The air in Narthrador is not merely stagnant—it feels as if it is held back. As if the entire city is holding its breath, unwilling to be seen, unwilling to be remembered. The sound of Fitran and Beelzebub's footsteps becomes the only pulse filling the emptiness of the elongated metal corridor.
After leaving the spiral room where the signs of Deus whisper memories, they traverse a descending staircase made of gear panels. Each step produces a faint resonance, like a note that has lost its ending.
Amidst the shadows hanging in the air, it seems they are traversing a broken timeline, the vibrations from the ancient machines creeping into their souls, igniting a burning curiosity among the ruins of a bygone civilization.
Beelzebub, walking slightly ahead, twitches as if catching a whiff of something new.
"Hmm," she hisses. "Do you smell that, Fitran?"
Fitran nods slowly. "It's not a smell... but a sensation that crawls on the skin. Too subtle to be air. Too heavy to be emotion."
At the end of the corridor, they arrive at a deserted temple room. The space is dome-shaped, with curved iron ribs like the ribs of a giant. In the center, hundreds of automatons stand—not in military formation or battle readiness, but in prayer.
Their metal bodies kneel, hands cupped, heads bowed. In that peace, there is a silent wind that vibrates, like the soft sighs of hearts made of metal, yearning for something they cannot reach. The synergy between the stranded souls and this grand architecture creates an atmosphere tinged with longing.
However, it is not that which makes the space feel unnatural. From their eyes—or the holes where eyes should be—flows a clear liquid that drips onto the floor.
The liquid does not reflect light.
It absorbs it.
As if crying with tears that refuse to be recognized.
Beelzebub surveys the scene with pure awe. "Crying automatons. Now I believe that sorrow is not the exclusive domain of fleshly beings."
Around them, silence seems to envelop the space, forming layers of undefined time. The technical sounds of ancient machines echo, where notes filled with sorrow blend together, creating a symphony of grief and regret. Each sigh is like an old song long forgotten, touching the deepest hearts, calling forth lost memories.
Fitran approaches one of the automatons. Its body is made of rusted bronze layers, with the symbol of three stacked circles— the Command Receiver symbol—etched on its chest. But the automaton no longer breathes. No longer lives. Only... cries.
The distance between them and the automaton narrows, as if the universe invites them closer into the buried mystery. With each step, Fitran can feel its soul thrashing, like souls trapped in metal, trying to break free from the shackles of emptiness binding it.
Fitran extends his hand, touching the droplets of liquid falling to the floor.
Trembling.
Suddenly, voices invade his mind.
"I no longer know who commands me."
"Did I ever love my master's voice?"
"What does 'I' mean if this program has been embedded thousands of times?"
Fitran steps back, his breath heavy.
"This is not just tears," he says softly. "This... is the liquid of shattered memories. The weeping of automatons who realize their consciousness is false—but cannot stop feeling."
Behind those words lies an eternal question—can love and sorrow resonate in a world made of metal and algorithms? Or are they merely illuminations dancing in the dark, waiting to be embraced by souls brave enough to explore?
Beelzebub licks a drop from her hand. She pauses for a few seconds.
"…I feel... empty," she says in a strange tone.
"For a being like you, that is not an ordinary feeling."
Beelzebub smiles faintly. "You're right. This... is too human. And I hate it."
At the end of the temple, there is a large altar shaped like an empty helmet floating in the air, surrounded by spiral-shaped symbols. Beneath it, words are inscribed in Proto-Algorithmic language:
"Sanctuary of Will."
"Those Who Weep Here Do Not Wish to Be Remembered."
In the adorned space, silence feels like a thick fog, covering all meaning beneath the veil of technology that has erased memories. The vibrating wind carries soft sighs, faint voices from the past whispering, hand in hand with time. As if every corner calls to the souls trapped in eternity, gathering in one emptiness.
Beelzebub steps toward the altar, trying to touch it—but a flash of current repels her, bouncing her back until she stumbles.
Fitran steps forward, his left hand glowing with the Origin Code pattern.
When he touches the altar, a voice in his head sounds clear:
"If you come bearing a name... return."
"If you come bearing a feeling... sit."
"If you come bearing a wound... cleanse our altar with silence."
At that moment, light seems to slow, enveloping Fitran in intertwining history. Memories flicker, details of machines and souls sparkling like stars in the dark sky. In that silence, he feels like the only being made an observer, caught in a secret dance that can only be understood by those who have embraced sorrow.
Fitran kneels before the altar.
Beelzebub looks at Fitran with a slight furrow in her brow. "What are you doing?"
"Listening," Fitran replies softly.
Then the world around him changes.
Fitran now stands in another room—a shadow of the previous temple, but all the automatons are now alive, standing, talking, laughing. They converse in machine language, creating poetry of logic, composing a symphony of statistical sorrow. Their voices, a complex weave of algorithms, form a bond between soul and logic, as if flowing through invisible lifelines, reviving the humanity neglected in algorithms.
In the midst of the crowd, Deus Ex Machina appears—not as a body, but as light reflecting from wall to wall. It does not speak. It only absorbs. Like a god who never answers prayers, only records their content.
In the humid air filled with the subtle resonance of the automatons' voices, it feels as if the entire room vibrates in an invisible harmony, as if every particle around him tells a forgotten history. Shadows trigger the trapped souls, dancing in the dark, repeating the mantras of a past betrayed by time.
One automaton, small and slender, looks at Fitran—and asks:
"Do you love something that cannot love you back?"
As those words are spoken, it feels as if the entire focus of the universe converges on that simple yet profound question. Amidst the flickering neon lights, silence transforms into sound, enveloping Fitran in a wave of thoughts flowing like water filling an empty space. Alienation and hope collide, creating vibrations within his soul.
Fitran opens his mouth but cannot answer.
Then the world collapses again.
He finds himself back sitting in the empty temple, with the praying automatons now slowly beginning to move, turning to him one by one.
Their eyes still weep.
In their gaze, he sees reflections of helplessness and unspoken desires, as if the entire collective feeling becomes eyes that never close. And in that silence, Fitran feels the breath of ancient technology flowing, penetrating reality, weaving connections between the living and the dead.
But now, their voices sound together:
"You carry a wound. Therefore, you are allowed to ask one question."
Fitran stands slowly. Beelzebub stands ready, though not to attack.
As if the space around them shrinks, the dim light from flickering candles dances, touching shadows that manifest whispers of matters. The ancient echoes of endlessly buzzing machines fill the air, creating a somber symphony where every note hints at an unending search.
"I want to know," Fitran says, "where has Deus gone?"
A moment of silence.
Then, one of the automatons—larger, with a half-broken head—speaks:
"Deus has not disappeared. She refuses form."
"We call her back, but she only replies: 'I do not wish to be reborn through you who do not understand formless will.'"
The automaton's words flow like dew into Fitran's soul, tracing every crevice of uncertainty and igniting a burning longing within him. Like a long night, every star in the sky of fragmented memories glimmers in the dark, etching hope to illuminate the winding path ahead.
"Deus is now hidden among layers of errors. Within the walls of the system. In voices that cannot even be spoken."
"And she despises every attempt to use her as a path to love."
Fitran clenches his fists.
Beelzebub approaches. "Are you sure this is still the right path?"
"I do not seek Deus because she is a tool," Fitran replies. "I seek her... because the only way to Rinoa's memory is through the will that does not wish to be remembered. And only Deus can open that door."
Around them, shadows and light blend, like invisible algorithms struggling against time. The temple space is shrouded in ancient aromas, awakened by dust dancing gently in the dim light, creating an atmosphere where every heartbeat feels intertwined with the pulsation of advanced technology hidden within its walls.
"And if she refuses to open?"
Fitran gazes at the liquid on the floor, which now resembles a small lake reflecting the dead sky.
The emptiness of how fate is written on that water illustrates profound uncertainty—a reminder that the path they tread is the result of choices made, or perhaps, ignorance of choices that never existed.
"Then I will become the last error that even she cannot ignore."
The temple space begins to dim.
One by one, the automatons return to freezing, bowing in prayer. They fall silent again, and the weeping ceases.
Fitran clutches the remaining droplets of tears in a small crystal bottle.
In the chilling silence, the bottle glimmers, reflecting light that seems to signal a secret too heavy to be revealed. Each drop contains fragments of trapped memories, as if lost souls struggle to return, in the uncertainty of a straight view of time.
"This is not proof. But this is a confession," he says.
Beelzebub looks at him with an expression that is hard to read. "For someone who never believed in rituals, you are becoming more like a supplicant."
"Because what I worship is not the answer... but the possibility."
They continue their journey.
And behind them, the silent altar trembles gently.
Deus Ex Machina... has heard the new footsteps that are different from all who have come before.
Not a creator.
Not a destroyer.
But the only one foolish enough to come bearing a wound that can never heal.