Chapter 27 Beelzebub (1)
"Fitran, are you sure you want to do this?" Beelzebub said, seemingly hiding his sorrow.
She was a demon who, despite being trapped in the darkness of his soul, harbored deep and complex feelings. It seemed that the slow passage of time had transformed him, or perhaps it was the eternal fascination she felt for the young man standing before him, a figure radiating light amidst the darkness.
There were no explosions.
There was no light bursting forth.
Only a pulsing silence, penetrating the space with a tension that could be felt. Beelzebub jolted, his shapeless tongue lashing out wildly, trying to expel feelings she could not digest. One last fragment—so small, so silent—yet carrying a taste that defied logic: a nostalgia that never occurred.
"What is this...? This is not a memory."
"This... is the root."
Fitran, half-conscious, let out a soft groan. But it wasn't the pain that tormented him. His body trembled not from fear, but felt like a transient vessel for something older than himself, older than the magic itself, older than infinite time.
From the deepest cracks of his existence, from memories even Fitran did not know she possessed, "It" emerged—a Will Without a Name. Not an entity, not a spirit, but an ancient intent planted by a being that died long before history began to chronicle the tales of humankind.