Chapter 37 Fitran Memories (8)
A young woman with golden-blonde hair, messy yet orderly, creates the illusion that each strand glows softly in the heavenly light emanating from behind her. Her sharp eyes exude an aura that is hard to articulate—blending the wrath of the gods with the humanity left behind by the passage of time, generating a tension that seeps into the soul of anyone who beholds her.
She wears a long gown that is the perfect fusion of aristocratic elegance and military strength. The deep black color dominates her appearance, adding a mysterious ambiance, while bright blue folds dance gracefully at the edges of the fabric, creating an image of divine will that remains unpredictable. A chain belt adorns her waist, as if binding something beyond the flesh—perhaps a magical power or a curse she carries, giving the impression that she is the guardian between two contrasting worlds.
The bright orange cloak fluttered with fervor, resembling a flickering flame, creating a striking contrast against the surrounding inky blackness. It was as if he were a blazing inferno in the midst of a realm of light, inviting both fear and admiration. Behind him, atop the grand staircase leading to the heavens, the silhouette of a massive magic circle glowed with pride—a symbol hinting at layers of meaning: redemption, punishment, or the throne of power he had seized from the depths of the sky.
His steps were light yet terrifying, as though this figure had come not to negotiate—but to determine fate. His golden eyes sparkled sharply, as if able to pierce directly into Fitran's soul, reading every anxiety and secret buried deep within the darkness of his heart.
"I am bored with my former self," she said, his voice smooth yet vibrating, each word cutting sharply like a blade that left an ache in the mind. "Hunger is no longer enough. Now I am the decision. I have not come to consume you, Fitran. I have come to decree what deserves to live... and what should be forgotten."
"So, you're now conforming to my criteria," Fitran retorted with a mocking tone, his eyes gleaming with provocation as if relishing every word that slipped from his lips. His voice sliced through the air, sharp as a dagger, heightening the already boiling tension between them.
Beelzebub fell silent, his gaze empty like the starless dark of night, as if trapped in an endless maze of confusion. She couldn't grasp the subtle, teasing undertone conveyed by the human before him.
Silence enveloped the hall, but it was not a soothing silence—instead, it vibrated with a rumble in the head. Like thousands of voices speaking in unison, it created a thrilling chaos, as if anticipating a storm, before suddenly falling into a simultaneous hush. The voice belonged to Beelzebub, yet it did not come from his lips. It spoke directly into Fitran, penetrating the darkness that confined his thoughts, as if peeling away the walls of misunderstanding that limited him.
"What keeps you here, Fitran? After everything I've stripped from your memory. After names, places, feelings, and even your mother's voice, which I've torn apart and chewed like paper dust. What remains of you?"
Fitran didn't respond with words. He answered with a stubborn silence, as hard as a gravestone refusing to be dug up, resisting surrender to the questions that shook his soul with waves of doubt. Yet Beelzebub smiled gently, as if witnessing a tragic dance of resistance upon the vibrating stage of life.
"Ah... so this isn't about who you are. It's about what remains, refusing to be annihilated from you."