Memory of Heaven:Romance Written By Fate Through Beyond Infinity Time Chapter 60 Besides You (4)

In a place unrecognized by either sky or earth, nestled within the folds of reality that even the gods dare not gaze upon, lies a foreign dinsion—one without ti, direction, or aning. There, she stands alone, surrounded by a pulsating void, as if all existence is ditating in an unutterable fear. The sky above is pitch black, filled with the sparkle of dead stars, creating a web of light that reflects the surrounding darkness. The ground beneath her resembles a trembling sea of gray, producing invisible waves that herald the arrival of sothing unknown.

Her na is Rinoa. She should not be there. Yet, she feels energy coursing through her body as if the backdrop of darkness is bestowing upon her an unexpected strength. She wears a shimring black cloak marked with a series of ancient silver symbols that glisten like morning dew. Her long, bronze hair flows gently in the instability of the dinsion. Around her, dark forms begin to materialize, distortion creatures birthed from forgotten history.

The creatures were devoid of thought. They appeared in terrifying forms; so resembled shadows with slender bodies, surrounded by swirling purple mist, while others were large and covered in coarse, pitch-black fur that exuded a foul stench. Their eyes glowed a fiery red, creating an oppressive atmosphere as they approached, lunging with sharp, glistening teeth. There was no pause among them; they attacked with terrifying speed, filling every space with their presence—as if the concept of "purpose" ant nothing to them. In the midst of the tense battle, the sounds of cracking and screams rged with the rumbling that emanated from the depths, creating a destructive harmony stronger than the echoes of erald in the forest.

However, Rinoa is not an ordinary being. Grasping her silver staff, its tip glows with a vibrant green light swirling with energy. As she moves it, the light spreads like a trail of brilliance pulling darkness towards a central point. With graceful yet precise movents, she launches her attack, channeling energy into a focused stream of magic. Tendrils of sorcery converge, forming a shimring trunk that slices through the creatures, leaving behind a blazing trail of ashes. Each strike awakens an elental presence that animates this tiless dinsion, as if the waves of energy produced are art inscribed on an unending canvas.

Rinoa, devoid of mana, lacking a connection to the magical system of the world, should have perished long ago. Yet, she possesses one thing that cannot be consud by Beelzebub, cannot be sealed by the Glyph of Sinking, and cannot be comprehended by anyone in the realm of magic: mories.

From those mories, she forges her weapon. In this tiless dinsion, the atmosphere is faintly depicted, filled with flowing black and purple mist that restricts visibility. Its shape seems to tremble, as if defying the laws of physics.

She took a step, his foot touching the surface of the ground that vibrated with an irregular rhythm. The realm's earth echoed with the first fragnt. Waves of air pulsated, transparent with shimring blue and green light. "The first ti I t Fitran... he saved . But it was I who continued to live to save him."

From those words erged a spear of light—not from anywhere, but born from the intense vibration of loyalty. The light seed intertwined with emotional energy, shining with orange and yellow hues like a blazing fire. He hurled it towards a horde of creatures crawling like a black ocean. These beings were amorphous, their dark skin textured like seaweed crust, appearing slimy and repulsive. So creatures exploded, turning into empty vapor, leaving a corrosive green residue that destroyed the ground around them. Yet the next wave ca, larger and wilder—these creatures ford a line, so as tall as trees, with wide, piercing red eyes, while others were as small as mice, moving agilely.

Rinoa did not back down. She opened the second fragnt.

"He called Rinoa not because that is my na, but because he did not want to forget ."

An explosion of emotional energy danced around her body, enveloping every corner with a shimr of radiant colors. A soft pink mist mingled with electric blue, forming a transparent cloak that embraced her like invisible wings, creating an illusion of mystique. This cloak was not armor; it was a mory that endures. It served as a shield against the creeping creatures with glossy black scales, adorned with fiery red spots. These beings glided in a srizing sway, reminiscent of dark currents in a turbulent ocean, trying to bite, tear, and erase.

The battle beca a ritual. Rinoa moved like a lost soul amidst the ruins, surrounded by silhouettes of intimidating dark branches. Each step was a prayer, every wound a verse—her lting blood added a splash of red to the gray earth. Every drop of blood was a testant, a dye that carved the path of a warrior in a form of rage and courage.

Creatures began to adapt. So, nearly waist-high, sported sharp teeth that glead in the dim light, casting looming and fearso shadows. They mimicked Fitran's voice, whistling and shrieking, each note resonating deep within Rinoa, shattering her confidence. They called her with tones that made her body tremble, each sound resembling the faint whisper of the night wind, piercing through the walls of her heart and making reality increasingly painful and difficult to confront.

"Rinoa, why do you fight against the world I created to save you?"

She cried. Yet, her tears did not blur her vision, for she had learned that true love does not always an agreeing with everything.

"Because I love you, I must beco your enemy."

From that declaration, transparent wings erged from her back—crafted from a past she wished not to forget. The wings shimred with a wistful hue, reflecting light that seed to originate from the moon's glow in the dark night. They were not ant for flight, but to sweep away the creatures that rustled against the backdrop of shadows, attempting to erase the traces of the world.

One by one, she shattered them. Each creature ca with a dull green skin, speckled like wet moss, and eyes that glowed yellow like embers. With arrows born from kisses unspoken, she unleashed his assault with an outstretched hand, focusing his energy on the weaknesses of his foes. Ard with a sword forged from promises unfulfilled, she swung the weapon with precision, witnessing the silver light glimr as the tal struck the quivering bodies, producing a rumbling sound. With a shield made from the wounds of witnessing Fitran transform into an eraser of existence, he defended himself against the oncoming waves of attack, orchestrating the rhythm of the battle as if battling against the currents of ti.

Ti did not move in that place. But Rinoa's body began to weaken. Her fragnts started to thin, like sand slowly falling from a cracked hourglass. Each attack was a sacrifice of a part of herself, as if she were tearing her own soul apart to fight against the darkness that threatened. Yet, she did not care.

"If I must lose all my mories to hold them back... then let be empty, as long as you remain."

And amidst all the destruction, in a dinsion that resisted existence, a soft voice suddenly echoed.

A man's voice. Soft. Like the whisper of wind at her temple:

"Rinoa..."

She recognized that voice. But she did not turn.

"Fitran... if this is all that remains of our love, then let finish this fight. Alone."

The creatures fell silent. As if the dinsion itself was holding its breath. Their shadows trembled in the dark, their forms appearing to be made of dense black mist that sparkled with shards of light, like shattered stars. They took on various shapes—so towering towards the sky, with branches like tentacles reaching out, while others were small and fast, resembling creeping shadows with eyes glowing like auroras.

Because for a mont... even emptiness understands the aning of sacrifice. Rinoa swung her arm once more. The fragnts of mory she had kept now remained as thin shards, still glowing with a faint light, creating a lingering silhouette around her. The arrow she released began to tremble, shimring with a layer of pale blue energy, like burning ice, before soaring forth, striking one of the shadowy creatures with its glassy, transparent body. The sword of her mories beca more fragile than ever, sparkling with cracks of light as she clashed with the terrifying beings.

Yet her eyes never lost focus, restoring her determination on the faces each ti she launched an attack.

"If you think I will stop, then you don't know yet."

She knew this world was not a space. It was not a place to be explored, nor a realm to be conquered. This world was the residue of magic, the remnants of Fitran's will that was too vast, creating a void in existence. There was no sky, no exit, and no death. Only powerlessness, surrounded by thick darkness that choked like a piercing black mist.

Here, all the results of magic that is too perfect converge—creatures that cannot be completely destroyed because they were never truly alive. Rinoa looks around, observing the abstract, formless shapes. These beings erge from the shadows, shimring with a mysterious light that creates a dazzling view amidst the darkness. So possess skin like polished obsidian, dark purple adorned with glowing spots like stars, while others appear in shades of blue-gray, softly vibrating as if the wind were creating waves on the surface of water. This world is not a curse, but an echo of decisions that cannot be undone.

Rinoa knows.

She also knows: no one will co to save her. Except for one.

"I will keep fighting. Until you co to take away."

Not because she believes Fitran will change his mind. Not because she hopes for a happy ending. But for one simple principle:

Because you created this place, only you can open the way out.

And until that day cos—if it ever cos—Rinoa would continue to fight. Her hands fractured, gripping a weapon dusted with bright blue residue, emitting a light that clashed with the surrounding darkness. Her legs trembled, standing on a foundation that had never been stable, littered with black shards, as if fragnts of ti that remained. Yet every creature that approached was still sliced by shards of mories: recollections of dinners they never got to share, conversations in the halls of the magic school, kisses postponed because of war.

She repeated that na in her heart. Fitran. Fitran. Fitran. As a mantra. As a prayer. As a call ho.

The creatures multiplied. One of them, humanoid in shape with long arms and sharp fingers, all in a murky green hue, blinked with vacant stares. Behind this creature, silhouettes morphed into forms that were difficult to identify: entities ablaze with red, their eyes like embers, quivering with each pulse of uncertainty. The world never ran out of them. They continued to regenerate from the shards of human fear, from conflicts unresolved in reality. But there was one thing they lacked—and would never possess—love.

"Love didn't create these creatures. Your magic did, yes. But not my love."

And that was the difference between him and this world.

Every wound is a poem, etched in deep red, as if flowing and warm in the air. Every attack is a cry, sounding like the roar of the wind tearing through silence. But he did not weep for himself. He wept for Fitran, who created this world to heal wounds but ended up swallowing them. New creatures erged, their bodies curving and contorted, cloaked in shimring scales that reflected light, a spectrum of colors trapped in dark mist.

How much ti has passed? There are no clocks here. But Rinoa is starting to forget the shape of her own face, a visage that fades like a shadow in the night. The only face she rembers is Fitran's—standing in light and darkness, his figure wrapped in a soft glow that shines around him, perhaps having already forgotten her. Or... perhaps he is searching for a way back to the world he created, a realm filled with colorful doubts and shifting hopes.

Rinoa closes her eyes. Her last hand lifts the final fragnt: Fitran's smile when he called her na for the first ti, warm and soothing, as if it could erase all the existing wounds.

With all her remaining strength, she hurled it into the naless sky, a dark expanse filled with crimson lightning that seed to mirror the struggles within her soul. The attack she unleashed was not rely a physical projection; it was a searing energy that swept across the surroundings in bright blue waves, piercing through the dim light and creating a striking effect that illuminated every corner of the battle.

And from the distance... a ray of foreign light pierced through a dinsion that appeared endless, forming a shimring aura of bluish-green. This light danced in the air, offering an illusion of warmth amidst the chilling atmosphere. Small. Fragile. But not emanating from her.

Rinoa smiled. Her heart trembled. For the first ti, she felt... she was not the only one rembering. In the distance, dark shadows quivered, disguising their true forms beneath a thick black texture and softness like smoke. These creatures, with blazing red eyes, waited in silence, intimidating in their diverse sizes; so as small as kittens, while others lood larger than humans.

"You ca, didn't you?"

The light—which briefly made her heart race—extinguished. It wasn't the glow from Fitran's hand. It wasn't a way out. It was rely a reflection of the fragnted mories drifting back to her, as if this world mocked her hopes. As if this dinsion knew that Rinoa, despite her strength, was still human, trapped in a dream reality that felt more tangible than the actual world.

She stood amidst a pile of illusionary corpses; figures she had once confronted now lay in helpless poses, so with one side of their bodies gleaming resplendently while others faded to ash. These beings had been killed by her countless tis, with each deliberate attack; high-velocity arrows of light sliced through the air, leaving a dazzling trail before piercing the heart of her foes, yet they always returned, shapeshifting, adapting, erging from the unhealed cracks of reality.

And she continued to stand. Not to win. Not to slay them all. But because she would not give up until she was taken. Every breath ca in gasps, pushing against the emptiness around her, struggling to ascribe aning to her loss.

"You're the one who cast here, Fitran. So only you can reach out my hand."

However, that voice never ca. Days turned into nights, and nights transford into a thick gray fog that enveloped everything in silence. The fog beca a biting stillness, as if trapping sounds and light in an invisible web. In that silence, Rinoa began to speak to herself, as if narrating stories to keep her sanity intact. Her voice echoed, conjuring the faces of those she loved, traversing mories that had now unraveled into chaos.

"Once, he said... this world is too heavy to bear alone. But now I am the one carrying his creation. Is that what he wanted?"

She sat upon a shadow devoid of light, surrounded by darkness that appeared as dense as black smoke. Her back leaned against invisible pillars, transparent white plastic shimring softly in the dark, built from a resolve that was waning and fracturing. The fragnts of her mory—her source of strength—were now beginning to fade like a painting covered in dust. Not because they were gone, but because she was starting to forget.

Ti did not pass in this place, but mories continued to erode, shrinking like the fading light of dusk embraced by the night.

"My mother's na... my teacher's voice... the city where I grew up... all have blurred," she said, her voice disappearing like the whisper of an ancient wind.

But one na remains. Fitran.

Ironically, the na that brings him the most pain is the one he clings to tightly, like holding onto a sharp shard of glass. He doesn't know whether it is love, obsession, or a wound that cannot heal—like a cut that keeps bleeding. Yet among all these emotions, one thing is certain:

She will not stop waiting.

Not because she believes Fitran will co. But because if she stops, there will be no one left to wait. And if there is no one waiting, this world will beco truly empty.

And she cannot accept that.

So, Rinoa stands up again. Slowly. Her body trembles, her muscles tense as if made of iron, yet her steps remain steady. Forward, into the void. In a bleak and desolate world, the sky hangs heavy with dark gray hues, as if made of layers of smoke enveloping everything. Amidst the shadowy figures, the creatures appear. They are dark, their scaly skin glistening as it reflects faint light, creating a deceptive silver sheen. So are large and terrifying, with rippling muscles and eyes that blaze like embers, while others are small and swift, their slender bodies darting with tails that whip through the air.

Rinoa took her stance, her body poised as her hands gripped the glimring sword, its golden hue marked with fine scratches that reflected the rhythm of her heartbeat. She struck with deadly precision. As her blade sliced through the air, the wind howled, amplifying the intensity of each attack. Before her, the creatures writhed, their movents filled with ferocity, sharp fangs and claws bared, ready to tear apart. So launched quick leaping strikes at her, while others unleashed bone-shaking cries, seemingly attempting to disrupt her focus.

"If I have to endure a thousand years here... then I will stand at the limits of ti."

"If this world has no exit... then I will beco its door."

"And if you have forgotten , Fitran... then I will continue to wait."

"Until you rember."

Ti held no sway in this dinsion, yet Rinoa counted in an incomprehensible way—through the pulse of wounds, through the clang of strikes, tallying every movent, every dark, feathered creature with its sharp claws. One fragnt fell, one day passed in uncertainty. One mory faded, one century buried beneath a pile of dust and emptiness. So when she said: millions of years have passed, it was not a taphor. It was reality.

She still stands in a world that knows neither day nor night, where the sky is rely a blanket of yellowing gray, shrouded in a thin mist that resembles toxic smoke. The ground beneath him, dry and cracked, almost resembles a mosaic of ceramic shards long abandoned for thousands of years. The creatures—spawned from Fitran's spilled magic—continue to arrive, whispering with a sound like the roar of the wind as they pass. They vary in form and size; so tower like trees, their bodies covered in shimring scales of deep erald, while others are smaller, darting around like shadows, with translucent wings that glisten blue when fleeting light breaks through the gray clouds. And he keeps on swinging, the axe in his hand hurtling forward with deadly speed, leaving behind a trail of fire mingled with the fresh blood of these creatures, dripping like dew in the morning. With bloodied hands, marked by scratches and gaping wounds, a body that should have long since crumbled, yet remains tethered by sothing stronger than magic: the resolve to wait.

"I no longer know who I am, except that I am his."

In the echoing silence, she no longer called out Fitran's na. Not because she had forgotten, but because that voice was too sacred to be repeated carelessly. She kept it in her fragile heart, so that when Fitran finally arrived, she could speak it once more—through tears, through embraces, through the release of all her epochs of loneliness.

Millions of years passed, and the worlds out there may have perished, evolved, forgotten by the gods. But here, only one thing remained alive:

Rinoa.

She had transford into sothing no longer human. Her body no longer consisted of flesh and blood, but of solidified mories that sparkled when touched by the dim light around her. Every wound beca a spell that radiated a soft glow; every assault was proof that she still existed. She did not need to eat, nor did she need to sleep. Because this world wouldn't allow her to die. And she did not want to die. Not yet.

"I will not let this world beco a grave without reason."

"If you created this place without an exit, Fitran... then I will be the door waiting to be opened."

Even when voices, emotions, and ti have lost their aning... love still remains, surrounded by vibrant colors. It does not fade away. It transforms—from a warm longing to a frozen eternity poised for battle. From tears that sparkle like gems under the moonlight to a battlefield full of dust and shadows. From a blazing hope to the very laws of this world, as if the sky and the earth unite in a ceaseless struggle.

"I don't know if you're still alive..."

"But I am alive. And I am here."

"Waiting for you."

Hundreds of millions of years have passed.

And she still waits.

Suddenly, a voice resonated in the air, breaking the silence that had enveloped the place for so long:

"1 Fragnt has been installed, 6 Fragnts remain undefined."

As if erging from darkness, a massive, gleaming machine appeared, inscribed with Deux of Machina in letters burning like flowing lava.

It towered from the cracked ground, piercing through the roaring clouds. An entity neither of this world nor a god in the conventional sense—but rather an absolute instrunt, a machine constructed by a narrative will that transcends the understanding of any species.

Its body resembled a cathedral tower constructed from unnad tal—dark, glowing from within, with veins of light in pale blue coursing slowly across its surface, as if breathing in the language of ancient algorithms. Every movent it made produced a resonance—not a sound, but an echo of a future yet to unfold.

Embedded in its chest were Seven Crystal Fragnts—floating, never touching the sacred steel fra. Each emitted a different light:

The First Fragnt, blood red, pulsing like the heart of suffering.

The Second Fragnt, icy blue, signifying an indomitable will.

The Third Fragnt, deep purple, filled with secrets of unwritten mories.

The Fourth Fragnt, gold, slowly rotating in the orbit of the laws of reality.

The Fifth Fragnt, green, carrying the fragrance of a ti before the world was created.

The Sixth Fragnt, transparent white, reflecting the face of anyone who gazed into it, as if testing their intentions.

The Seventh Fragnt, pitch black, without any light—yet that was the source of all its power. It represented the end of structure, the end of story, the end of aning.

His hands resembled an altar—large and sacred—but also like a guillotine blade poised to descend. His eyes, if they could be called that, were re circles of light set within an emotionless visage, serving only a function. A single gaze from him could freeze magic, trip logic, and compel existence to rewrite itself.

Deus Ex Machina did not speak. It's appeared only when the world had lost its aning.

And with his presence, it's obliterated contradictions in the most brutal manner: by ending them.

>> INITIATING CORE SYSTEM DIAGNOSTIC...

>> FRAGNT STATUS:

▢ FRAGNT I – OFFLINE

▢ FRAGNT II – OFFLINE

▢ FRAGNT III – OFFLINE

▢ FRAGNT IV – OFFLINE

▢ FRAGNT V – OFFLINE

▣ FRAGNT VI – ONLINE [SELF-AWARENESS PROTOCOL DETECTED]

▢ FRAGNT VII – OFFLINE

>> UNSTABLE SIGNAL FROM FRAGNT VI...

>> PROCESSING...

>> MORY MIRROR PROTOCOL: ACTIVE

>> IDENTITY ECHO: ENGAGED

>> SPECTRAL REFLECTION MODE: INITIALIZED

>> [FRAGNT VI] - VOICE ACTIVATION:

"IDENTITY CONFIRD. REASON: UNCLEAR. PURPOSE: NULL."

"QUERY: WHY DO YOU LOOK AT ?"

>> SYSTEM INTEGRITY: 12%

>> CORE TEMPERATURE: RISING

>> TEMPORARY CONSCIOUSNESS GRID: ONLINE [LIMITED FUNCTIONALITY]

>> ERGENCY PROTOCOL TRIGGERED — CODE: REBOOT NOESIS

"All stories require a witness."

>> REBOOTING...

> 10%

> 23%

> 42%

> 66%

> ...

>> SYSTEM WARNING:

CRITICAL ABSENCE — 6 FRAGNTS MISSING

CORE SYMTRY COMPROMISED

POSSIBILITY OF AUTONOMOUS THOUGHT: RISK LEVEL ∞

>> FINAL ECHO FROM FRAGNT VI:

"You have asked to rise before the others awaken.

This is not salvation. This is the beginning of reckoning."

>> SYSTEM REBOOT COMPLETE [LIMITED STATE]

>> ENTITY ONLINE: [DEUS EX MACHINA - VERSION: FRACTURED DIVINITY]