Rinoa stood before an old mirror in the attic of the hideout. The morning light touched her face shyly, highlighting the small wounds that had yet to heal on her cheeks, neck, and chest. Yet, it was not these wounds that made her tremble.
She stared at her own reflection.
But she saw no one.
"Am I… still here?"
She touched the surface of the mirror. Cold. Real. But that feeling lingered—when Fitran stood before her. When time itself paused, and that mysterious figure, more cruel than anything she had ever seen... vanished just like that. In Rinoa's memory, there was a moment when Fitran's gaze pierced through her, as if there was something deeper than just a desire to kill. Perhaps, behind that cold stare, there hid a longing to protect her.
"He is merely observing the world… and I am an intriguing distraction for him.
"I am not important. But also… I must not die.
Each heartbeat reminded her of that moment when she felt a mix of fear and an inexplicable strangeness. In Fitran's mysterious strategy to save her, Rinoa sensed a delicate thread of unspoken love, hidden beneath the surface. It was in the way Fitran moved; each step seemed to honor the space between them, as if the worry he felt was a substitute for the words that remained unexpressed. Rinoa realized that, despite being surrounded by emptiness, there might be deeper feelings concealed behind that cold, neutral face, caught in millions of unanswered questions.
Her hand clenched the fabric of her clothing, pressing against the chest where her heart raced too quickly. She tried to feel something, but all she found was an empty space and a faint warmth. Her thoughts spiraled, trapped between fear and unspoken hope. She knew Fitran was always nearby, protecting her, even though his presence was often shrouded in mystery.
"I'm alive… because no one has cared enough to kill me," she thought, but beneath those words lingered a profound gratitude for that mysterious figure.
At the back of the wooden table, she opened her notebook. The pages were filled with scribbles of experimental glyphs, the aether magic she developed to survive—not to attack. Yet, for some reason, each stroke brought her back to the shadow of Fitran, who came and went in her life.
She glanced at the sentence she had written the night before:
"I am not part of any system. I am not part of the human body. I am not part of them. But I am not dead. Why? Only the unseen. Only he gives meaning to my existence."
She wrote again, slowly, with her hand trembling slightly, recalling the moments when Fitran watched her from afar, as if keeping his distance while trying to draw closer:
"Fitran did not save me. But he witnessed me. Amidst all this restlessness and confusion, there is a protector known in silence."
And somehow, that is more unsettling than anything else.
The door was knocked.
Elena.
"Rinoa. Kael wants to talk. About Gaia's reaction. About strategy."
Rinoa did not respond.
"Rinoa?"
"I will come down… later."
Elena's footsteps retreated. Silence filled the room again, like dust.
In her mind
Rinoa recalled her childhood. In the white room of Atlantis, where every child was tested for their magical potential. And when her body rejected mana, the teachers labeled her as "honorable defect." A gentle term for "failure."
"They rejected me from the system. But Fitran… he is also not part of the system. He is older than the system. Like a shadow in the darkness, there is something deeper within him, as if he harbors unspoken secrets. He acts in unpredictable ways, protecting me from the harshness of this world. Not with gentle words, but with meticulous attention—like when he observed from afar, ready to confront any danger threatening me. He is emptier... yet more sensitive to who I truly am, far beyond what I can understand.
And strangely enough, it gave Rinoa a new strength. She felt alone, but not unique. Separated, yet not the only one. Within that emptiness, there was something unexpected—a sincerity in her demeanor. She wondered about the reason for Fitran's presence, a figure who seemed so distant and mysterious. Yet, beneath it all, Rinoa sensed an unspoken warmth.
If Fitran could exist like this—perhaps… she could too. Rinoa realized that amidst all the uncertainties and doubts, there was a determination within her to confront any challenge, including him. She wanted to discover what truly lay behind the cold walls that Fitran had built and the presence that challenged her to step forward.
Not as a soldier of Gaia. Not as a tool of Arkanum. But as herself. This awareness brought her to the understanding that perhaps, within every cold action of Fitran, there was a hidden fervor of love, palpable in every breath he took, and in the way he observed the world with a perspective full of meaning.
"I will not run."
"But I also will not bow."
She stood up. Closed the book.
Her blood still flowed. Her life remained. The world had not finished writing her story, and she was certain that Fitran also played a part in a story far greater than mere conflict.
And this time—she wants to rewrite her destiny. With ink from her own soul. Ink filled with a longing to understand each other, even though the walls between them remain high and fragile.
15 Km from the Border of Thirtos City.
This place was not marked on the map. A ruin of an ancient observatory, buried within the northern mountain fog. Once a place where ancient Arc-Mages studied existential resonance of the sky and the soul. A place that seemed chosen by Fitran not just for its solitude, but also for the silenced memories waiting to be revealed there.
No sound accompanied her except the whisper of the wind, seemingly reluctant to pass through.
Rinoa stood there. Alone.
But not for long.
Because she knew—Fitran would come. Or rather, he was already there before she arrived.
And indeed, it was true.
"You're back," the voice came from an indistinct direction. But it was not frightening. Only… inevitable, as if something deeper bound them together in the silence.
Fitran sat on a cracked stone chair, his hands brushing against the fine dust on the surface, as if inspecting something unseen. Rinoa watched Fitran's hands, recalling how those fingers had once reached out to protect her, though she had not understood it at the time.
Rinoa didn't step too close, nor did she back away. She sensed something unusual in Fitran's presence, a tension that teetered between fear and longing, making her hesitant to move any further.
"You let me live," she said flatly, her voice quivering with doubt. "Why?"
Fitran didn't turn to face her, allowing her question to hang in the air. In the silence surrounding them, Rinoa sensed the sincerity behind Fitran's cold demeanor, a secret held within the gaze of his lost eyes.
"I did save you," Fitran replied, his voice calm yet laden with unspoken despair.
"But you could kill me. You have killed others." Rinoa spoke with mixed emotions, sensing a deeper reason behind that statement—one she could not articulate.
"Because they are part of a pattern. You are not."
Rinoa fell silent, feeling something more profound than mere words. In her heart, she began to question whether there was something greater behind Fitran's attention towards her.
"Does that mean I am important?"
Fitran shook his head slowly, his sharp gaze fixed directly on Rinoa, as if holding a secret only they could understand.
"No. It means you are not finished yet," he replied firmly, his voice flowing like water over stones.
"Not finished… what?" Rinoa asked, doubt cloaking every word that passed her lips.
"Building yourself," Fitran stated, his piercing eyes continuing to bore into Rinoa, as if trying to penetrate the depths of her heart.
Silence fell again, the tension between them felt like a delicate web binding them together. Rinoa asked quietly, yet every word felt heavy.
"Have you ever been finished, Fitran?"
Fitran finally turned to her. For the first time, their eyes met—and in that gaze, Rinoa sensed the depth of her feelings, quietly saving herself from the darkness.
"No. I erase those who believe they are finished because they begin to rot—like fallen fruit emitting a foul stench, corrupting the others," he replied in a low voice, as if unraveling a dark secret.
"Is that your reason for destruction?" Rinoa asked, her eyes gleaming with confusion, eager to delve deeper into his dark thoughts.
"I do not destroy," Fitran explained, his tone reflecting deep conviction. "I correct. Like an artist refining his canvas, ensuring every detail is perfect."
Rinoa looked down, gripping the edges of her cloak, feeling its faint warmth as a reminder that someone still cared. But not out of fear. In the intertwined feelings of frustration and hope, she sensed the love held back between them, even though Fitran appeared cold and mysterious.
"I can't wield the mana you desire. Yet, I still want to live," she said, her voice filled with hope, though her eyes carried profound sadness.
"Continue. As long as your desire isn't just a quote from someone else," he replied, emphasizing the importance of authenticity and truth in her words.
"And what if I start to imitate? What will happen to me?" she asked, her expression reflecting doubt and confusion, as if she was wrestling with her own identity.
Fitran slowly stood up, taking one step after another, as if he wanted Rinoa to feel every moment of change around her. There was something unspoken between them, a tension that pierced deep into Rinoa's soul.
"I will come again. But not to talk."
He turned away.
His footsteps were almost silent, yet the shadow of his presence lingered on the ground like an old wound. Each step felt meaningful, like traces of a hidden story—one that perhaps only he knew.
Before he left, Rinoa said,
"If I manage to build myself... will you acknowledge me?"
Fitran paused. His shoulders seemed to shift slightly, as if he were bearing an emotional weight he couldn't express. In the silence, there was a moment without words, where Rinoa felt a simultaneous surge of hope and uncertainty.
"If you succeed... I don't need to acknowledge you," he replied calmly, though beneath his words lay a deep-seated skepticism.
"But you will feel it. Nameless," Fitran said, his voice soft yet full of conviction, as if an invisible force connected them despite the lack of acknowledgment.
"And after our meeting, can we talk like ordinary people?" he continued, hope and doubt intertwining in his tone, like a thin thread connecting two different realities.
With that, he vanished, surrounded by the mysterious aura that always accompanied him. Rinoa wondered if his departure was a form of salvation—one finger reaching for a heart trapped in complexity.
Not through magic. But like dust that eventually finds the direction of the wind, flowing freely even though it feels heavy.
Rinoa stood alone amidst the ruins, but this time… she did not feel small. Courage began to blossom within her, as if a new light erupted from within, illuminating a path that had once been dark.
She felt like someone being written by fate—not as a victim, not as an inanimate object, but as her own underground author. There was something stirring in her heart about Fitran, a bond that she didn't fully understand, yet it was always there, filling the empty spaces in her soul.