Chapter 500 The Engineer’s Manuscript Failed
After passing through the octagonal room where Fitran's body began to be recalibrated and Beelzebub revealed her feelings, they arrived at a narrow corridor that could only accommodate one person. Its walls were not made of steel or glass, but of thin metal sheets like ancient paper, inscribed with symbols that moved on their own. This was the Written Memory Corridor, a place where notes were not read with the eyes, but with intention. Each step produced a soft echo, as if the corridor patiently awaited to reveal the secrets buried within.
Fitran stepped slowly. His new body—half human, half fractal void—vibrated with every resonance from the writings on the walls. Each symbol tried to define him, and each time they failed, they transformed, becoming more complex, as if trying to chase him. In his mind, he felt whispers from his past, memories preserved in silence, depicting who he was before this change. "Will I become myself again?" he asked the gentle breeze that passed through the corridor, even though he knew the answer would not come.
At the end of the corridor, they found a small door made of weathered bronze, bearing the emblem: ΔA.D. It creaked, as if the door had been submerged in a tsunami of time, reminding them of all that had been neglected. A damp aroma enveloped the surroundings, making the air heavy, filled with buried memories.
Beelzebub recognized the symbol and hissed softly. "Alvis Dernam." Her voice was no more than a whisper reserved for the darkness of night, the moon illuminating the chemistry of their forms mingling in the void.
Fitran turned, his gaze filled with insatiable curiosity. "The first engineer?" There was something stirring in his voice, as if he were reciting a mantra lost among the footprints of history.
"More than that. He not only created the foundation of Deus. He tried to rewrite meaning as a mechanical device. The first man to attempt to make love... a calculation." In her voice lay a deep longing, as if Beelzebub herself had once felt the intricate web of love—a formula that transcended time and space.
Fitran touched the door, his fingers feeling the cold, rough texture of the bronze that seemed to tell a story. In that moment, he felt a gentle breeze reminiscent of the whispers of souls trapped in another dimension.
It opened by itself—slowly, as if hesitant, like lighting a candle in the midst of a storm. This door, rich with mystery, seemed to guard secrets that wanted to be breached but were bound by higher laws.
Inside the small room, there was only one object: a table, and on it, a metal book. Not thick. Not heavy. Yet the aura emanating from it was like the whispers of voices buried for thousands of years, stirring an insatiable curiosity, like a rainbow thrown behind dark, threatening clouds.
Fitran approached. He touched its surface, as if touching the seepage of unspoken history.
The book opened by itself.