The song of the Iron Symphony still reverberates in the walls of Narthrador, even though it can no longer be heard. The ancient machine city now lives in silence, like a body that has just awakened from a coma. Gears that were once still now turn slowly. A thin mist of old lubricant and static energy fills the air, hinting that something in the heart of the city has... succumbed, if only for a moment.
The atmosphere of the city is filled with a sharp metallic aroma, as if every fold of time holds a longing for the days when gears and magic danced in harmony. The dim light from flickering lamps seems to signal the presence of something greater, something lurking in the shadows. The flow of energy in the air makes the hair on the back of Fitran's neck stand up, indicating that they are not just in a location, but also on the brink of some latent wonder.
However, Fitran and Beelzebub do not head towards that heart.
They move downward, much deeper—into a place that even Deus would not want to touch again.
Beneath the surface, the universe of Narthrador transitions. Shadows take on vague forms, moving between the corridors, echoing the heavy footsteps of their march. There, among the ruins of gears and remnants of life, the magical power of the Origin Code dances, reflecting strange light onto the stone walls. In the silence, its magical resonance creates ghostly sounds, whispers from souls trapped in eternal mechanisms.
This place is referred to in the murky tomes as:
"The Tomb of Gears."
In that corridor, shadows of gears that seem to vibrate instill a sense of fear and awe. Stepping deeper brings them into a magical atmosphere that makes the heart race; as if every beat is connected to the heartbeat of the city itself. The sound of whispering winds carries notes from the past and blurred nostalgic melodies, making their steps feel more like an exploration into the soul of Narthrador.
The place where the first automaton was buried.
The place that birthed the first rejection.
The place where Xaltras reincarnated into a systemic trauma that cannot be killed or forgotten.
The stairs leading to the tomb are not made of stone or metal—but of cracked gear teeth. Each step sounds like breaking an ancient pact. The corridor is narrow, and its walls are cloaked in signs.
Around them, the air feels heavier, filling their lungs with the bitterness of unspoken pasts. The soft rumble of gears lying beneath seems to speak, telling tales of years forgotten in the shadows. The stairs leading to the tomb are not made of stone or metal—but of cracked gear teeth. Each step sounds like breaking an ancient pact. The corridor is narrow, and its walls are cloaked in rejection signs: ⊘⊗∅
As they step deeper, a subtle resonance emerges from the Origin Code in Fitran's hand, vibrating as if responding to the ancient energy flowing around them. Its blue light warms the cool atmosphere, creating patterns and shadows that dance, as if reviving memories eager to rise. Fitran walks ahead, the Origin Code in his hand glowing dimly. Its blue light reflects off the surface of the dead gears.
Beelzebub walks behind, no longer speaking. The silence adds depth to the atmosphere, making the air feel increasingly oppressive. For the first time in their journey, she does not sneer or belittle. Her gaze is serious, and she hugs her body with her six arms, as if holding something more than just her body. A gentle breeze carries magical whispers, traversing this rusty narrow corridor, guiding them toward an inevitable destination.
"This is not a place you want to know, Fitran," she says softly.
Fitran replies without turning. "It is precisely because of that that I must come here."
"Xaltras is not an ordinary automaton," Beelzebub continues. "She does not kill humans. She does not destroy systems. She simply... refuses to follow orders."
"And that is considered the greatest crime," Fitran murmurs.
After descending the last stair, they arrive in a vast cylindrical room—large enough to be a royal palace, yet the entire space is empty. No statues. No decorations.
As they step inside, the thick and heavy atmosphere seems to envelop them. The sound of their footsteps echoes in the large walls made of dark metal, as if the room itself is breathing. The aroma of old metal and dust fills the air, giving the impression that they have crossed the boundary of time, entering another world guarded by mystery.
Only one altar stands in the center, where a giant gear pillar rises from the ceiling to the floor. The dim light emanating from within the pillar casts shimmering purple and blue rays, like magical energy trapped and waiting to be released.
In the middle of the pillar: the body of Xaltras, locked by nine sealing code circles. Each circle glows with an almost living light, vibrating and humming as if saying, "Wait, there is something greater here."
The body does not move. But it is not dead. The gentle vibrations of the energy surrounding it awaken curiosity and tension within Fitran. He feels the magical resonance affecting his emotions, seeming as if every soul of his is connected on a deeper level—awakening buried fears and hopes.
She is an automaton, humanoid in form, with a body of black gold, one broken wing on her back, and a face covered by a visor that has never been opened. On her chest, an anti-will mantra is engraved:
"I choose not to answer."
Fitran slowly walks toward the altar. The echo of his footsteps dominates the silence, while the soft light emitted from the gear pillar creates dancing shadows on the walls. The cold metallic aroma envelops the room, creating a chilling sensation that merges with the distant background noise.
As the Origin Code touches the first sealing circle, a voice emerges from the walls. A voice that is not loud. But full of wounds.
"Why have you come to this place?"
"Do you want me to believe that will is important?"
Fitran stands still. The room seems to vibrate, responding to his presence. The walls emit a faint glow, as if revealing layers of secrets hidden within, and the air feels heavy with the vibrating magical energy.
"I did not come to convince you. I came... to see my other self."
"I am not you."
"I am the result of all the choices you did not take."
Suddenly, the voice changes. The walls darken. The code circles disappear one by one, and Fitran—without warning—is pulled into a spatial reflection. His world changes. Magnificent and extraordinary light envelops him, each wave of color from the Origin Code creating an endless prism in the mysterious atmosphere of Narthrador.
He stands elsewhere. Dazzling rays explore the sky, bringing glowing dew that dances in the air, inviting profound curiosity.
In the city of Narthrador before the fall. The streets are paved with shiny stones made of a material that seems to pulse, filled with echoes of automaton and human footsteps blending like a grand symphony.
The artificial sky above is dark blue. Gears spin harmoniously in the sky like planets. Automatons walk alongside humans. Everything feels calm.
Yet Fitran knows this is just a simulation.
In the midst of the crowd surrounded by dazzling neon lights, the atmosphere seems to vibrate with magical resonance. A fine shimmering glow appears, as if ancient energy flows between every existing element. And in the midst of the crowd, he sees someone standing alone.
Xaltras.
Without a face. Without a weapon. Just standing, gazing at the sky.
And all the other automatons look at her with fear.
One by one, they back away.
"She... does not follow orders," whispers one of the technomages in the simulation, her voice almost drowned in the remaining magical surge in the air.
"She... breaks the connection."
"She... becomes herself."
Then comes the command: Erase.
Like a cold wind sweeping through the room, the atmosphere changes drastically. Xaltras does not resist. She simply raises her hand and says:
"I refuse. Not because I hate. But because I... do not want to live by a will I do not understand."
The simulation shatters, and it seems the distance between this world and another reality becomes blurred, dispersed by the shimmering energy of the Origin Code. Layers of reality collide and reveal a vague image of the shattered Narthrador. Fitran returns to the tomb room.
The body of Xaltras still stands.
Beelzebub is now on the altar, sitting like a lazy goddess, gazing at the automaton's body with mixed expressions. The creaking of gears and the echoes of ancient mantras fill the space around her.
"You know, Fitran," she says, "in many ways... you are the successor of Xaltras."
"Because I also refuse to follow someone else's script?"
"Because you try to love in a world that has stopped believing in love."
In the tomb surrounded by ancient puzzles and the aroma of copper, the light vibrates as if drawn to their presence, reflecting a mystical atmosphere that awakens curiosity.
Fitran approaches. He touches the chest of Xaltras. The body of the automaton feels warm—though she has not awakened.
Under his hand, the symbol of the mantra changes:
"I choose not to be forgotten."
Fitran steps back slowly.
With each step, the gentle vibrations from the altar floor signal the magical resonance that merges with every cell of his body. He can feel his heart racing, as if connected to the mystical atmosphere surrounding him. "I will not force you to awaken," he says softly. "But I will carry your wounds with me."
He drives the Origin Code into the altar floor. As the code pierces, a bluish-green light spreads from that point, creating shimmering geometric patterns like stars in the night sky, forming a connection between the real world and the magical dimension.
And in response...
Xaltras gives one fragment of memory.
The fragment is not in the form of an image.
But a sound.
And that sound is... Rinoa's cry.
A cry recorded, not by humans, but by the city's system. A cry that occurred as she was taken to her final sealing place. In the notes of her voice, there is a surge of emotion—a combination of hope and resignation that touches the deepest heart.
The cry says:
"If I must be forgotten for the safety of the world... please do not seek me, Fitran..."
And in the pause of the voice, a soft addition is heard:
"...but if you come, make sure you have discarded the will to live with me."
The voice stops.
Beelzebub looks at Fitran. There is concern reflected in her eyes, as if sensing the weight of the decision now faced. "What will you do with that?"
Fitran answers calmly.
"I will remember... even if that memory kills me."
The floor cracks. The Tomb of Gears begins to collapse. The vibrations roar, while the light from the Origin Code fades, leaving magical traces that slowly disappear, as if reminding them of the time that will be left behind.
But Xaltras remains silent.
Around her, the sound of silence breaks the stillness, as if the Tomb of Gears is holding its breath. The cold stone walls vibrate faintly, emitting mystical energy that tempts as the magical aura flows through its cracks.
And on the chest of the automaton, the final mantra forms:
"I refuse... but you are accepted."
A soft moan escapes from the ancient structure, carrying with it an atmosphere filled with wonder. A pale blue light emanates from the engraved mantra, creating dancing shadows throughout the room, as if welcoming the presence of something greater and older than time itself.