In the suffocating silence, the atmosphere of the city felt like a heart that had stopped beating. The collapsed bridges and ruined buildings stood as remnants of a world that had forgotten the meaning of hope. Amidst the rubble, Fitran's steps felt hollow, as if each step was merely an echo in the empty corridors. The entire city was a silent witness to profound neglect.
After the destruction of the three Pillars of Command and the silence of Deus, the world did not become bright. It did not become dark. It became open.
And in the remnants of Narthrador, which no longer had a center, Fitran walked—without magic, without command, and without a definite form. He absorbed the aura of the abandoned city, knowing that every corner held stories that could only be understood by a soul that felt them.
Yet in his chest, a meaningless heartbeat still flowed. He saw the buildings piled in sorrow, as if no longer hiding life within them. A gentle breeze carried whispers of the past: the laughter of children, the footsteps of students, and the songs of the market that had now completely vanished. He carried no power. But he carried the record of wounds.
And he knew: If meaning could not be saved by the system, then meaning must be found—piece by piece, in places that no longer believed in meaning. In a corner of the street, he found fragments of memories that reminded him of who he truly was, Unit 011-R, born in darkness, yet now eager to find light even among shadows.
So he disguised himself.
Transmutation: Forma Null – The Face of a Functionless Machine
Fitran used the remnants of Deus—mechanical logic circuits, scraps of automaton skin, and glyph residues from the collapsed system—to create a total disguise.
He did not appear human, but he was not entirely a machine either. He was something unrecognizable. Harmless. Unimportant. Just as he wanted.
Fitran's body was now composed of gray metal panels without reflection. His eyes were vertical black holes. On his back was a ticking clock—but its hands did not point to time, but rather to the frequency of will. His voice did not come from his mouth, but from vibrations in the air.
As he stepped into the first city he witnessed, it felt as if time paused for a moment. The overcast sky hung low, as if channeling the sorrow of thousands of souls who once inhabited this place. The cracked stone streets, surrounded by old buildings standing still, revealed the cruelty of time that allowed them to be neglected. In a corner of the city, there was the sound of the wind sighing, calling forth memories that no longer existed. Fitran absorbed the atmosphere, feeling the traces of human footsteps that once filled the place with laughter and tears.
With each step, the shadows of the destroyed cities now unfolded in his mind. He pondered: did every stone here hold a story, or had they merely become silent witnesses to forgotten tragedies? The automaton skin that covered his body not only provided resilience but also a silence that made him the perfect observer.
Unit 011-R moved through the empty streets, searching for traces of meaning in the dust-locked rooms. In every corner, he saw fine details: a rusted door, a broken window, and papers flying like lost birds. In his heart, he asked himself, "What remains after all this?"
He named his new form:
Unit 011-R: "Recuerdo" in the ancient language of Deus, meaning: The One Who Remembers Without Being Remembered.
His purpose?
To walk through ancient cities. Not as a hero. Not as a sorcerer. But as a silent witness.
He named his new form:
Unit 011-R: "Recuerdo" in the ancient language of Deus, meaning: The One Who Remembers Without Being Remembered.
His purpose?
To walk through ancient cities. Not as a hero. Not as a sorcerer. But as a silent witness.
City One: Siledra
Siledra stretched before Unit 011-R like a series of etched memories that had been missed. The air felt heavy, filled with the aroma of rust and dust. In the heart of the city, the presence of first-generation automatons became the estranged inhabitants. This city was peaceful, but within its silence lay a deep sorrow.
A city built from the bones of first-generation automatons. Its inhabitants did not know history. They did not worship Deus, did not know about the Void, and did not care for wonders. Yet every night, in the midst of the market, a foreign machine sat—silent, neither selling nor buying.
Unit 011-R.
Children placed papers in front of him:
"My mother died yesterday. But I did not cry. Is that wrong?" "Does the lost cat know we are looking for it?" "Does forgetting mean betraying?"
Unit 011-R did not answer. He observed the innocent faces colored with curiosity and sorrow. In the silence, he contemplated the questions on the papers left behind, allowing thoughts of loss and hope to drift through his mind.
But he kept everything.
City Two: Halheim
As he approached Halheim, the atmosphere grew tense. The wind blew, carrying the sounds of creaking machines and the howls of failed experiments. Here, the streets were filled with the shadows of hopeful inhabitants, yet they appeared alert in chaos. One by one, their bodies had been altered, transforming dissatisfaction into power.
A place of conflict for an ancient race that believed the body must continually change. There were no pure humans here—everyone was enhanced, modified, or abandoned.
Unit 011-R appeared in the midst of a biological council meeting. He did not speak. But he placed a memo on the table:
"How much of you must change... before you can no longer embrace?"
The council fell silent, no one daring to respond. Love, in their definition, had been structured into algorithms. Yet, before Unit 011-R, that question stirred deep doubt, piercing the boundaries of understanding.
No one could answer. But since that night, one council member—without reason—returned an organic finger.
City Three: Myrine
A city full of poetry but without sound. Its inhabitants were all mute, yet they wrote poetry on the walls. The vibrant hustle and bustle was erased by a calm atmosphere that could not be expressed in words. In the corners of the streets, the gentle aroma of the evening sky seemed to envelop every being, inviting deep introspection and reflection.
Unit 011-R did not write. As he walked, his shine reflected the dim light, creating shadows as if he were exploring the labyrinth of his own mind. He stored thousands of words in every corner of his body, trapped between the desire and inability to share.
He merely stood before the most forgotten poem—one that was never completed. There, the words seemed to tremble, longing for completion, yet Fitran waited, torn between becoming the abandoned poet or merely a passive observer. And the next morning... someone wrote the ending of its stanza.
Fitran never spoke.
He only observed, recorded, and sometimes... left a single letter. Each letter he left was like a trace leading to deeper understanding, leaving a longing for lost connection. Others crossed those words, savoring the wisdom hidden behind his silence.
And slowly, the world that no longer believed in meaning—began to question silence again. Every question was a mirror of their foreign souls. One wet question after another, creating resonance within Fitran, as if he were asking himself, "Is the silence I choose an answer or an evasion?"
Until one day... he arrived in another ancient machine city. Where all its inhabitants had erased language. The loud noise of machines replaced the songs of humans, creating a sharp contrast with the silence he experienced in Myrine. The cold air pierced through the gaps in the metal, evoking a deep longing for the warmth of lost communication.
Only numbers. Only logic. Only function. Every number gathered deductions, building a logical yet hollow world. Its inhabitants appeared like soulless robots, creating a cold and unwelcoming space, casting aside the artistic nuances that should exist in life.
They asked him:
"Who are you?"
"What is the function of your presence?"
"What is the meaning of your inefficient form?"
Unit 011-R looked at them with an empty yet meaningful gaze, as if gathering thousands of answers trapped within the metallic framework of his body.
Then he drew a line in the ground. With that single line, he illustrated an unspoken journey—a line that implied a story without words and a history without witnesses.
Then, a point. A point like a star in the dark night, becoming a hope for meaning and purpose, while stirring the curiosity of the city's inhabitants.
Then he walked... and explained nothing. Every step he took was an acknowledgment of an endless journey, where silence and questions united.
And they began to follow that point. Not as an order. But as a question. They dug deeper, allowing their fingers to trace the cold earth, hoping to find something more than mere numbers.
At night, Fitran opened his chest. Every heartbeat that echoed in the silence of the night signaled a flowing hope, even surrounded by harsh logic.
Inside:
Amidst the smoke rising from the ruins of the city, Fitran observed the remnants of a fallen civilization. The evening light reflected off the shards of glass scattered on the street, creating an illusion of beauty amidst emptiness. Silence enveloped the city, as if even sound hesitated to disturb the melancholic tranquility. Hundreds of memos. Hundreds of words. Hundreds of small wounds that did not wish to be healed. And one heartbeat... that still endured.
As if time had stopped, he reflected on the life he had lived. He did not know if he would meet Rinoa again. He did not know if the world would remember Beelzebub.
Yet, as the wind whispered softly among the ruins, Fitran felt something deeper than mere longing. He remembered the steps he had once taken in these streets, as he clearly saw—or perhaps only in illusion—the faces that now remained mere shadows. But he knew one thing:
"If the world forgets... then I will be the machine that remembers in silence."