Chapter 490 The City Buried by Time
The gentle wind rustles along the backs of the rocky hills, caressing the ancient stones with a false tenderness that masks the inevitable cruelty of time. Red dust crackles softly each time it is blown, creating a thin fog that covers the sky above a vast unnamed basin—a wound in the skin of the earth that never heals and stands as a silent witness to the passage of time.
At the edge of the yawning chasm, two figures stand.
The first wears a long black coat with tassels that have worn out from the journey of a thousand nights. In her eyes, there is no light—only a reflection of the world she once believed in. Hanging from her chest is an asymmetrical metal pendant, pulsing softly with a bluish light. She is Fitran Fate, the only one brave enough to step into a place that even history refuses to name. In silence, she feels the burden that cannot be contained in her heart—as if every step she takes is a sign from an unavoidable fate. Each gust of wind brings her back to bitter memories, reminding her of the world she left behind, a world that became the backbone of hope and emptiness.
Beside her stands another creature—tall, thin, and repulsive in her terrifying beauty. Her hair is long and white, as if time itself has surrendered to aging her. Her body is draped in a luxurious robe woven from flesh, threads of magic, and remnants of forgotten cruelty. Her eyes—three pairs, one in her forehead—gaze down into the chasm with a hunger wrapped in a blanket of laziness.
Beelzebub. The Predator. The Ninth Form of the Never-Full Stomach. In the dark aura surrounding her, she is not merely a terrifying creature; she is a reminder of human greed, of all that has been wagered in the pursuit of power. The cold air of the night wind seems to be a whisper from trapped souls, highlighting the departure of hope that has long been lost. With a cynical smile, Beelzebub fully understands who Fitran is—a person trapped between strength and vulnerability.
"So... this is Narthrador," Beelzebub says lightly, as if gazing at the ruins of a night market, not an ancient city full of curses.
Fitran is silent. She raises her left hand. In her grasp—covered by black Voidmark gloves—pulses a small artifact: Origin Code. A piece of the Gödelian Labyrinth, a symbol of an incomplete system, which can only be solved by something outside the system itself.
Amidst the roar of the wind battering the ruins, Fitran's heart beats faster, as if the artifact in her hand is sending direct signals into her being. She knows that in every pulse of light emanating from the Origin Code, there lies both hope and threat; an opportunity to understand what has been lost from her life, while also becoming a prison of what she cannot change.
The Origin Code glows. Lines of light spread to the ground, bouncing off debris, and redrawing the contours of the chasm. Slowly, the image painted beneath the dust fog becomes clear.
A large spiral staircase. Cracked pillars rising from the depths. A mechanical gate half-closed by stone. A giant gear symbol carved in the middle of the valley, resembling an eye that never sleeps. As she gazes toward the gate, the dark interlude in her mind is suffocating. How sad it is, this city is a remnant of glory now imprisoned in silence, like her memories trapped in shadows.
"Narthrador," Fitran finally says, her voice almost older than the air itself. "The city rejected by time. Created by humans, abandoned by machines. Now... the burial place of the only entity that might lead me to that memory."