Memory of Heaven:Romance Written By Fate Through Beyond Infinity Time

After leaving the Gear Tomb, Fitran and Beelzebub now walked through the old corridor known in the old blueprint as The Hollow Passage—the unfinished underground passages of the city for reasons not recorded. In this place, the architecture did not follow geometric laws; the walls were wavy and cracked, the floor rose for no reason, and the ceiling narrowed in an unreasonable way, as if expressing the instability of what was once supposed to be an orderly space.

However, more than its damaged and curious physical form, this corridor held something far more disturbing: prayers that did not come from the mouths of its disciples.

Fitran first felt it as a whisper—not in his ears, but creeping into his skin like a cold wind carrying echoes from another world. Beelzebub paused for a moment, frowning and touching her chest with a surprised expression, as if the world around them had changed with the presence of something invisible.

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"This... is a mantra," she murmured, her voice almost drowned in the mystery of the place. "But it's not a mantra for attacking or healing. It's... a self-spinning prayer."

In the dark corner of the corridor, shadows trembled as if summoned by something unseen, swirling and rustling, as if dancing under the dim light that penetrated the cracks. A soft rustling sound was heard, like the whisper of trapped souls passing through walls that held dark secrets and buried suffering. Occasionally, Fitran felt an unnatural chill, as if an invisible hand was creeping along his back, reminding him that they were not alone in this darkness.

Fitran pressed his hand against the wall, its surface cool and rough as if calling forth forgotten memories.

He heard—not in words, but in a deep structure of meaning, thick and oppressive in the air.

"Give us our bodies back, not to live... but to believe again."

"We have lost our forms... yet we can still hope."

"We... remember that we once could love."

This prayer was not ordinary magic. It was not spoken by humans, not written by masters, and not encoded in protocols. It was an era woven in the vibrations of the ether, a poem emerging from marginalized existence.