Memory of Heaven:Romance Written By Fate Through Beyond Infinity Time-Chapter 457 A Room Full of Unspeakable Magic

The sky above the Valley of Zhiem, where the Hall of Codified Spells stands, looks gray even though the sun is shining.

The air around feels heavy, not because of magical pressure, but because of the silent rejection floating among the ancient stone supports of the space. As a faint breeze brushes against them, as if signaling or perhaps warning, Fitran's heart beats irregularly, creating an atmosphere of tension that is almost overwhelming.

Beelzebub and Fitran stand before the door carved from the early days of magic, pausing for a moment in the almost palpable tension. Fitran's expression shows deep anxiety, his lips trembling as his fingers grip the sleeves of his robe tightly.

Above it is inscribed in classic glyphs:

"Magic is not born to be understood. Only to be summoned with a sincere will."

But now, the door does not respond to anyone. For a moment, peace becomes a distant luxury. Beelzebub gazes at the door with a look of doubt, as if waiting for an answer from an unseen entity. Both feel a historical bond, like a thread of time binding them to long-forgotten past events.

Fitran raises his hand.

He tries a simple opening spell—"Verum Apertus." His voice trembles, indicating the doubt creeping into his mind. The silence grips their hearts, each beat seeming to choke with hope that struggles to survive against emptiness.

The Struggle

Nothing happens.

He tries an ancient glyph from the Archive of Pentarh—but that effort proves futile. A look of disappointment crosses his face, and he bites his lower lip, trying to hold back the feeling of emptiness that creeps into his soul.

Beelzebub tries to touch the door. Her hand trembles slightly, but it does not burn. Sweat drips from her forehead, and her mind spins in confusion and unreciprocated hope.

"This is not a seal," she says, her voice trembling, reflecting the uncertainty gnawing at her heart.

"This door... does not reject us. But the magic within... chooses not to come."

In the distance, several royal sorcerers from Gaia—including those from Arcanum Veritas and the Glyph Protection Division—have tried various ways to open the door. Their voices blend in the crowd, creating a bitter melody; hope struggles against the pain that envelops every effort, as if all of it is an attempt to cope with shared disappointment.

One of them, Grand Sorceress Lorain, stands pressing her temples, frustration etched on her face.

"All internal glyphs reject the summoning."

"We are not losing access due to a wrong spell. We are losing the right to be invited." The pain pierces her words, as if the burden of failure is too heavy to bear alone.

She kneels before the door, surrendering her hope to something much greater, an entity she longs to reveal the mysteries that have been buried for too long.

Her eyes close. She does not try to force it open.

She simply... remembers. In her mind, shadows of the past swirl, small moments when miracles were still possible.

The cries of children caught in the sorrow of war, the glow of successful spells... All illuminate her path, even in the thick darkness, and tears slowly flow down her cheeks.

One by one, the spells she once learned.

The ones she used to save children. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

To stop the war.

To rewrite the pactum of life.

She can feel the rush of fear flooding her heart, whispering doubts in her ears, giving way to painful memories she does not want to remember, as if the voices of the past want to warn her not to return to that dark place.

The Whisper

And from within that space, a soft echo emerges:

"You do not call me just to gain victory..."

"You call me because you fear loss."

Each word strikes her heart, making her gasp; as if the magic she summoned knows deeper than just her intentions, exploring the deepest corners of her emotions, unearthing fears that have long been buried and bringing back memories intertwined in her life.

Beelzebub grips the ground. She can feel the emotions of the magic.

And she whispers softly:

"The magic in there... is hurt."

A wave of empathy rises within her, as if a gentle embrace cradles the buried pain. Her face changes momentarily, moved by the unbearable weight of sorrow.

"How can magic be hurt?" Fitran asks, his voice barely audible, as if speaking to his own spirit.

"Because the world forces it into a rigid and unfeeling structure. Used to kill, bind, torture. And when it tries to speak, the world only wants to exploit."

Beelzebub lifts her face, her eyes glowing with emotion, inviting Fitran to delve deeper into that pain, as if saying that this journey is not just about winning or losing, but about understanding the deeper meaning of their existence in magic.

"Thus today," Beelzebub continues, "the magic chooses... to remain silent, signaling that not everything must be forced to speak."

For a moment, silence dominates the room, hanging in the air, as if waiting for an answer that does not come.

Suddenly, a small glyph forms before Fitran. Just one word:

"Why do you still love me... even though I reject you?"

It is not from Rinoa.

Not from Sheena.

Not from anyone.

It is from the magic itself.

Fitran does not respond with a glyph.

He simply writes in the dirt with his finger:

"Because I know you do not want to be used. You just want to be heard. And I... will listen to you."

The question hangs between them, waiting to be answered, like a fog enveloping hope in the midst of a labyrinth of darkness, as if something wants to be explained but remains unspoken.

The Door Opens

The door cracks slowly.

Not fully open. But enough for one person to enter.

"Only you," Beelzebub says.

"The magic... only allows one heart."

Fitran looks at her, his eyes shining with fragile hope. Deep in his heart, fear stirs. He knows that the step he takes will change everything.

Beelzebub nods, though her gaze holds concern. A thin smile tries to appear on her face, but only adds to the sadness.

"If you do not return, I will still wait.

Because listening to you... is the only magic that does not need glyphs."

The tightness in Fitran's chest feels deeper. Her words convey an unspoken message, expressing a commitment that transcends the boundaries of this world.

As Fitran steps inside, he does not see a spell cabinet.

No books.

No magical fire, no symbols indicating the presence of any magical world he had dreamed of.

What he sees is an empty room, the absence enveloping the space, making it feel quieter than he expected. This room becomes a reflection of his own soul, filled with emptiness and a biting longing.

But its walls... pulse with feeling. As if the room is alive, sensing the tension and hope that Fitran faces. Each heartbeat seems to resonate with that pulse, ensuring that he is not alone.

Each step reveals a memory of a glyph:

A mother bringing flowers to her blind child.

A knight creating an illusion of stars above his lover's grave.

A small child writing glyphs to make his wooden doll smile.

Each memory evokes a strong image, leading him to an unforgettable emotional trail, expressing that behind every glyph lies a story of love greater than mere spells; a tale that clings to the soul of every user, reminding them of their original purpose.

And slowly, Fitran realizes...

Magic never wanted to be a system.

It wanted to be a form of love that cannot be shouted.

In the middle of the room, a voice like tears says:

"You do not need to call me.

I will come... when your feelings do not need a name."

And one last glyph flows in the air: A symbol without roots. An undefined Gödelian symbol. But now... not to erase everything in the past, but to listen and understand what is truly longed for.

And one last glyph flows in the air: A symbol without roots. A Gödelian symbol. But now... not to erase.

But to listen.

In the corner of his eye, shadows of the past reappear, haunting with the soft voice that once depicted the beautiful story of life. Silence embraces him, creating a space filled with memories, all the warm moments that ever existed.

Magic that does not want to be called, not because it is lost, but because it wants to know: does the world still love her, even though she does not give power, testing the loyalty and complexity of the relationship between magic and its inhabitants, and ensuring that love remains alive in another form.

Cold sweat dampens his temples as he bites his lip, trying to hold back tears. In every pain and smile that has passed, he feels a bond so deep, as if the entire universe vibrates to answer his longing.