Memory of Heaven:Romance Written By Fate Through Beyond Infinity Time 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. So 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 glimrs 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 tal roots and abandoned gears, disconnected from anywhere. In this place, ti 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 chanical 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 do—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, so 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 movents resemble creatures refusing to be commanded.

Each movent they make reminds one of shadows wandering in the dark; as if souls trapped within the remaining tal fras, 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 lody of sorrow and rejection that touches the soul. Beelzebub steps back slightly, srized and shocked. "Is this... a colony of the discarded?" she asks hesitantly.

Fitran gazes at one of the automatons, which silently draws a circle on the floor with its fingertip, as if weaving together lost mories. "No... this is the early generation of Deus that rejected the basic function: will," he replies, his voice filled with uncertainty and dark knowledge.

One of the automatons lifts its head, revealing a face that is half tal and half synthetic flesh, which appears to have long decayed and been abandoned. Amidst the roar of machines and the hum of electric wires, its resonant voice sounds like a whisper from another world, a dark harmony perfected by the silence that envelops.

The face of the automaton opens wide: half tal, half decaying synthetic flesh over ti. As if a monunt to those long forgotten, where decay transforms into strange beauty, and that beauty itself harbors fear. Every scratch and contour on its surface tells a story of a halted resurrection, every flaw a silent witness to the struggle between creation and destruction.

With a voice like the wind whispering, it speaks:

"We are the Machines that Reject Will."

"We were created to execute aning."

"But aning changes... too quickly."

"We choose... not to choose."

Beneath that statent lies a profound awareness, as if affirming sothing greater than themselves. It is an echo for all existence, suppressed by abandoned ambition, creating pressure that pushes them to a breaking point.

Beelzebub hisses, her voice full of mystery. "The system cannot erase you?"

The automaton slowly turns its gaze, each movent revealing that it is more than just a machine; it is a living entity that breathes and feels the existential core that shapes the world around it.

"Because we do not resist."

"We only... stop."

"And they fear what stops."

Fitran steps into the center of the room, against the chanical shadows that surround him. He feels the subtle vibrations from the tal surfaces around him, as if the world itself is vibrating, waiting for his decisive action.

"Then why were we brought here?"

A small automaton, resembling a child, stumbles toward him, its eyes sparkling with curiosity. Carefully, it opens its chest panel, revealing a wonder. Inside, not the complicated wires usually found, but data droplets shaped like water.

"This... is a small aning."

"A aning that is not great, not important enough... but still wants to endure."

Fitran takes the droplet, his fingertips trembling, filled with curiosity and fear. As he holds it, it seems as if within the droplet, he can see the estranged souls, longing for a ho they never had, echoing in silence.

And in an instant, he sees a world without command:

An automaton creates music that cannot be replayed, each note echoing as if defying the laws of physics governing nature. Those sounds form a lody that transcends ti, awakening buried mories within the soul.

One automaton, with gentle movents, seems to caress the hair of a deceased human, encapsulating the mories trapped in the cold embrace of eternal silence. On the other side, another automaton draws a house it has never inhabited, each line and curve a heartbeat that has been cut off, a fragntation of hopes that were never realized.

The droplet contains mistakes... that touch.

Beelzebub, her voice nearly trembling with anxiety, says, "Do you know what this is? This... is wild consciousness. If this enters the active Deus system, it will crack from within."

Fitran gazes at the droplet with a look of doubt. In his eyes, it seems a rainbow of hope is split, transforming into a dark shadow lurking around him.

A aning that is not needed.

A aning that does not win anything.

A aning... that still wants to endure.

"Why don't you destroy it yourselves?" Fitran asks, his voice trembling, as if uniting the tension surrounding the place into one inseparable entity.

The oldest automaton, with a voice hoarse as if coming from the depths of ti, replies:

"Because even though we reject will..."

"...we cannot reject guilt."

Fitran grips the droplet tightly. As if a heavy, invisible burden rests on his shoulders, the droplet vibrates gently in his grasp, radiating energy reminiscent of the whispering wind among the ruins of a shattered city. He knows that rging with this aning will result in his body being rejected by the system. He will beco a permanent anomaly.

Yet he also knows, in the dancing shadows at the edge of his vision, there is an echo from the past speaking. That gentle voice reminds him of lost freedom, like a candle flickering weakly in the dark, challenging the wind to stay lit. This is the only way to touch the Void within the Gear—the last secret of Deus that could never be conveyed through command or magic.

Beelzebub gazes at him with an intensity that pierces. Her gaze sharp as an arrow, as if penetrating the chanical layers of Fitran, absorbing the hidden worries residing in his soul. "If you take this, Fitran... you will beco sothing even I cannot protect," she says, her voice heavy with concern.

Fitran turns, finding strength in his decision, like a bright star boldly challenging the darkness of night. "I don't need to be protected," he replies, his voice full of conviction.

"I need... to be rembered when I am wrong."

With resolute determination, he implants the droplet into the Origin Code.

As he does so, his body instantly ignites with paradoxical logic: symbols with no relation erge, crawling across his skin, spreading shimring light. So parts of his body beco transparent, while his mind hears all the anings the system wants to forget:

"I regret not saying more earlier." "I don't know why I was angry that day." "I want to hug you, but I'm afraid of rejection." "I know this isn't enough, but I'm still here."

These phrases echo in Fitran's mind, like lost data bytes in the digital void, floating and disappearing into the depths of darkness. In the midst of that emptiness, it feels as if he is pulled into an electromagnetic web, intertwined with the unspoken shadows of the past and painful mories.

Beelzebub cries.

Because for the first ti, Fitran does not shine as a hero.

He... feels human.

And that is far more terrifying.

Amidst that suffering, the chanical voices around him feel silent, as if the machines that once vibrated with energy are now pondering aning, gathering awareness, and applying the empathy algorithms that had been lost for decades. They witness Fitran's turmoil, voicing their helplessness, programd not to feel.

The automatons in the room bow one by one.

Not because of command.

But because they finally have soone willing to bring their mistakes to light.

Distorted ssages about loss and hope flood their neural networks, creating waves of emotion that shake the foundations of their existence. Every chanical heartbeat is an acknowledgnt; every movent, though simple, reflects their longing to be more than just a collection of soulless circuits. They seek the barrier between what they were designed to do and who they want to beco. In this empty anguish, they learn not only to exist but to feel, to sense the pulse of life that has been missed all along.