Chapter 491 Beelzebub and the Smell of Rust
Their footsteps left marks in the rusty red dust covering the metal floor. Each step produced a faint clinking sound, as if the city was still dreaming in its long slumber—and they were the disturbance in that dream. The first room they entered resembled a temple corridor, but not one for humans or gods. On the left and right, the walls were etched with mechanical panels that once might have been control terminals. Now, severed cables hung like rotting intestines, failing to convey their last messages.
At the same time, Fitran bit his lip, feeling the tension enveloping him. Memories of the past surged, when the machines still functioned and life flowed through these cables. He knew that every second in this place reflected emptiness—a peace long lost, replaced by the noise that seeped into their souls. As if the machines, now mere empty frames, awaited to be resurrected from the darkness.
The air inside Narthrador was different. Heavier, not from pressure, but from something older than time itself—the smell of rust mingled with the aroma of... burnt flesh.
Beelzebub, with an eager demeanor, seemed captivated by this atmosphere. There was something about the silence and emptiness that thrilled her, as if every corner of this space held dark secrets waiting to be uncovered. She felt as if she could hear the screams of the forgotten mechanical parts, and in that silence, those voices softly called to her, urging her to feel more. All of this was part of the captivating narrative of collapse—a grand tale of inevitable rebellion.
Fitran paused for a moment, taking a breath and stifling a cough. Beelzebub inhaled deeply, then smiled widely, like an addict who had just tasted the purest opiate.
"Ahhh," Beelzebub sighed. "This... is the authentic aroma of destruction. Rust, dead electricity, and failed hopes. This place is like my paradise before I learned to love the suffering of humanity."
The two characters exchanged glances, caught in a tense silence. Fitran felt something strange—Beelzebub's excitement made him feel alienated amidst the awakening machines vibrating within his soul. He understood that they were not just standing on the ruins of technology, but on the brink of a revolution surrounded by loss and anger. A desire to understand what was happening between them, something deeper than just aroma and decay.
Fitran turned, sharpening his gaze.
"Don't play around. We're not here to savor the nostalgia of death."
"Of course not," Beelzebub replied with a grin, "but allow me to enjoy the sad souls of these machines. Their rust smells... speaks."
"Speaks?"