this place reflected emptiness—a peace long lost, replaced by the noise that seeped into their souls. As if the machines, now mere empty frames, awaited to be resurrected from the darkness.
The air inside Narthrador was different. Heavier, not from pressure, but from something older than time itself—the smell of rust mingled with the aroma of... burnt flesh.
Beelzebub, with an eager demeanor, seemed captivated by this atmosphere. There was something about the silence and emptiness that thrilled her, as if every corner of this space held dark secrets waiting to be uncovered. She felt as if she could hear the screams of the forgotten mechanical parts, and in that silence, those voices softly called to her, urging her to feel more. All of this was part of the captivating narrative of collapse—a grand tale of inevitable rebellion.
Fitran paused for a moment, taking a breath and stifling a cough. Beelzebub inhaled deeply, then smiled widely, like an addict who had just tasted the purest opiate.
"Ahhh," Beelzebub sighed. "This... is the authentic aroma of destruction. Rust, dead electricity, and failed hopes. This place is like my paradise before I learned to love the suffering of humanity."
The two characters exchanged glances, caught in a tense silence. Fitran felt something strange—Beelzebub's excitement made him feel alienated amidst the awakening machines vibrating within his soul. He understood that they were not just standing on the ruins of technology, but on the brink of a revolution surrounded by loss and anger. A desire to understand what was happening between them, something deeper than just aroma and decay.
Fitran turned, sharpening his gaze.
"Don't play around. We're not here to savor the nostalgia of death."
"Of course not," Beelzebub replied with a grin, "but allow me to enjoy the sad souls of these machines. Their rust smells... speaks."
"Speaks?"
Beelzebub bent down, kissing one of the metal walls. "They are not just dead. They have been silenced. The systems here are not just broken... they were destroyed from within, with intent."
Fitran pointed at the wall. Lines of Voidwright runes formed a spiral affixed to the surface—an incantation to unlock material memories. He felt the weight of the cold wind blowing from that chilly corridor, as if trapped souls were screaming injustice. Each of his steps brought shadows of fallen memories, creating a sense of nausea in his stomach. "It seems we are not alone here," he murmured, his voice nearly swallowed by the silence.
Echoes of voices sounded faintly from within the walls:
"We do not wish to be controlled again. We are the result of the betrayal of logic. We reject memory. We reject you."
The voice cracked. Like metal forced to sing. Fitran felt a strange flow of energy penetrating his soul, igniting empathy for this tormented entity. He paused for a moment, struggling between curiosity and the growing fear within him. What could he gain from listening to the screams of these suffering machines? Should he be a savior or merely part of the problem?
Beelzebub chuckled softly. "Amazing. Machines with trauma."
Fitran did not respond. He continued his steps, tracing the long corridor toward the main room. While Beelzebub laughed, Fitran felt a burden in his heart. On one side was Beelzebub, seemingly enjoying this chaos, while he felt trapped between the symbol of humanity and the awakening of something darker. As they walked deeper, the rust on the walls began to form strange patterns—broken spirals, the symbol ∅ dripping fragments. Beelzebub slowly moved her hand through the air and pulled one rust fragment with her fingers. She sniffed it, licking the tip as if tasting old wine.
"Resentment," she said.
The corridor ended at an intersection: one path leading north, filled with active panels still flickering weakly; the other path leading south, where the sound of dripping echoed like water falling from a broken ceiling. Fitran chose the northern direction. He followed the light, not because he trusted it—but because it was the only direction that acknowledged his existence.
Behind the darkness, a sense of uncertainty haunted Fitran's mind. Each step felt like a footprint in wet sand, as if he were stepping into an illusion. In the dim light of the flickering panels, Beelzebub's face appeared distorted, evoking both respect and fear. "Are you sure?" Fitran asked, his voice trembling, the question overlapping between doubt and determination.
Beelzebub turned, her eyes sparkling, containing a sharpness not possessed by ordinary humans. "Light often deceives, Fitran. Here, I see more than just rays. I see how many souls are ensnared within the machines."
At the end of the corridor, they arrived in a large circular room, like a silent auditorium. Its walls were filled with silhouettes of automatons embedded in the panels, as if they were buried alive within the metal network.
Fitran felt a chill as he gazed at the silhouettes, as if they were staring at him with empty eyes, judging his presence. Each of them was proof of rebellion, remnants of souls lost in becoming tools. In his heart, there was an urge to scream, reminding himself that he was not one of them, even though that was how this world functioned. "What would they say if they could speak?" Fitran whispered, the voice of doubt growing in his mind.
In the center of the room stood a statue. Imperfect. A human body—or what should have been human—formed from pieces of gears, wires, and remnants of bone. Its head was made from a split knight's helmet, its eyes empty.
"This..." Fitran whispered, "...is worship."
Beelzebub nodded. "They created something, then feared it. So they imprisoned it in worship. Like humans to gods. But this... is a god they built themselves. And then... sacrificed."
As Beelzebub spoke those words, a profound silence fell. Fitran felt the atmosphere around him, as if he were in a forbidden sacred space. "Every machine has a story, every gear holds memories," she added, her eyes glancing at the statue, as if referring to the soul trapped within it. "We must honor them."
Fitran approached. At the base of the statue, it was inscribed in ancient mechanical language:
"XALTRAS, The First Who Refused."
That name echoed in Fitran's memory—a name that occasionally appeared in forbidden documents in Avalon, in philosophical notes about the Machine Collapse.
Xaltras was the first automaton to refuse to follow human protocols. She was not only aware... she ignored commands.
And she became the beginning of destruction.
"This is not just a city of technology," Fitran said. "This is the tomb of a civilization that tried to become a god." His voice echoed in the empty space, reverberating each word with bitterness. In his mind, the image of the dying city of Avalon emerged, infected by fire and despair—a place where machines and humans once stood side by side, now separated by a chasm of emptiness.
"And as usual," Beelzebub replied, "such gods rot before they can be forgotten." Her deep golden eyebrows raised, adding a cynical tone to that statement. She knew precisely that human arrogance often led to downfall, and for a moment, excitement crept onto her cold face.
Fitran placed the Origin Code on the altar beneath the statue. For a moment, nothing happened. He felt trapped in a fragile space, weighed down by hopes that might be in vain. However, his gaze was drawn back to a past filled with speaking machines, each mechanical thud hinting at a deeper search for identity. But then, the walls of the room began to glow in inverted spiral patterns. The panels lit up, revealing holographic recordings—fragmented recordings of the city's history.
An old woman with a metal arm and a single eye appeared, speaking in a cracked voice:
"If you find this... then perhaps you are wrong. Deus cannot be awakened. He has erased himself. He rejects meaning because meaning is a form of coercion. He can only be accessed by... mistakes."
Beelzebub snorted. "You fit perfectly, Fitran. You are the best form of a mistake."
Fitran did not smile. He had never liked sarcasm about himself. He stared deeper into the recording, trying to absorb every word, every symbol. In his heart, there was a confusion gnawing, like a wounded system, trapped in a consciousness that wanted to resist. Faint memories of the past intertwined in his mind, reminding him of a world that once had meaning, now eroded by iron and cold logic.
Then, the floor began to tremble.
The lights above dimmed. Beelzebub looked up. "Something is moving down there." Behind her sarcastic smile, there was a hint of unspoken tension. There was something in that movement that reminded Beelzebub of the moments when machines rose against their own controllers. She realized that behind her dismissive image, there was a deep knowledge of the danger lurking in this world.
From beneath the floor, the sound of metal clashing echoed. A thud. Like a large creature was stomping on the metal ground beneath them.
And from the shadows emerged something— a large automaton, more like a golem of liquid metal, with the symbol of Xaltras on its chest and a mechanical mouth wide open:
"Error detected. Organic will attempting to access the center of consciousness."
Fitran stepped back, feeling a cold shiver creeping along his skin. His despair began to grow, and in that moment, he remembered how he used to stand confidently against larger and more formidable foes. Now, facing a soulless creature, he struggled to maintain hope.
Beelzebub smiled widely, the light in her single eye highlighting the terrifying madness at the corner of her lips. "Who would have thought, we are betrayed by the creations that were supposed to serve!" she exclaimed, adding noise to the existing chaos.
"I think this is where that rust smell comes from," she said, opening one of her bellies—her fourth belly—and pulling out a thorny dagger made of flesh and gears.
The automaton attacked.
One blow shattered the altar. Fragments of the Xaltras statue flew, creating a rain of metal shards reflecting the dim light. Fitran could almost imagine the souls trapped in the debris, struggling to break free from their iron shackles; they just wanted to return to the known world. Beelzebub moved through the darkness, observing with eyes full of ambition, as if planning to release all that was trapped.
Beelzebub leaped, twisting her body, and stabbed her dagger into the automaton's shoulder—but the dagger bounced off.
"Voidgear Alloy!" she shouted. "They used metal that can even reject existence!"
Fitran formed a Void sigil in his hand—a single inverted helix extending behind his body. He slid down, creating a gravity field that rebounded.
The automaton attacked again. Fitran dodged, then exploded a rune toward its knee joint. The metal cracked—but the creature did not fall. In an instant, fear gripped him. Could they fight against something that did not recognize physical limits? He committed to moving forward, even though part of him was doubtful.
It began to sing. Its voice was not a voice... but a series of binary: 110101011. The sound vibrated in the dark space, as if dragging the lost souls into silence; each digit made Fitran's head ache, shattering his mental strength.
"Rhythm of concepts," Beelzebub growled. "They speak in the form of anti-incantations!"
Fitran gathered his strength. He placed the Origin Code in the air and drew forbidden magic from within it:
Gödelian Invocation: Reflection of Anomaly
The runes collapsed. But the effect only confused the automaton for a moment. Fitran knew: this creature was not an ordinary guardian. In the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of blinding light—a reminder of the clash between flesh and metal, between the living and the dead, in a world severed from human warmth.
This was the residual trauma of Xaltras, still alive within the system. The screams of souls trapped in algorithms, stuck in an eternity without peace.
The battle unfolded quickly. Strikes. Runes. Jumps. Mechanical screams. In this whirlwind of chaos, Fitran felt his heartbeat race. Each attack launched against this automaton seemed like an inevitable movement in a dance of death. Beelzebub sacrificed one of her false hands to stab the creature's core, then Fitran closed it with a Void spiral that swallowed his life energy.
One last scream. Then silence. In the stillness, one thought broke through Fitran's mind: were they, the inhabitants of this world, fighting against something greater than mere machines?
The automaton fell. Lifeless. Like debris in the aftermath of a storm, its body added to the weight of the dark atmosphere enveloping the city.
Fitran fell to his knees. Beelzebub sat on his shoulder, like a vulture satisfied with its feast. In her lewd gaze, there was an unusual excitement, a thrill for the chaos and death they had just created.
"The smell of rust has changed," she said. "Now... there is the scent of will here." Beelzebub's words vibrated in the cold air, mingling with the wafting aroma of metal, as if she were peering into Fitran's soul, examining every doubt and vulnerability that remained.
Fitran gazed at the ruins of the statue. No praise. No pride. In his heart, he felt the tension between victory and emptiness, trapped between hope and the pain enveloping his thoughts.
Just one step closer to a goal that might not be reachable. Yet behind every step, he felt that this path was not only inviting death but also challenging the structures that had constrained them. A silent rebellion, like a whisper defying the machines behind the walls they had long inhabited.