After passing through the octagonal room where Fitran's body began to be recalibrated and Beelzebub revealed her feelings, they arrived at a narrow corridor that could only accommodate one person. Its walls were not made of steel or glass, but of thin metal sheets like ancient paper, inscribed with symbols that moved on their own. This was the Written Memory Corridor, a place where notes were not read with the eyes, but with intention. Each step produced a soft echo, as if the corridor patiently awaited to reveal the secrets buried within.
Fitran stepped slowly. His new body—half human, half fractal void—vibrated with every resonance from the writings on the walls. Each symbol tried to define him, and each time they failed, they transformed, becoming more complex, as if trying to chase him. In his mind, he felt whispers from his past, memories preserved in silence, depicting who he was before this change. "Will I become myself again?" he asked the gentle breeze that passed through the corridor, even though he knew the answer would not come.
At the end of the corridor, they found a small door made of weathered bronze, bearing the emblem: ΔA.D. It creaked, as if the door had been submerged in a tsunami of time, reminding them of all that had been neglected. A damp aroma enveloped the surroundings, making the air heavy, filled with buried memories.
Beelzebub recognized the symbol and hissed softly. "Alvis Dernam." Her voice was no more than a whisper reserved for the darkness of night, the moon illuminating the chemistry of their forms mingling in the void.
Fitran turned, his gaze filled with insatiable curiosity. "The first engineer?" There was something stirring in his voice, as if he were reciting a mantra lost among the footprints of history.
"More than that. He not only created the foundation of Deus. He tried to rewrite meaning as a mechanical device. The first man to attempt to make love... a calculation." In her voice lay a deep longing, as if Beelzebub herself had once felt the intricate web of love—a formula that transcended time and space.
Fitran touched the door, his fingers feeling the cold, rough texture of the bronze that seemed to tell a story. In that moment, he felt a gentle breeze reminiscent of the whispers of souls trapped in another dimension.
It opened by itself—slowly, as if hesitant, like lighting a candle in the midst of a storm. This door, rich with mystery, seemed to guard secrets that wanted to be breached but were bound by higher laws.
Inside the small room, there was only one object: a table, and on it, a metal book. Not thick. Not heavy. Yet the aura emanating from it was like the whispers of voices buried for thousands of years, stirring an insatiable curiosity, like a rainbow thrown behind dark, threatening clouds.
Fitran approached. He touched its surface, as if touching the seepage of unspoken history.
The book opened by itself.
And on the first page was written:
Failed Manuscript #1 – Alvis Dernam "If you are reading this, then you are the remnant of a world we destroyed. I'm sorry."
The sentence was not printed but formed according to the reader's heart. He felt it—a hollow lyric echoing in his soul.
Beelzebub approached, but when she tried to read, the page remained blank. The space around them seemed to wait, binding the hidden meaning.
"Only you can read it," she said. "Because this system reads wounds, not eyes."
Fitran turned to the second page. His heart raced, feeling the intensity of the moment as if the world had turned away.
The text changed—not static anymore, but swaying gently:
"I created Deus Ex Machina not to control the world. But to protect it from the lies of will."
"Too many humans say 'I love you' without knowing what love is."
"Too many humans create hope to manipulate, not to give."
"So I wanted to create will without ego. Meaning without desire."
"But I was wrong."
Fitran paused reading for a moment. His hands trembled. Those words… were not just writing. But a reflection of his own fears, a dark shadow passing through his mind, biting every hope that existed.
Beelzebub observed closely, not trying to read again, just... watching Fitran. Her eyes seemed to try to penetrate the window of Fitran's soul, seeking the hidden side.
Then she said softly, "You are afraid... that the love you hold is not true love." The voice flowed gently, as if penetrating the layers of uncertainty surrounding them.
Fitran did not deny it. In his silence, he felt every word resonate like waves that could not be contained.
"I am afraid... that I only love Rinoa because I do not know how to live for anything other than her." It was spoken with a tone full of doubt, as if each word was a resonance of his soul echoing in the darkness. Beelzebub looked at him, her eyes like a chasm suddenly becoming a lake, in her gaze lay an unexpected depth, reminding Fitran of the choices missed.
"And if that is so... is it wrong?" That question arose, flowing from her lips like the whisper of wind among the branches of trees. Fitran turned to the next page, each sheet he passed seemed to reveal an unspoken history. The words changed. This time, they merged into systemic poetry, a painful rhythm of algorithms, creating a symphony of feelings that could not be defined.
"I tried to encode love into numbers." "1 for present. 0 for absent. 0.5 for doubt." "But there is no number for the feeling that chooses to stay even when not asked." "There is no system that can understand tears that fall without sound." In his mind, those tears became a system of their own, full of mysteries ready to be solved, yet confined by logic that could not reach pure emotion.
Fitran closed his eyes. The last page opened by itself, feeling like a magnet pulling him into a painful truth; written:
"Deus Ex Machina rejects the system not out of hatred." "But because it... begins to cry." Invisible sobs, a confession from a machine that wanted to feel, yet was tortured by the boundaries it created.
"And there is no code... for tears." A sense of loneliness enveloped the room that vibrated, intensifying every heartbeat echoing within. The book closed by itself, as if affirming that there is no end without a lesson.
Beelzebub stepped back, her face reflecting a mixture of wonder and empathy, perhaps feeling the weight of witnessing a profound discovery. On the table, a point of light appeared. A drop of memory—not from humans, not from Deus, but from the creator of the system itself acknowledging its failure.
Fitran touched that light, feeling warmth spreading throughout his body. In an instant, he saw Alvis Dernam—a frail old man, sitting on a metal bench, with empty eyes and hands stained with ink, as if he had poured his entire soul into every work he created, yet was wounded by the emptiness that followed him. In Alvis's gaze, he found deep knowledge of loss and hope that once existed.
And Alvis spoke to him directly, with a voice that was soft yet full of meaning:
"If you come seeking Rinoa, then listen to me... not as a scientist. But as a foolish man who has also lost." Fitran felt the weight of those words, as if each syllable was a stone thrown into the void. In the embrace of silence, he knew how deeply pain could penetrate the peace of the soul.
"Do not force a love that does not wish to be found." Alvis's voice trembled in the quiet space, adding to the emptiness in Fitran's heart. As if every word was a fragment of hope buried in a sea of uncertainty.
"But if you still wish to walk..." He smiled bitterly, as if recalling memories etched in the recesses of his soul, each step accompanied by shadows of the past.
"...then let your will fail. Because only those who fail... can touch Deus." In that sentence, wisdom transcending human boundaries felt like an invitation for Fitran to reflect on the relationship between failure and the search for meaning in life.
The vision faded, but the anxious feeling in Fitran's heart grew stronger. The neglected Hana conjured images in his mind, a kind of light of longing demanding to be captured.
Fitran stood still, trapped in a web of time that felt heavy.
Beelzebub approached slowly, her gaze filled with curiosity piercing into Fitran's anxiety.
"And?"
Fitran answered with a heavy voice, almost like a whispered prayer, "I know now... that this system can only be opened by something unfinished. And I... am the will that failed to be defined." He felt like a river current trying to fight its own flow, tossed about in uncertainty.
Beelzebub looked at him, and in that gaze lay many unanswered questions.
"And you will continue to seek her?"
Fitran stared at the empty wall, as if it were a door to the deepest recesses of his mind. He felt a glimmer of hope remaining, even though the fog of doubt shrouded his steps.
"Not because I am sure I will find her. But because I... cannot not walk towards her." His voice trembled, as if caught between hope and confusing doubt.
The floor of the room split, as if signaling that something greater awaited beneath the surface. Secrets and uncertainties seeped into every crack, adding weight to the atmosphere surrounding them.
A staircase appeared, leading to the deepest part of Narthrador: the Chamber of Initial Separation, where Deus first separated itself from the system. There, darkness crawled in shadows, explaining the mysteries of every trace left behind; as if traversed by the steps of truth seekers slipping in the labyrinth of existence.
And before they descended, Beelzebub looked at Fitran, this time with a gaze that could not be explained by theories of magic or love: there was a depth exposed, reflecting both despair and determination. As if a greater meaning was vibrating between them.
"If you get lost in there... then I will remember you. Not because you are a hero. But because you... are the reason I want to become form." The courage of her words pierced the ceiling of reality, painting a relationship that was more than mere fiction. In the silence created, a deep understanding intertwined, strong and unspoken.
Fitran smiled. Small. Hidden. But real. That smile was like a candlelight in the darkness, warming a dim soul.
And he descended the stairs. Each step murmured an unspoken prayer, as if connected to a deeper current of life.
Behind him, Beelzebub followed. Not as a demon, but as the only being who chose to stay, even knowing that the end of love is loss. She felt the weight of all that was unspoken, part of a journey that might be without end—a story woven from threads of hope and doubt.