Chapter 513 The Machine that Rejects Will
The simulation sky has gone dark.
The remnants of rain from the logic that has been hacked now flow like rivers of light across the city floors. Some buildings begin to change shape—not because they are damaged, but because they are learning to adapt. The faint creaking sound of structures struggling to survive echoes among the buildings, as if whispering to one another, sharing secrets about their existence made of silicon and iron, while thousands of glimmers of light blend with the crowd of shadows playing on the tall walls.
Fitran and Beelzebub stand in the middle of a once-bustling square, a place where humans were simulated as laughing objects. Now the square is empty, silent... until the floor beneath them begins to open on its own. With every crack that appears, a dim light from within the ground emits a mossy green hue, like morning dew on old leaves, signaling that the world beneath them is still breathing in a forgotten dream, waiting to awaken from its long slumber.
Without warning, they are sucked into the lower layers of Narthrador, a hidden world not listed on any system map, revealing an underground path filled with metal roots and abandoned gears, disconnected from anywhere. In this place, time seems to stand still; every passing second feels like a thousand years. A strange, pungent aroma, a mix of rust and despair, envelops them, awakening a tension that creeps slowly across their skin.
Yet, amidst this mechanical silence, a whispering voice echoes, as if produced by an unseen presence:
"Please do not awaken us again."
They continue their journey and arrive at an underground dome—a space resembling the ruins of an ancient temple, surrounded by shadows of eeriness.
Inside, hundreds of automatons are arranged, but their forms are far different from the Deus they know: they appear damaged and twisted, some faceless, while others are petrified in a curled position, as if trapped in a state of stasis. Alienation fills the space, although strangely... they are all active.
They move slightly, but not with the rhythm of regular tasks. Instead, their movements resemble creatures refusing to be commanded.
Each movement they make reminds one of shadows wandering in the dark; as if souls trapped within the remaining metal frames, caught in a broken and non-functional order.
A low voice vibrates in the air, creating waves of resonance as if the machines are trying to communicate with one another, forming a melody of sorrow and rejection that touches the soul. Beelzebub steps back slightly, mesmerized and shocked. "Is this... a colony of the discarded?" she asks hesitantly.