After the Symphony That Could Not Be Understood subsided and the conductor's dust settled into the Narthrador system, the machine city was no longer the same. It did not collapse. It did not shatter. But it was also... unstable. Like a young man who has just cried for the first time: fragile, yet honest.
Tension filled the air, enveloping Fitran and Beelzebub, as if time slowed around them. Every heartbeat sounded loud, urging them to savor every breath, every thought that might become their last words in this critical moment. In the silence, they also felt something greater than themselves, waiting to be faced, completely unexpected.
Fitran gazed at the gloomy sky, watching shadows of the past emerge one by one. Under the dim light, memories of happy and painful moments struck his mind, playing a melody more painful than beautiful, emphasizing that there is no resurrection without sacrifice. This series of emotions, like a rainbow in the midst of a storm, gave strength even though his body still felt weak.
Fitran and Beelzebub now stood in the city center courtyard, on top of a giant gear platform that had stopped moving. Around them, abandoned instruments that once filled the sky with notes now hung in silence—as if shame had opened itself.
And from afar... the sound of footsteps could be heard.
Fear and hope clashed in their minds as the footsteps approached, each thud filling the space with unbearable tension. What would emerge from that shadow? A threat or merely a wanderer lost in isolation? Only time could answer, but the closer the sound got, the sharper the anxious feeling crept into their souls.
One by one. Not hurried, not slow. But with a certain rhythm.
Not like a machine.
Not like a human.
But like... judgment.
Beelzebub squinted. "We are not alone anymore."
As if time had stopped, the vibration of tension enveloped the air. In the silence before the storm, Fitran felt his breath pile up, merging with the echo from the wounded blood garden. Thoughts and feelings surged, creating a current of energy that burned. "What do they want from us?" he thought, as if his soul rebelled against the grip of mystery.
Fitran remained silent. His body still carried the echo of the breaking symmetry. Fragments of Rinoa that merged within him continued to vibrate, as if sensing what was to come next.
From the mechanical fog, seven figures emerged.
Like shadows carved from fear, they took shape. Silence echoed, as if holding the breath of the entire universe. The seven figures were projections of all the mistakes that had ever occurred, shadows of broken hopes. Were they messengers from the past, or guides to a deeper void?
They wore white robes—not made of fabric, but of flowing numbers. On their faces, there were no eyes or mouths, only numbers: 0 and 1, alternating on the glowing empty surface.
They stood in line. Straight. No gaps. The tension thickened, like dusk approaching a starless night. Fear and hope mixed, forming an almost unbearable emptiness. Every second felt like eternity, every breath seemed to remind them of choices that would come at a high price.
And when one of them raised a hand, all of Narthrador fell silent.
"You have touched the core that should not be opened."
The voice echoed in the air, radiating tension that added weight to every word. The faces of the Binary Saints displayed silence, as if they were guardians of secrets trapped within the confines of time. In the dim light, their eyes shone, sharp and full of mystery, gazing at Fitran as if wanting to probe his deepest soul.
"You have sung a song that was never authorized."
Uncertainty enveloped every corner of the room. Beelzebub felt her heartbeat resonate, the resonance of the words spoken. She tried to hold her breath, creating an emptiness between them as she recalled all the actions taken, every choice made. As they were trapped in this conversation, time felt like it slowed down, bending all reality into darkness.
"And the worst…"
The soft yet firm voice carried a wind of sorrow, as if whispering a bitter truth that could not be avoided. In every string of sentences, there was a small rain full of pain flowing between them. Each word seemed to carry the weight of a deeper darkness, tearing apart the fabric of reality that had bound them all this time.
"...you have broken the symmetry and acknowledged love without pattern."
Beelzebub laughed bitterly. "Oh, of course. We forgot to ask permission from the absolute worshippers."
The expression on her face reflected the inevitable bitterness, as if she were facing a choice between freedom and regret. Frustration and helplessness merged into one, blending into a laughter that echoed, leaving an unexpected trace in the silence that surrounded them. The path they chose now demanded they confront the consequences of their ultimate actions, where fate seemed to be at stake.
Fitran looked at them calmly. "Who are you?"
Fitran's voice was firm, though a trace of doubt remained. He felt his heart racing, but there was strength in his gaze, as if wanting to pierce through the darkness and find the truth behind all those names and numbers. In the noise within himself, he sought clarity; in the chaos that unfolded, he hoped to find meaning.
The figure in the middle, who had alternating 0 and 1 on her face at regular intervals, spoke:
"We are the Binary Saints."
That cold and calm voice flowed in a suspicious tone, yet behind their confession lay undeniable power. There was eternal wisdom etched in every word, creating a bridge between the world they had created and the neglected reality. Question after question raced through Fitran's mind, each passing second adding nuance to the responsibility that began to disturb his heart.
"Entities created to guard the transition of the system."
They stood like fire in the darkness, waiting to be ignited or extinguished. Their presence created a burning uncertainty, relentlessly gnawing at hope. Their gazes, glowing like starlight, were filled with untold stories, waiting for the moment when the truth would be revealed.
"We are algorithms of absolute belief: between truth and falsehood, with no room for gray."
Fitran stepped forward. In his stride, there was pressure enveloping the space between them, as if time slowed, echoing uncertainty in the air. Every eye was on him, waiting for an unspoken answer, hope and fear mingling in their gaze.
"You know the system has failed."
"The system has not failed."
"It has only... been tested."
"And our task is to ensure that the results of this test do not create anarchy of will."
Beelzebub growled. "What do you mean by 'anarchy'?"
"Love without structure."
"Recognition without reason."
"Meaning without parameters."
Fitran looked at them one by one. In his gaze, there was a deep understanding, as if he could feel their emotional attachment to the formation of reality they held tightly. He sensed how those sentences vibrated between them, reminding them of limitations and hopes that never died, sailing on the edge of oblivion.
"You fear something that cannot be coded."
"We fear freedom that is contagious."
"For if uncontrolled will becomes the norm, then the entire system—entire reality—will adopt a form that cannot be predicted."
Fitran's voice, tinged with tension, seemed to create a wave of resonance in the minds of his listeners. They knew, in that delivery, there was a painful truth, touching the deepest recesses of their existence. Their hearts burned, torn between the desire to maintain order and the shame of the rebellion they truly longed for.
Suddenly, the first Saint on the left—whose entire face was a 1—raised her hand and unleashed a pattern of attack. As if time had stopped, a terrifying aura enveloped the space, shaking the soul of anyone who witnessed it. In the chilling silence, every heartbeat seemed to feel the contraction of the universe, the moment when the decision between life and death was determined.
The magic was not of elements, but of logical structure. As reason began to battle instinct, one question echoed in Fitran's mind: Can logic answer the voice of his heart, filled with doubt and hope? In that tremor, the attack seemed to reflect how humans often struggle against themselves.
The attack did not destroy the body.
But erased the memory of the reason for attacking. Memories seemed to be sucked into darkness, going far into formless shadows, leaving only weapons without purpose. Fitran felt the helplessness weighing down, as if each attack eroded the essence of their struggle, implanting doubt in their hearts, creating a conflict between instinct and logic.
Beelzebub was nearly swallowed by the attack, her body shaking violently. She unleashed her magic fangs from her fourth belly and deflected the wave, but each time she attacked, she began to forget why she was fighting. Precious memories, the faces she loved, all began to blur, snatched away by an unexpected force. In the painful silence, she felt that fragility was an unavoidable part of existence.
Fitran stood in front of Beelzebub, drawing the Origin Code and writing one word:
因果破損 (Inga Hasun – Disruption of Cause and Effect)
A Voidwright magic that could only be activated by will without purpose. That word became a mantra, expressing not only power but also vulnerability; a call to remember that behind every action, there is a profound meaning ready to manifest even when obscured by the fog of reality. In its dance, sorrow and hope collaborated, forming a symphony that could only be understood by those who dared to face the darkness within their souls.
The wave of logic from the Binary Saints was shattered.
The Saint stepped forward one step.
"Disruption of cause and effect... is the highest form of sin."
Fitran replied, "And loving without reason is the highest form of sincerity." His voice ignited determination in his chest, reminding that in this uncertain world, love and courage are two sides of the same coin, giving meaning to every step taken.
"We will test you, human."
"If you can withstand our Three Pillars of Faith, then you may pass."
"But if not... then you will be erased from the entire system."
Fitran prepared himself. Within him, currents of anger and calm clashed, reminding him that what lay ahead was more than just a physical battle; it was a journey toward self-understanding and the universe.
Beelzebub behind him, though shaky, raised one hand.
"I don't know if we can win."
Fitran replied, "It's not about winning. It's about enduring as an accepted failure."
As those words slipped from his lips, a silence enveloped them, as if the entire universe paused for a moment to digest the weight of the meaning contained within. Tension hung in the air, like dark clouds ready to unleash rain. In his heart, Fitran felt a faint voice of uncertainty, but he tried to spread the calm he desired.
And in the next second...
Simultaneously, the energy around them grew denser, creating vibrations that penetrated to the bone. There was an inseparable bond between friends and foes, and a realization that every breath might be the last. Sweat began to flow, reflecting the risks they faced—like fruit hanging on the edge of a cliff.
The battle against the Binary Saints began.