Excalibur no longer shone with triumph in Fitran's grasp. Its surface, marred with red and black, glistened with the cold sweat of history—a living witness to every soul, every hope, and every debt claimed by this endless spiral.
Around him, the sounds of battle had faded away. The air felt heavy, thick with the scent of iron and betrayal. "What have we created?" Fitran murmured, his eyes sweeping the horizon. "Can you hear it? This silence speaks volumes, Elbert."
Only silence remained, dense and strange, as if the world itself paused to witness what should have never been seen. Fitran clenched the hilt of Excalibur tighter. "You always said silence follows the scream. Yet here we stand, haunted by the echoes of our own making."
A voice—a thousand whispers woven into one—flowed through the fog: the consequence of Beelzebub's highest magic, The Ninth Stomach. "It's not just a spell, is it?" Fitran asked, his voice rising. "It is accountability, a reminder of our choices."
Elbert did not rip his soul away through violence or deep shock. Instead, the magic tore him apart slowly, unraveling flesh, spirit, and memories with painful discomfort. As if anticipating the growing anxiety within Fitran, Elbert replied, "The pain is evidence, my friend. You understand that better than anyone. This torment is the price we must pay for our power."
Black insects, a swarm of cursed will, gnawed at the very boundaries of identity. Elbert's voice trembled, as if struggling against an invisible current. "I was once revered! Don't you remember? They feared me—and now I am like this?" His eyes, once blazing with life, now appeared dim like a flickering candle in a forgotten temple.
His denial echoed, but each word lost more of its meaning. "You are more than just power. You are hope," Fitran responded, his voice steady. "Remember that amidst the darkness."
"Do you not feel it?" Fitran's voice grew colder, almost receding, even as he witnessed the horror unfolding before them. "This is the law of the God, not just magic. A payment is demanded, and the cost is more than just your life." He turned, facing the emptiness around him. "Who among us will pay next?"
Elbert's will flickered like a weak flame in its final moments. He struggled to grasp the pain, holding onto it as proof of his own existence. "I… am Elbert… Lord Elbert… I endured, I inflicted punishment, I inspired fear—" His voice quivered, words stumbling through the oppressive air, barely bearing the weight of their past glory. Yet, the memory faded even as he clung to it, like a sailor reaching for a mirage in the heart of a storm. "I… I can still remember the cheers. The unwavering loyalty of my followers."
Every boast, every dread, every love was drawn out, devoured like a feast for unseen beasts. "And now they turn against me!" Elbert lamented, his voice scarcely above a whisper, crushed by the burden of despair. "What is my title of Lord Elbert if I am to be lost within these shadows?"
Elbert's resolve flickered like a waning ember. "No," he murmured, his tone strained yet threaded with desperation. "I refuse to fade into the abyss. I am Elbert! Lord Elbert! I have endured trials, I have delivered punishment, and I was feared..." Each word fell heavily, as if made of stone. The memories he reached for slipped through his fingers like grains of sand in an hourglass, leaving him a hollow shell. "I will not relinquish it!" But truth was a cruel specter. It melted away with mocking laughter, taunting him as he struggled to hold onto the remnants of the man he had once been. Each boast lingered like a ghost, a faint echo of his past, while his fears inched closer, gnawing at his very essence. Every love, once a grand saga, was consumed by the jaws of oblivion.
A radiant decay wrapped around him—"No! Not this! I was meant for more!" he cried out, his voice trembling as dark ichor streamed from his eyes and mouth. This was no ordinary blood; it was the embodiment of his torment, like ink pouring from a broken quill. Fitran moved forward, his presence casting a heavy shadow. "Each wound and every moment of sorrow you have held onto comes at a cost, Elbert," he declared, his tone as cold as steel. "Do you believe your suffering can bring redemption? It only reveals the depths of your despair." Each bite, each sting, ripped through him, carving out pieces of his very essence where fragments of his identity had once resided. "I... I can still fight!" he gasped, but even the agony felt distant, a fading echo taunting him from the edge of an endless void.
Fitran's shadow loomed larger, Excalibur gleaming ominously at his side. "You built your empire upon the bones of suffering; it shall be paid back in kind," he pronounced, every syllable a dagger that plunged deep into Elbert's consciousness. "Only oblivion awaits; it is memory that gives pain its significance. And now…" His voice fell lower, laced with a cruel finality, "you stand on the brink of unmaking." The weight of truth pressed down upon Elbert like an ancient curse, oppressive in its relentlessness.
With a dreadful contortion, Elbert's body lurched upward. "No! I am not finished!" he shouted, his voice echoing with anguish, as if a man were struggling against fate. A black mist of sin surged from his gut, filling the air with a stinging, toxic smoke that choked the atmosphere around him. "Everything I have… hope, dreams, ambition… no!" Darkness enveloped him, tendrils of despair gnawing at him until he became insignificant. His flesh slackened, as if longing to escape from the inescapable fate, before he ultimately collapsed into himself with a chilling finale. In that dreadful moment, all that remained was an oily stain seeping into the parched earth.
"Elbert is no more," Fitran murmured, his voice nearly inaudible, as if mourning a fallen star. It was as if Elbert's true essence had been erased—wiped clean from both body and memory, not merely death but obliteration, as if the world itself had been stricken dumb and recoiled, unwilling to remember his existence.
The silence that followed was not a relief, let alone a peace. It was an emptiness—a void, a longing where there had once been suffering. Fitran, standing on that scorched earth, felt the cold seeping deep into his being. The air was heavy with unanswered questions, and he could almost hear the echo of Elbert's last breath. "What have I done?" he whispered, his voice barely audible in the profound stillness. He had wielded the power of Beelzebub to erase a monster, yet all that remained was a ghost clinging to him, like a shadow hanging over the battlefield.
Yet in the end, the chasm cared nothing for justice or sorrow. It demanded only balance. "Is all of this worth it?" he asked the wind, but silence greeted him, accompanied by the sharp pain of memories too painful to confront. Somewhere in the fractured air above, the Remembrancer—the ancient guardian of memory—stirred awake. Fitran sensed its presence before he saw it: a ripple in reality, a pair of eyes opening in the shadows between worlds. "You call for me now, Fitran?" it cried, its voice echoing like thunder in a storm. Its voice resonated in the very bones of the world, a haunting melody woven from countless fragments of life.
"What you have destroyed here is more than just a man," the Reminder continued, its form quivering like an illusion. "You have erased that record. You have obliterated the witness. You have sown a garden of emptiness where once there were tales, laughter, and fear. Are you so certain that this void will not demand its due from you?"
Fitran gazed at it, a torrent of emotions swirling within him. "I do what I must," he said, his voice strained. "Elbert is a blight upon this land. His memories are steeped in darkness." He clenched his fists, feeling the surge of power flow through him—the memory-devouring magic from The Ninth Stomach was no mere destroyer. He felt alive, like a creature thrashing against the conflicting thoughts within him, forcing him to confront everything he had taken.
"But at what cost?" he pressed, his voice laced with desperation. "I have taken his knowledge, his innermost essence. I—" His voice faltered, the weight pressing down on him like a dark storm cloud. "I also bear his sorrow. Why can't I be free of it?"
"Nothingness is a law, Keeper of Memories," he whispered, his voice rasping. "This world can only endure so much suffering. When it collapses, forgetting becomes a form of forgiveness." His eyes flicked toward the horizon, where the sun struggled against the encroaching night. That fading light mirrored the echoes of Elbert's life—a chapter left unwritten, erased from existence.
The reminder studied him, its eyes piercing the depths of his soul. "You speak of forgiveness, yet you trade one pain for another. Is losing oneself truly freedom?"
"What do you know of freedom?" Fitran shot back, anger simmering just beneath the surface. "You exist to bind us to our past, clinging to memories like tendrils that choke us. You do not understand." His heart raced as he grappled with his thoughts, each beat a stark reminder of what he had lost—not only Elbert but also fragments of himself.
"Ah," he said gently, almost with pity. "But every lost memory becomes an untold story, a lesson unlearned." His gaze softened. "Tell me, Fitran, in your search for balance, do you truly believe you can leave without being hurt?"
Fitran stood stunned, his heart filled with troubling questions. "I have no choice. I thought…" He swallowed hard, memories surging forth—moments of laughter, regrets intertwined with dark shadows. "I thought I could end it. Yet perhaps I only deepen those wounds."
"You are not alone in this struggle," he said softly, his voice floating through the air like a gentle breeze. "The weight of memory is shared. Sometimes, strength lies in the ability to remember rather than forget."
Fitran stood in a silence thick with contemplation, grappling with his words, the ground beneath him like a shattered mosaic of dreams. "This is so heavy to bear," he murmured slowly, feeling the burden of the world pressing down on his shoulders.
"And yet, you must carry it," replied The Remembrancer, slowly fading into the mist. "Not for the past, but for the hope of tomorrow. You must decide which tale is worthy of being told, and which memories are fit to be immortalized."
With those words, he disappeared, leaving only a faint whisper of presence behind. Fitran gazed around him; the emptiness was so palpable, yet beneath it all lay a promise of potential, seeds sown in the dark soil, waiting for their time to bloom. "What will I choose?" he murmured to himself, the question hanging heavily in the air.
Below his feet, where Elbert had fallen, lush grass grew undisturbed, as if no sorrow had ever occurred. Fitran took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the earth beneath him. "I will not let his story fade," he said softly, full of resolve. "I will turn this emptiness into something more valuable."
She shook her head slowly, staring deeply into Fitran's eyes. "No," she said firmly, her voice steady yet laden with meaning. "Without memory, even compassion means nothing. You think freedom lies in forgetting. But freedom from memory is merely the true death of self."
The air felt heavy, charged with an unseen energy. In an instant, Fitran sensed the ground shifting beneath him. "Is that true? Forgetting means losing who we are?" His brow furrowed, wrestling with the weight of that realization. Beneath his feet, where Elbert had fallen, the grass grew lush and untouched, as if the shadow of grief had never reached it. "This emptiness is so deceiving," he whispered. "It lures us with silence, with peace." Yet, Fitran remembered—only he could bear it. The void was efficient, but not always merciful.
"You need to understand," he said softly, stepping forward, as the complexities on his face deepened. "Every memory we erase is a piece of ourselves that vanishes into the void. Look toward the distant cities yonder. Families lose more than just names. They forget love, laughter—everything." He saw the truth reflected in her eyes, a deep well filled with instinctive pain. In that far-off city, parents have forgotten the names of children lost to war. "They prefer to forget rather than bear the sorrow," he revealed, his voice almost inaudible, as if fearing the weight of the newly uncovered awareness. A sage weeps without reason; the oldest pain has vanished, leaving only an empty shell. "And the artists," he continued, "the soul of our world. They stand before a blank page, detached from their desires." He felt despair creeping into his heart, binding tightly like a belt that constricted. "Is this the price of Beelzebub's law?" he whispered, his strength beginning to wane. "A reduction of meaning in our own world?"
He turned to the Reminder, the burden of his thoughts hanging on him like a heavy cloak. "I do not regret the price I've paid," he stated firmly, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging within. "But I will carry its scars with me. If I must be the only one to hold what has been lost in my heart, so be it."
He fell silent for a moment, as if weighing his words against the echoes of a world long shattered. Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, he opened his arms wide. In that instant, fragments of lost memories swirled around him like moths drawn to a flickering flame. "Look," he urged softly, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears, "do you see them? The betrayed promises, mothers mourning their children, old wounds that refuse to heal, and joy now felt like a ghost. They all yearn to anchor themselves in a living world, Fitran.
Fitran let the memories wash over him, a mix of grief intertwined with a strange kind of strength. He closed his eyes, allowing the pain to seep into him, surrendering to that feeling. "They will not drown me," he whispered. "I will transform this sorrow into something powerful."
Yet, a thought gnawed at the corners of his mind—a bitter truth he could not ignore: there is no victory in a void that can never be whole. He sensed the presence of an abyss, lurking just at the edge of his consciousness, gnawing at the remnants of his resolve. He would not allow himself to rest.
Beelzebub's voice suddenly sliced through the haze, its tone woven with an unusual blend of tenderness and hidden ferocity. "How long can you endure this, Fitran? You have triumphed in a minor clash, yet what shall you take to fill the abyss that looms ahead? Dust and murmurs will not satisfy the hunger."
Fitran's brow furrowed, his fists clenching in resolve. "You speak of voids as if they lack substance. They overflow with memories, Beelzebub. They shape us, even in their absence."
"And what are memories but chains?" Beelzebub replied, his gaze sharpening. "You reach for them like a sailor clings to driftwood in a tempest, yet they will drag you deeper into the abyss."
"Then let them drag me down!" Fitran cried out, the echo bouncing off the cold stone walls. "If bearing the weight of the past is what I must endure to fight for a brighter tomorrow, I shall not waver. It is a struggle worthy of my strength."
Beelzebub's smile twisted into something both derisive and respectful. "So be it, valiant warrior. But remember this: the inhabitants of shadows demand a toll for bravery."
He paused before answering, kneeling upon the ground, resting Excalibur across his knees, inhaling the rich, earthy scent that clung to the soil beneath him. "As long as there exists one who remembers what has been lost, the void cannot conquer. Even if that one is merely me," he murmured, a solemn promise forged in the depths of his despair.
Above him, the Warden faded—its presence was not to console, but to witness the struggle of a man caught between memory and loss. As it disappeared into the cosmos, Fitran felt the weight of its absence, a reminder that every thread of memory carried its consequences. The silence that followed was painful, as if it draped his heart with a heavy shroud, yet within it, a spark began to take form—
He did not respond immediately. Instead, he knelt, laying Excalibur across his lap, inhaling the raw scent of the earth beneath him. The weight of the sword felt familiar, yet its legacy now bore an even greater burden. "As long as there is one who remembers what has been lost, the void shall not triumph," he murmured, gazing down at the ground, as if the soil held secrets of what once was. "Even if that one is merely I."
Above him, the Warden slowly faded into the sky—its duty was not to offer comfort, but to bear witness. It lingered just a moment longer, a silhouette amid the dimming light. "You cannot shoulder the burden of the past alone, Fitran. Will you carry it into the future?" it asked, its voice echoing like distant thunder.
After he vanished, a new whisper began to swirl, soft yet insistent, as if the world itself struggled to preserve its memories. Fitran felt the chill creeping in, shadows swirling around him. "I will not let them erase us," he replied to the void, his voice firm. "I will remind them, even if they forget."
Fitran stood tall, the scars on his body igniting with remnants of anger and loss, shadows like flames greedily licking at his feet. Now, his body bore the weight of Elbert's power, a painful yet strengthening burden of memories. "Do you think you can become a god?" he spat, as if Beelzebub himself were listening. "This curse may tear me apart, but it will not devour me entirely."
He would not become a new tyrant, nor would he erase himself for the sake of mercy. "I will be the bridge," he vowed to himself, his resolve flowing fiercely like a tide. "I will remember for those whose names have slipped through the cracks of time."
Instead, he stepped forward—alone, yet not without support. The path before him was shrouded in twilight, the world around him thin and fragile, like the last leaf of autumn clinging to a dead branch. Yet, Fitran had become a singular paradox: a reaper who remembers, a survivor who cannot forget.
"You must choose your battles," a voice from his past echoed in his mind, a gentle reminder from a long-gone friend. "But with each memory you hold, you forge a new path."
As long as he clung to those memories, the world could begin—albeit slightly—to heal. "I will shape that path with blood if I must," he declared with conviction, his heart racing under the weight of the choice he had made.
And in the stillness where Elbert once stood, the air pulsed—not with melancholy, but with the promise of newfound significance. "It is far from over," Fitran murmured to the fading light, each exhale a fierce act of defiance. "Each day brings a fresh beginning, and I shall not let it slip through my fingers."