Chapter 439 The Girl from the Nine Belly Hell
Their bodies did not fall, but the world around them slipped away, as if gravity ignored their existence. Layer by layer, meaning peeled away, taking them to a zone that could not be understood by geometry, color, or emotion, as if placing them beyond the boundaries of known reality.
In the silence echoing from all directions, Fitran and Beelzebub stood on a plain made of open jaws—each jaw filled with eyes, and each eye radiating questions that would never be answered. Each eye had a different color—some shimmered with deep sorrow, while others emitted burning anger, as if ready to draw in any soul brave enough to approach.
"Welcome to the third layer," Beelzebub said slowly, her voice heavier than before. "This is the place where meaning tries to consume its creator." The voice rose, vibrating through the dense air, piercing the silence with repressed pain, like the scream of a soul waiting to be released.
Fitran did not speak. He began to feel the structure of his will tear apart. In this place, even the will to love could be seen as a form of aggression. Waves of tension crashed against his soul, wondering whether love was truly a strength, or a burden that ensnared him in darkness.
And the creatures here... sensed it.
They emerged like mist, but not air. They were Nullask—entities that only appeared when someone tried to give meaning to emptiness. Tracing their forms, they looked like shadows of smoke, flowing in unconventional shapes, as if they were searching for a reason to exist.
These creatures had no faces, only floating frameworks of logic: statements that failed to be proven. They surrounded Fitran with hollow gazes, challenging him to immerse himself in the suffocating arguments that were futile, as if every breath carried the weight of an endless discussion.
"If love exists, why has it left you?"
"If you are Fitran, why is no one calling your name anymore?"
"If will is power, why is Rinoa still imprisoned?"
Each question cut deep. Not physically, but existentially. Fitran began to lose vision in one eye. Not due to injury—but because his definition was erased by paradox. He felt as if he were in a cracked mirror, where each shard reflected uncertainty and unspoken sorrow.