Initially, a thick fog enveloped everything, creating a shroud of ambiguity that narrowed the limits of vision. Faint sounds began to emerge, disrupting the silence as if pulling it back to the painful reality, piercing through the tranquility that surrounded it. Slowly, shapes began to materialize from the depths of darkness, forming memories intertwined in his mind, like shadows of nostalgia rippling in still water.
Fitran stood amidst the ruins of his memories, as if trapped in a labyrinth of recollections that haunted his every step. The past now appeared hazy, like a distant shadow; yet, the key moments remained etched, gnawing at a soul once filled with fervor. Countless times, he had run through the streets of Thirtos, struggling against injustice and striving to protect Rinoa—precious moments when life felt full of meaning and strength. However, all of that now felt so far away, as the choice to remain silent and observe gnawed at every passing second, inscribing a profound sense of regret.
The fragments devoured by Beelzebub left unnamed voids, like pages roughly torn from the revered sacred book. However, the remaining pieces began to reassemble, slowly, like stained glass shards being rearranged by unseen hands, recreating a once beautiful picture. In this state of despair, he pondered the next step to take. "Is all of this in vain?" he thought, recalling the moments he dared to stand up for the weaker. At this moment, he could only be a mute witness to the destruction surrounding him.
Names floated endlessly, like faint shadows brushing against the recesses of memory. Unknown faces emerged from the darkness, dancing without context or story, merely reminding him of the inevitable loss, as if every memory harbored an open wound within his heart.
Yet, there was something etched into his soul, indelible:
The silence he chose for himself, like shadows enveloping every corner of solitude with a depth full of mystery.
He knew who was responsible for the killing.
He knew who twisted the law.
He knows who tore apart the city of Thirtos from within. Yet, in this silence, he continues to battle against the shadows of the past that often whisper, "You should have been there for Rinoa."
But he can only watch from a distance, trapped in shadows that do not touch either light or darkness. As the rain of memories pours over his mind, he recalls moments when his bravery pushed him to confront foes far more powerful, silencing all fear and doubt. Now, he is merely a spectator, reflecting on his shattered desires and a despair that seems to swallow all hope.
"It's no longer my duty," he whispered to the indifferent wind, his soft voice fading into emptiness. Guilt gnawed at his fragile heart, bringing fleeting memories of times when he felt he was in the right place, as if every step he took was an irreplaceable decision. But now, that choice felt like an unhealed scar, painful and filled with regret.
"They will devour each other. I will only touch this world once more... if Rinoa is in danger." With this thought, he grasped a glimmer of hope buried within him—a hope that could perhaps lead him back to the life he once knew, when everything felt possible and joyful.
The wind swept through with an empty sound, as if the world below had forgotten how to breathe, filling the air with a chilling silence.
Fitran stood at the edge of the ancient clock tower, directly beneath the hands of time frozen at twelve. Before him loomed a gigantic machine of rusted iron—a monument of the past that had lost its purpose—confronted by a time that no longer acknowledged it, although occasionally it still emitted sounds like nostalgic sighs from an era forgotten by many.
From that height, the city unfolded beneath him like an open wound: the grand rooftops of Gaia's palace reflecting the moonlight that illuminated the night with a deceptive glow, the markets of Thirtos trembling in fear as they recovered from the recent coup that had rocked them, and the ruins of the Academy of Atlantis still billowing foul aether that lingered like a bitter memory that could not be erased.
Fitran stood motionless. His black cloak billowed slowly, resisting the frozen flow of time around him. He no longer needed words, nor thirsted for meaning. For now, he was an observer of the world—no longer one of its inhabitants struggling to change fate.
Fitran's memories drifted far back into the past, when he was still an unyielding warrior, fighting alongside Rinoa—his dearest friend and true love. With blazing courage, they dreamed of changing the world, battling rampant injustice, and upholding the buried truth. However, that dream shattered into pieces when betrayal struck from within their own ranks, destroying everything they had fought for. Now, Fitran was trapped in those dark memories, where the choice to become an observer was merely a way to avoid the pain that gnawed at his heart.
Now, he watches the chaos and despair from a distance, his heart roiling in an unbearable inner conflict. "Should I act? Can I change anything?" he thinks, trapped between the burning guilt and the crushing powerlessness. Rinoa's cries still echo in his ears, reminding him of the bitter decision that forced him to distance himself, leaving behind the meaningful struggle they once shared. "Does she still remember me? Or have I become merely a shadow of a forgotten past?"
"It's too early," he muttered, his voice barely audible, drowned out by the tumult of anxiety around him.
"It is not yet time for me to descend."
In the distance, the nobles debated in a chamber layered with magic, their voices muffled by waves of vigilance. Young people shouted truths crafted from fragments of lies, challenging the winds with a fervent spirit, while Arkanum Veritas rewrote the laws with ink made from blood and illusion, creating a new narrative for a world long forgotten.
Fitran observed everything with eyes that betrayed no emotion—only a mysterious depth forged from ancient light and the shadows of primordial darkness. He could hear their heartbeats, feel the pulse of intent vibrating through the unseen currents of magic.
"The world has not yet transcended itself," he thought.
"No one has yet challenged the foundations of reality. No one is worthy of my destruction."
Then, the clock's hands moved with a subtle rumble. A small tick echoed, followed by a soft chime marking the passage of time—a chime unexpectedly striking thirteen—the existence of time that had never been accounted for in the known world system.
Fitran squinted as he gazed into the unseen void. Shadows of the past began to haunt him, unsettling the tranquility he had strived to build. Memories flooded back of the times when he and Rinoa stood side by side, fiercely battling injustice. They overcame every obstacle with unmatched fervor and soaring hope, but all of that shattered by a single tragedy he could never forget. A wrong decision cost him Rinoa, forcing him to drown in his own observations, disconnected from the world he once fought for.
"Or perhaps… I was the one who was wrong," he thought, his emotions swirling within. The plans that once seemed clear now appeared muddled and full of doubt. A single question lingered like a dark shadow: was his decision to refrain from acting this time correct?
Terra, Grand Castle Gaia,
That day, Iris awoke from a terrifying dream, cold sweat drenching her neck, while the darkness outside the castle window concealed a chilling mystery. The atmosphere around her felt heavy, and she heard a faint chime beginning to disrupt her peace, as if the sound emerged from the deepest recesses of the darkness.
One... two... thirteen.
She turned to the east, her eyes fixed on the old clock tower that stood proudly despite being overshadowed by the shadows of history. The tower, which had long ceased to function for hundreds of years, appeared neglected by time—its moss-covered walls and the clock hands frozen in silence, creating a profound sense of nostalgia on that dark night. Each detail beckoned Iris to reflect on the passage of time she had experienced.
But in the thick darkness of night, amidst the whispers of the wind and the rustle of leaves, she felt something different.
Someone had returned.
Yet the world was not destroyed. It was not yet worthy of condemnation. Thus, she—the being that stood above time and magic—chose to remain silent. In the dimness of the thick night, she felt as if trapped between two worlds: a past filled with bright hopes and a present shrouded in darkness, laden with shadows of disappointment. Each chime of the clock broke the silence of the night, reminding her of how quickly time passed; precious moments that now seemed like morning dew, swallowed by the rays of the sun. She knew she was now merely a shadow of her former self, a figure that once shone brightly.
"Fitran, why," Iris murmured, her voice trembling, her heart filled with pain. In the depths of her uncertainty, each word felt heavy, like a burden too difficult to lift. Yet for Fitran, the answer was like a mystery tightly wrapped, too challenging to reveal. He longed to fight again, to confront all the fears that haunted him, but the fear of losing once more shackled him in a painful silence.