Three days of time in the city.
Or perhaps more.
Narthrador does not know the sun. There is no change of day and night. But time can be felt—from the changing temperature of the metal, from the way the magic fog descends more slowly, from the way the gears turn with an unsynchronized rhythm. This world… is trying to understand itself anew.
Like a puzzle laid out before them, every element of Narthrador whispers unspoken secrets. The city walls softly murmur, as if the wind swirling through the gaps and cracks holds ancient tales. And in the thousand silent chasms, echoing voices call lost souls to explore their presence in a world that demands meaning from emptiness.
And from the depths of the space where Rinoa's memories are sealed and released again as a form of courage, Fitran rises once more.
His steps are lighter.
Not because the burden has disappeared. But because he accepts that the burden does not need to be healed.
On their journey, a faint shadow trembles at the edge of vision, as if a creature from the darkness waits for the right moment to step into the light, yet remains bound to the mystery of the night. Each step feels like a symphony floating between reality and illusion, bringing them to the thin edge between hope and uncertainty.
Beside him walks Beelzebub.
She does not ask what is happening inside.
And Fitran does not explain.
Yet they both know: something has changed in both of them. There is no need to talk about it. No need to explain it with words. Because they have traversed a world where even meaning fails to process, and it is precisely from that failure that their relationship—though never perfect—becomes real.
Amidst the curves of memories and longing etched in each soul, there is an emptiness that sharpens feelings. Narthrador, the land where time spins like thread wound around fingers, presents a mystical atmosphere; light reflects uncertainly from its surface, as if every step they take is a trace of hope meeting sorrow. In this fog, whispers of the past and future unite, forming a harmony that can only be understood by hearts brave enough to feel it.
Their goal this time is simple: to return to the First Floor.
The place where they were first welcomed by the conductor—a faceless, voiceless being, who once began the Iron Symphony: The First Song.
On this journey, a soft ray from an unnamed light touches their shoulders, as if the world of Narthrador extends a hand, inviting them to dance between shadows and light. Each step breaks the soft sound, a beautiful melody blending in limitless spaces. Perhaps, behind the silence, lies a note waiting to be sung again by a soul ready to hear it.
Now, with the Origin Code fully activated, and Rinoa's soul settled within Fitran's courage, they return to that place.
But what they find... is not silence.
Instead, it is a song.
The First Floor is now enveloped in a fog of sound.
High notes, low notes, then high again—like children learning to speak in a metal room full of echoes. The entire floor's walls ripple. Instruments that were once lifeless now sing, as if transcending dimensional boundaries, carrying all memories and past moments, vibrating the souls of every listener and stirring the feelings buried in their hearts. They both know, here is where they are expected, here is where their story will continue.
Instead, it is a song.
The First Floor is now enveloped in a fog of sound. A sound like morning dew, flowing gently, caressing ears ready to listen. In the shadow of that fog, echoes of the past and hopes present themselves in scales, resembling dry twigs swept in an endless sea.
High notes, low notes, then high again—like children learning to speak in a metal room full of echoes. As if every note is a fragment of memory, dancing between space and time, transporting souls to forgotten places, where feelings are separated by invisible boundaries. The entire floor's walls ripple.
Instruments that were once lifeless now breathe—not with ordinary sounds, but with vibrations full of wounds. They are shadows of feelings that should have been born beautifully, yet trapped in a world of awkward silence. The space seems to vibrate with the embrace of uncertainty that stings.
And in the center of the stage stands the Conductor.
Still faceless. But this time, her hand holds a baton that burns slowly—not by fire, but by unfinished words. In silence, the beauty of the state gives rise to a wave of warmth, where every vibration seeps into the soul, awakening the longing hidden deep in the corners of the heart.
She raises her hand, and without a cue...
The Iron Symphony: The Unfathomable Song begins.
Fitran and Beelzebub stand still.
In this uncertainty, their hearts beat rhythmically, united with the melody that penetrates their thoughts. A deep awareness grows within them, an understanding that this world is a limbo, a place where words and emotions collide endlessly.
They cannot move.
Not because their bodies are frozen by magic—but because that sound nails their souls. Like barbed thorns, that sound grips, reminding them of every step ever taken, every feeling ever betrayed.
Those notes are not music.
They are concepts that failed to be expressed. Each note reflects longing, wounds, and unfulfilled hopes, a poem carved in silence, echoing in empty, hollow corridors.
Love that was never expressed. Confessions.
They cannot move.
Not because their bodies are frozen by magic—but because that sound nails their souls.
Those notes are not music.
They are concepts that failed to be expressed.
Love that was never expressed. Confessions that were postponed. Resentments that were suppressed. Fears that never received a name.
The entire First Floor becomes a reflection of those who never completed their stories.
As if the world of Narthrador vibrates in silence, seeping into every crevice of souls ensnared in an endless melody. Dim light reflects the shadows of fragments of hope that fly—floating, lost, in the flow of time. In the dark corners, ghostly voices moan; as if depicting a thousand feelings trapped in a formless space.
Beelzebub falls to her knees.
Her eyes wide open.
She sees the shadow of herself in the past—the first time she consumed someone's soul not out of hunger, but out of loneliness.
Fitran stands tall.
His eyes gaze directly at the conductor, and within him, Rinoa's soul gently trembles.
"Do you know what this is?"
"This is the remnant of a world that refuses to become whole."
"And because of that... it sings."
The conductor turns—revealing for the first time half of her face, not of flesh, but of fragments of a system.
And that face...
is Fitran's face.
But not his current self.
Rather, it is the self that never rose from failure.
Time seems to slow down, placing every second as a witness to the endless inner battle. The strains of sorrowful songs penetrate the horizon; their echoes transform into waves sweeping through the space, making the wind whisper with bitter feelings. In that full-color harmonization, the remaining traces of memories dance intimately, inviting tears that never cease.
Fitran steps forward.
"So... is this the final form of Deus?"
No answer.
Only the music grows louder.
Beelzebub stands, leaning against the wall, her hand covering her chest.
She screams—not at Fitran, but at herself.
"Stop blaming yourself! Stop singing a song that has no end!"
The sound of music shrieks.
In the chaos of sound, it seems the sky in Narthrador shakes, reminding all living things of the uncertainty that envelops every step. Shadows of dark clouds sweep the horizon, obliterating hope, while whispers of time call lost souls, trapped in unanswered longing.
Beelzebub's body explodes partially, her wings torn, her abdomen opening one by one.
But she remains standing.
"Because the one I love does not need to answer my questions! She just needs to keep walking!"
In the silence that seeps between the screams, the noisy sound becomes an echo dancing among shadows. From somewhere, black flowers bloom, releasing a strange aroma reminiscent of longing and loss. Each petal seems to hold an unwritten poem, waiting for the moment to be revealed in a forgotten world.
Fitran approaches the stage.
He raises the Origin Code.
And writes a new note in the air.
The Imperfect Note.
A note that has no chords. No scale. No harmony.
But... honest.
For a moment, the entire Narthrador vibrates in silence, as if the universe witnesses the birth of that note like a new sun rising behind the dark night. Is this note an abandoned hope? Or a confession of helplessness that merges with a wounded soul? The wind whispers, carrying a mysterious message to the deepest recesses of darkness, promising to return all that is lost, if only they dare to listen.
—
The conductor stops.
The music stops.
The floor is silent.
On the stage, as if time is canvassed with shoes that never leave, dark clouds envelop feelings. Dim light illuminates the stage; shadows wave like hope that is kept alive in longing. Every second becomes a silent witness to the secrets buried in every released note.
Fitran steps onto the stage.
He gazes at himself—the conductor who is a fragment of his past.
And he says:
"You may sing. But do not force everyone to dance to a song you do not understand."
"You may cry. But do not use those tears to drown all who have ever loved you."
"And you may fail. But do not close the door just because you are afraid it will be opened again."
His words flow gently like morning dew, filling the gaps of silence, awakening the hope buried in unexpressed feelings. Each phrase digs deeper into the soul, inviting all who hear to reflect on the meaning behind struggle and vulnerability.
The conductor places her baton down.
Her face disappears.
Then her body dissolves into golden dust.
The symphony ends.
But the world... does not shatter.
Like dew that never stops soaking the ground, rays of love illuminate the traces left behind, reminding us that every ending is a hidden beginning within the fragments of time. Every piece of tragedy becomes a bridge connecting us to sincerity, guiding us toward the search for meaning amidst chaos.
For the first time, that unfinished song is acknowledged.
Not as a mistake.
But as a form of existence.
Beelzebub falls to the ground, breath heavy. But she laughs.
"I thought we would die this time."
Fitran sits beside her.
"We die every time we stop loving."
Beelzebub turns to him.
"You know... I once thought that if Rinoa returned, I would disappear from your sight."
In the silence, the air feels slow, as if bound to an unspoken promise. The wind blows gently, carrying whispers of shadows from the past, as if the world of Narthrador watches closely, listening to the heartbeat of two souls that continue to struggle. The leaves around them whisper, sending off every doubt and hope that is buried.
Fitran turns.
But he does not answer.
And Beelzebub smiles. Because sometimes, silence is the love that cannot be spoken.
Amidst the dim light and dancing shadows, the sparkle of distant stars crosses the night sky, as if signaling that every creature in this world is connected in an invisible weave. They are dancers trapped in the symphony of life, supporting each other and adding color to the vast canvas of existence, where every note creates a new harmony filled with light and shadow.
The Iron Symphony: The Unfathomable Song...
Has been played.
And the silence that follows...
Is a pause.
Before the world creates a new harmony.