In this place, there is no sky soaring high.
The ground beneath feels non-existent.
Only a pink mist hangs in the air, like a gentle whisper weaving through the ownerless shadows, creating an atmosphere that is mysterious and filled with longing, akin to a tapestry of emotions buried in the silence of the night.
In such an ambiance, even time seems reluctant to flow; each second feels like a gaze from someone yearning to be remembered, yet never recognized.
This place holds no name,
for love does not require a title, only the sensibility of presence.
Yet today, love will be tested not by humans—but by one who has long ceased to be human.
One who stands at the threshold of light and darkness, allowing neither to touch his heart.
Fitran.
Asmodeous has been waiting,
his form astonishing; a beauty that cannot be captured in any artistic record, seemingly amalgamating elements grander than mere visuals.
He embodies all that has ever been cherished by someone—a shape of a first lover, the warm embrace of a mother, to the gaze of one we have never possessed.
His face can transform according to the hopes of each onlooker,
but Fitran… does not gaze.
"Finally, you have arrived," Asmodeous said, his voice echoing like a gentle whisper against the neck from a long-lost figure.
Fitran remained silent.
His eyes were frozen lakes, deep and untouchable.
He understood that this voice was not merely a greeting but a trap.
Asmodeous raised his hand, and thick fog swirled, forming a giant mirror that shimmered faintly. However, the mirror room was not a reflection of the existing world; it was an echo of a dark past. Wounds that had never even been named lay sprawled across its surface, revealing forgotten tales shrouded in shadows of sorrow.
There, the image of a small child emerged, drenched by ceaseless rain, tightly embracing the lifeless body of their mother, capturing the depth of an unspeakable loss. On the other side, a young man stood alone in the city he once saved, his face etched with sadness and a sense of loss trapped within memories.
"Look," Asmodeous whispered softly yet enticingly, revealing profound wisdom. "You long to be loved as well, don't you? Don't deceive yourself. Love does not weaken you; it is, in fact, the life force that can ignite your spirit and rekindle hopes that have long faded."
Fitran stared at everything with a vacant expression, lost in memories that gnawed at his soul. He remained silent for a long time, contemplating the trembling reflection in the mirror. Then, slowly, he raised his hand with firm resolve.
"Uncertainty Shell: Schrödinger's Dome."
In an instant, the mirror shattered, releasing a piercing sound like the shattering of hope. The mist ceased to flow, holding its breath as if the world around them was waiting. Asmodeous's face—once shifting, displaying doubt and intrigue—froze in an expression that gripped tightly, as if trapped in an eternal moment. This space no longer yielded to hope; it was filled with the suffocating weight of uncertainty.
He was now in a state of quantum.
And love… could not exist in uncertainty. Because love requires a firm conviction, a radiant glow amidst the darkness. Without that, it is merely a shadow waiting for a body, longing to become real but forever trapped in an illusion, like fireworks that never explode.
Asmodeous swayed, his fragility evident as if he were facing a tremendous storm. His form began to crack, yet he resisted; every fiber within him fought to remain whole. From within, he forged the final entity brimming with desire and sorrow:
Thirst of the Void Embrace.
Hundreds of gentle hands emerged, like shadows dancing in the dim light, accompanied by echoing whispers filled with longing that filled the room with hope. A fabricated love, yet perfect in its arrogance and beauty. They did not attack Fitran—they pleaded to embrace him, inviting and yearning for a singular purpose: to save him from himself.
"You cannot refuse this," Asmodeous whispered, his voice trembling as if laden with pain. "You cannot kill something… that only wishes to love you."
Fitran gazed at him, in the silence that hung heavily between them.
Then, with a calm yet resolute voice, he spoke:
"I do not kill."
"I merely… erase the reflection."
With a gentle wave of his hand, that love shattered—like a mirror that had just realized it never truly reflected anyone's presence.
Asmodeous became nothing more than a voice, vanishing without form or face,
leaving only the echo of a love that never truly existed to be born into this world.
"I just want to be loved…" he said, his voice barely above a whisper—a hopeful prayer that mirrored the longing in a heart weighed down by despair.
Fitran turned away, his steps calm, as if revealing a strength not lost in emotion.
There was no victory in his heart; nor was there a burning desire for revenge.
Only… a silence deeper than the emptiness cloaking the horizon.
"Then first find your own form," he said softly, as if stitching the essence of his soul into words.
Then, he stepped out of a world that did not require mirrors,
into a darkness more transparent, to a place where shadows no longer manifested.
Fitran did not smile. Nor did he cry.
He did not feel mighty for conquering love; instead of feeling strong, he felt tranquility.
He only knew:
love that does not stem from freedom is not a gift—but a curse.
And his task was not to love… but to maintain the balance of an illusion too beautiful to be believed, as if dancing on the edge of a chasm between reality and fantasy.
The wind seemed to freeze, not a single drop moving, while time continued to march forward, creating an undefined empty rhythm.
Like the monotonous ticking of a clock, directionless, purposeless, as if counting down the wasted moments.
After the destruction of Asmodeous, Fitran found himself stranded in a cold and mysterious foreign land, where not a single name could express the deep wounds he bore in silence, a place where every second felt like countless years.
He sat in contemplation at the edge of a crack in reality, a location unmarked on any map because he had created it himself—a space between gentle forgiveness and frightening oblivion.
His hands still remembered the touch of love he had never received. Not because he was incapable of feeling it…
but because he understood that to receive meant allowing himself to open old wounds, to become vulnerable.
"And he had closed that gate.
With the power of his determination, it had been long ago.
That night, he fell into a deep, colorful dream.
In his imagination, he was not Fitran the balancer.
He was merely a small child,
standing alone in the midst of pouring rain, embracing something unseen, searching for a voice.
Searching for a call.
Searching… for someone to speak his name not out of power, but out of love.
And when he awoke, his eyes were wet.
Not from the torment of tears, but because his body had long forgotten how not to yearn for something lost.
He walked, aimlessly as usual. Yet this time, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt an urge to stop. Not because of the fatigue weighing down his body, but because there was a feeling that logic could not destroy.
A doubt filled the space in his mind.
"Have I been right all this time?
"Will erasing desires make this world cleaner?
Or will it only leave me emptier, faster than others?"
In the thick silence of the night, the name Asmodeous echoed once more.
Not as a terrifying enemy, but as a mirror reflecting fragility.
And Fitran, the eraser, realized the bitter irony that struck his soul:
"What I most want to erase…
is a part of myself."
He stopped at a small ruin,
a sacred place once filled with prayers and hopes. Now, it lay silent, wrapped in an oppressive stillness.
He sat on the shattered altar, gazing at the dark sky that offered him no answers. Finally, slowly, he whispered.
"I want to be loved…"
But his voice seemed to vanish, carried away by the wind before his words could finish. It was as if he was displaying doubt about whether he was worthy of hearing it again.
"Why do I always feel so alienated?" Fitran continued his monologue, gazing at the ruins with eyes full of questions, as if searching for answers in the emptiness surrounding him. "Does love truly exist, or is it merely an illusion we create to fill this void, an effort to combat loneliness?"
He took a deep breath, holding back all the pain that filled his heart. "This fear, this anxiety of losing, seems to bind me in darkness. Is all of this just a game in which I am an actor without a script?"
All this time, he had fought against his pain, but now he felt weary. "Is there no other way to love without being hurt? Shouldn't love be freeing rather than dragging us deeper into despair?"
Fitran felt his emotions surging, no longer able to be contained. "Perhaps I should first strive to love myself, rather than demand love from others. Can I find that strength?"
He paused for a moment, igniting a small flicker of hope within his heart. "I want to love and be loved… but what does it all mean without genuine acceptance?"
And there, in the quietest corner…
Fitran felt defeat once again.
And for what felt like the umpteenth time, he sensed he was a little more dead than before.
It was not an enemy that weakened him.
Not a demon that plagued him. Nor was it the battles that shook his life.
What weakens him… is the memory, as if each recollection binds his body with invisible chains, pulling him back to dark times. The reality that no victory can replace the touch that never came, an absence that seeps deep into the crevices of his heart.
As Fitran hears a voice in his heart, it is as if something awakens memories far beyond his comprehension; the voice is not only heard but also felt: the entity could be an ancient being reminding him of an era beyond human reach, perhaps a god who has transcended involvement with the world, or simply the will of the universe, whispering softly. This represents a form of "neutral feeling" from the universe, echoing in profound tranquility, inviting Fitran to contemplate the meaning of existence and the uncertainties surrounding him.
I am not a god.
Nor am I a devil.
I am merely the remnants of an original will, caught in the silence between two battling forces, before light and dark split apart. I exist in the space between choice and destiny, trapped in the dilemma between vengeance and forgiveness.
In the midst of this contemplation, I see him.
Fitran.
His name resonates like the cold breath of wind against the backdrop of night, bringing a sudden refreshment in the midst of darkness. He is neither the strongest nor the highest, but he is the emptiest, like a cave harboring secrets in its silence.
For every victory he attains is not for himself.
Rather, it serves to protect the world from a form of love that is misguided, from a power too sweet to reject, a duty that seems to convey an unexpressed burden. And the world remains unaware of whether it should offer its gratitude… or cast him away in deep confusion.
I have witnessed heroes die for a justice that never materializes.
I have seen devils weep from an overwhelming solitude. But none are like him.
Someone who has discarded all forms of attachment, not out of hatred, but out of fear of becoming weak when he cares, as if he wears a shield that limits his soul.
"How sad it is for such a strong being...
who cannot sleep without keeping his sword under the pillow of memories, awake in fear of a world he cannot possess."
Tonight, he sits.
Not in meditation. Not in prayer. But like a child waiting for someone to come for him, even though he knows no one will arrive, longing for a fading hope with eyes full of yearning.
I want to touch him.
Not to change him…
only to acknowledge his existence, to offer warmth in the silence that envelops him.
But I am neither love.
Nor sadness.
I cannot embrace.
I can only watch from a distance.
Fitran gazes at the vast, infinite blue sky.
Not to ask for a sign, but perhaps... simply to feel how small he is amid the grandeur of nature.
As a gentle breeze stirs the edges of his cloak, I hear his breath cracking and hollow, like the sound of shattered glass.
"I am no longer human…" he says in a voice barely audible.
But I know, in the hidden recesses of his heart, he still longs for someone to tell him to stop fighting.
Not with a harsh command, but with a warm embrace.
I, who cannot speak, want to say:
"You do not have to erase everything, Fitran.
Some things must remain painful for you to feel alive."
But that voice will not emerge.
I am merely a shadow, an existence too old to hope.
Thus, I watch, with the same sorrow as before.
And if one day Fitran finally collapses—
not by a visible enemy, but by the longing he has killed within himself,
I will be the only one who keeps his story in memory.
So the world knows:
even light can feel cold if it continually refuses the warmth of an embrace.
He walks again, each of his steps carrying an invisible burden.
A path of footsteps without marks, like a spirit wandering between two worlds.
And I, like a shadow that never touches the ground,
follow him in a silence filled with empathy and compassion, as if honoring each of his steps, though unspoken.
Because even such a magnificent being… only wishes to be understood.
Fitran draws upon the last remnants of mana in his body, channeling it into his legendary sword Excalibur, which shines with magical light.
The sky does not stir as Fitran raises his hand with determination.
But the earth feels the change, trembling with tension, while time quickens the beating of his heart.
"Before him, Asmodeous was still laughing, his voice booming like thunder, piercing the depths of human understanding. However, that laughter slowly faded, muffled by the presence of a thin line of light that suddenly appeared in the air, no wider than a strand of hair, yet sharp enough to slice through shadows like a heavenly dagger.
"Ultimate Magic, Destiny Magic, Fatum Incisio," whispered Fitran, the words flowing softly from his lips, laden with meaning. And the world cracked, like glass shattering amidst the fury of the wind.
The line divided reality—as if the universe, reluctant, was forced to surrender to its will. To the left, a bleak future where Fitran lay dead with open eyes, staring into the void that threatened him. To the right, a dark past where he had never been born. And in the middle stood Fitran, defying and struggling against both destinies.
"Fate is a lie," he murmured softly, his voice like a gentle whispering wind, pleading for forgiveness from something that had never loved him.
His body began to fade slowly—not due to physical wounds, but because his existence was torn apart by impossible choices. Each time this magic was used, he had to sacrifice a part of himself: the memories that shaped him, the faces that people gazed upon, the voice that was familiar, and even his name, which was beginning to blur.
"Today, what is lost is the name of a mother—and the tears that should accompany her loss no longer know for whom they fall, drifting aimlessly in the air.
"You create miracles," whispered Asmodeous in his last breath, his face melting like wax under the light, trapped in the shards of time that were forced to change. "And you yourself will not be remembered as part of it."
Fitran fell silent, unable to respond. Memories of cheerful laughter floated like mist, growing fainter until he could no longer recall how that sound should have resonated.
All that remained were silent footsteps, tracing the paths of battles he had won—a hollow victory that left him devoid of understanding regarding what had truly compelled him to fight.
"Final Denial: the ultimate refusal that carries profound consequences."
In an instant, the voice of love vanished into the piercing silence.
Asmodeous's form shattered into fragments of emotion, lingering in the air—unspoken love, embraces that existed only as shadows in imagination, and a name whispered in the gentle breeze, yet unheard by anyone.
Each time Final Denial was activated, the faint shape of the denied entity—in this case, the estranged part of Fitran—emerged, conjuring darkness that enveloped him as if dragging him into a sea of memories. Though silent, their presence touched like a shadow, evoking a suffocating nostalgia and reviving long-buried pain deep within his heart. In this tense atmosphere, enemies began to question their own reality, ensnared in a span of time filled with wounds and regrets.
In an instant, the entire dimension collapsed like a house of cards swept away by a strong wind, marking the end of a journey filled with emotional struggles. Fitran regained consciousness from his despair, yet his confusion made him feel as if he were still trapped in that place, ensnared in an endless cycle.
"Finally, you've returned," whispered Beelzebub, his voice hoarse and laden with mystery, filling the heavy air with his presence.
"I don't understand," Fitran replied, his face radiating deep doubt and confusion, as if the whole world around him had turned into an impenetrable fog. "Is this the truth I have rejected, or has my memory merged into the chaos of all the souls I have swallowed?" he continued, his voice trembling, echoing the inner turmoil raging within him.
What was certain was that all his strength had been drained to escape from there, and now he had to prepare to face the Pastor again, one-on-one in the suffocating darkness that weighed heavily on his heart.