The soft glow of the hanging lamp hung low, casting long shadows between the endless shelves of books. Each aisle was thick with the smell of dust, aged ink, and the whisper of secrets from a forgotten world. Fitran stepped cautiously, his fingers brushing against the spine of a book, glowing with a gentle golden light. His footsteps reverberated on the marble floor, as if the library itself held its breath, waiting for a new story to unfold.
“These books hold more than just ink and paper, Mammon,” Fitran said, sensing the presence of Mammon, the guardian of the Forbidden Library. “They are seals of history waiting for you to awaken them. Ironically, it’s you who holds the key to the gate.”
Mammon, her smile as thin as a blade and her eyes as dark as the night, watched Fitran from above—delicate, transparent wings fluttering softly behind her. “Memory and revenge are tricky affairs, Fitran. Are you sure you’re ready to bear that burden?”
Mammon glided down the shelf, her voice hissing, “I never imagined a paladin would turn thief tonight. Is this desperation, Fitran, or… some other instinct driving you?”
“Desperation?” Fitran retorted with a sneer, a wicked smile curling at the corners of his lips. “It’s more about the intelligence that roots out ignorance. Stealing is easy. Bargaining for a soul trapped in Vlad’s curse? Now, that’s a true art.”
Fitran turned slowly, his eyes piercing through Mammon as if inviting the threats lurking deep within his gaze. “If all you’re guarding is a collection of the old world, maybe it’s time for you to burn it all. After all, these books are nothing but a curse for those who don’t understand history.”
Mammon let out a soft laugh, her voice echoing faintly in every corner of the room. “Don’t get too cocky, human.” She glanced at Fitran’s glowing hand. “You think you can defeat me here?”
“You know better than anyone, Mammon,” Fitran replied, his presence pressing down like a heavy weight. “I don’t want to destroy all of this either.”
Fitran shrugged nonchalantly. “If I did, you’d have swallowed me whole by now, Mammon. I’m not here to steal or to fight; I’m here to negotiate.”
Magic flickered around them, golden glyphs dancing with intricate mechanics, weaving reality and darkness together. “Aren't you curious, greedy?”
Mammon floated down, her black fingertips swirling in the air, carving golden glyphs that spun around them. “I’m quite interested in you, Fitran. I've been watching you for a long time. How could I let this slip away? Does your offer involve a change in the stakes of life and death, Fitran?”
Fitran gazed intently, his voice cold and resolute. “One name: zombification. It’s more than just necromancy. I want to trademark its essence, rewrite the entire dark magic contract. From tonight onward, all immortality in this world will bow to a single master.” He stepped forward, his shadow flickering as if his dark soul trembled with unexpected power.
Mammon furrowed her brow, the aura around her shifting sharply, the pressure heavy enough to bite into his bones. “You want to reactivate the Forbidden Ritual of Vlad? Are you out of your mind, Fitran?” Her voice roared like a fierce wind eroding stone, signaling that she did not take Fitran’s ambition lightly.
Fitran moved closer, his gaze burning under the soft light. “It’s only madness if it fails. But if it succeeds, Mammon, I will give life to countless legions. This contract will eliminate every reliance on your pawns and spread a new hegemony among the dead and risen.”
He raised his left hand, and the best of his dark light flowed into the glowing glyph, depicting shadows curling like serpents, ready to stamp and weave the contract. “I want a contract with you— the power to bind, write, and enforce the law over every living and dead creature that dares to toy with death.”
Mammon smirked, her wings unfurling gracefully. “A contract, huh? Quite straightforward. But what’s the catch?” She lowered her voice, “You see, anyone who enters into a contract here must be ready to lose something far more than just their life.”
Fitran answered with unwavering resolve, “It’s not my life I’m willing to sacrifice, Mammon. I want you to sever all your ties to the old world. You are solely mine. All other contracts are void.” His words pierced the air, creating a vibration that seemed to tear through the fabric of reality, revealing the dark power lurking behind his intentions.
As he carefully arranged his thoughts, a terrifying aura from the ritual began to take shape, forming a fierce shadow. Deep within, blood awakened as if it were responding to the call. “Imagine the power that could revive the disappointments of those overlooked by time,” Fitran continued, orchestrating each step as if he were a general on a battlefield full of tactics and deception.
Mammon twirled the phoenix quill in her hand, observing Fitran from head to toe. “How very rude... yet, also quite fascinating.” She pressed the quill into the air, inscribing a blood-red glyph before Fitran. “Dare to sign here?” she teased. “But perhaps Beelzebub will be jealous.”
Fitran gazed at the glowing glyph, a faint smile playing on his lips. “This era is rife with betrayal, Mammon. But isn't that what makes it beautiful? The thrill of uncertainty?” He stepped closer, the dark aura enveloping him giving an impression of deep, hidden power. “I’m not afraid of the shadows you weave.”
He nodded without hesitation, advancing and inscribing his name with magic—a name that glimmered, resistant to any erasure. “I, Fitran Fate, accept all terms, with one addition: there shall be no deceit in this pact. Only truth, only intent.” His voice was low and challenging, each word delivered with a sharpness that felt lethal.
Mammon stared blankly for a moment before a chilling smile spread across her face, an expression that seemed to conceal a brewing storm within. "If you dare to lie," she warned, her voice like ice, "I'll tear your soul apart root and stem." With that, the glyph magic shot forth, a red aura binding around them like brutal shackles, sealing them in a terrifying pact.
Suddenly, the library felt darker, the temperature dropping drastically as if shadows crept from the corners of the room, suggesting they were on the brink of something horrifying. Books trembled, some floated off the shelves, opening on their own as aged pages seemed to whisper in agony, bearing witness to the ritual just performed. A thick black book materialized in the center of the room, dancing in the air before crashing down hard between Fitran and Mammon, dust swirling upwards to form a dark cloud.
Mammon spread her arms wide, her voice low yet firm, "Tell me about zombification. Remember, every lie will cause this book to reject you."
With a piercing gaze brimming with resolve, Fitran took a deep breath, ready to weave the words that would unlock his secrets. "This magic was created by Vlad, the eternal prince. He slaughtered all his kin for the secret of immortality, transforming corpses into eternal puppets. Zombification isn’t just about living and dying. It morphs the soul into a parasite, forcing the body to resist death." Each word sliced through the air, painting a chilling portrait of the grotesque hidden behind every ritual.
Mammon listened intently, her expression somber. “Vlad… Dracula. I remember that war, Fitran. I also recall how the earth cried out.” Mammon gazed at the ceiling, as if trying to capture fragments of time that once existed between them.
Fitran continued in a calm tone, “Zombies have levels: Revenants, Nachzehrers, Strigoi, Gjengangers, Draugrs, Vetalas, Gashadokuros, and even Izanami. Each level represents a metaphor for revenge, desire, disease, and the rejection of the world.” He gestured with his hand, signaling the loss of time, as if unrolling a hidden scroll of history behind his words.
Mammon traced the book that seemed to write itself, the phoenix pen dancing across the pages, depicting the shadowy silhouettes enveloping the trapped souls. “Every level is a tragedy, Fitran. Revenants—eternal vengeance of the slaves and soldiers. Nachzehrers—the insatiable hunger that endures even after death. Strigoi—the broken souls who never knew true love, existing behind the guise of humanity. Gjengangers—a never-ending sickness, and Draugrs—the ambitions of the noble. Vetala, Gashadokuro, Izanami… they are all remnants of the world's unforgiving curse.”
Fitran, with a playful smirk, delved deeper, “Understanding the power of zombification magic is like reassembling the shattered bones of history. Each resurrected soul serves as a reminder of what was lost. And you, Mammon, should get my drift—dissatisfaction is the real engine that drives this world.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “Do you even realize what you’re planning to do with those souls?”
Mammon surveyed the heavy dimensional pressure swirling around them, an atmosphere thick with unspoken threats. She replied calmly, “Vlad forged an army of the undead, tearing half the world apart. Gamma posed a challenge, and the earth beckons for a new king. But Vlad always returns, as the world never truly burns away the roots of his curse.”
Mammon gazed at Fitran for a long moment, her eyes measuring the depth of her opponent's soul. “And you want to rewrite that curse? With what, Fitran?” She struggled to mask the uncertainty in her tone, though a sense of wariness crawled up her spine.
Fitran smiled, a mix of irony and ambition dancing on his lips, “With a name. A name is a chain, Mammon. As long as something has a name, it can be contained, resurrected, or erased from history. Don't you want to be part of that story? Perhaps we can create a new legend.”
Mammon nodded slowly, doubt flitting through her mind. “You are indeed different. But what are you truly after? Revenge or a new kingdom?” She emphasized each word, hinting at a struggle deeper than what was apparent.
Fitran stood, his shadow looming large on the bookshelf wall. “I desire a new world, one free from the cycles of vengeance and eternal curses. I want to pen a chapter that cannot be erased, Mammon.”
Mammon sighed, casting a glance toward the dark corner of the room. “You know, in every legend, there’s a price to pay. If you fail, even I won’t be able to shield your soul.”
Fitran stepped closer, locking eyes with her. “I've been paying the price since the day I lost everything.” He flicked his fingers, and the dim light around him quivered softly, forming silhouettes of unseen creatures that seemed to dance in the shadows. “You need to understand, Mammon, every curse is a chain that you can shatter or wield as a weapon.”
The light around them dimmed further, the binding symbols of the contract tightening, creating an impression of a dark, foreboding graphic. Suddenly, a soft laugh echoed from the farthest shelf, Jacob Shakespeare's voice ringing out, sharp and menacing.
Jacob appeared, his tall hat and dark coat enhancing his shadowy aura. “What a delightful pact, Fitran. You truly are the scribe of hell!” He stepped forward, the oppressive aura around him chilling the atmosphere, making the blood run cold.
Mammon scoffed, “What brings you here, Jacob?” She tried to maintain her distance, her magical power swirling around an invisible barrier to protect them from outside influence.
Jacob smiled, his eyes glinting with cynicism. "I just want to observe. You see, Mammon, the new tales that emerge from this place will provide incredible input for my next novel." With a sweeping motion of his hand, he conjured illusions of ancient curses, casting shadows of darkness ensnared in an eternal labyrinth.
Fitran turned sharply, emphasizing each word. "Leave this place, Jacob. This is a matter for the curse bearers, not a mere writer." He anticipated his opponent's movements, crafting strategies like chess pieces poised to break free from the shackles of fate.
Jacob laughed loudly, his voice filling the room. "I've rewritten more death stories than you've slain, Paladin. But don't worry, I only wish to bear witness." The curve of his smile was defiant, as if inviting Fitran to challenge his dominion.
Mammon gazed at Fitran, "Do you want to involve him?" Her whole presence radiated power, yet an underlying doubt seeped into her voice. It seemed she was aware of how perilous this step was, how the darkness was ready to consume them all.
Fitran glared at Jacob with an intense stare, his smile betraying a deep-seated hatred. “He’s irrelevant. Just a shadow of the despair of the old world,” he said, his voice dripping with derision. “You might find this enchanting, but to me, it’s all just a game.”
Mammon waved her hand, conjuring an invisible barrier that radiated dark energy. “If you disrupt the ritual, Jacob, you’ll be the first casualty—not just in the story, but in reality,” she threatened firmly. “I will not hesitate to destroy anything that stands in my way.”
Jacob casually nodded, a dismissive air around him. “Chill out. I’m not foolish, Mammon. I know when to be quiet. But know this, the silence you create only raises more questions.”
Meanwhile, the book before Mammon and Fitran began to glow with a mysterious brilliance, its pages tremoring as if moved by some arcane force, writing itself with deep red ink that resembled blood. Words about curses, vengeance, and tragedy filled the air, generating a damp scent that was both eerie and intensified the chilling atmosphere.
Fitran recited an incantation, his voice deep and cold, a series of words cutting through the darkness. “From name to name, from blood to blood. With this contract, all that rises shall bow to my will. I am the boundary between life and death.”
A dark aura swirled around him, merging with the shadows of the library filled with Vlad's countless secrets and curses. Every curve of the walls and the towering bookshelves held forgotten tales, waiting to be uncovered. Mammon stared at him with a gaze of respect tinged with caution, wary of being ensnared by Fitran's cunning and brutality.
"Every contract is a double-edged sword, Fitran," Mammon whispered in a dangerous tone. "Never forget who holds the hilt. Your power makes me uneasy, and uncertainty is my greatest enemy."
Fitran took a final breath before the light of the contract exploded, transforming the room into a terrifying yet magnificent spectacle, marking the dawn of a new era—an era where the line between life and death grew ever thinner. The light formed haunting shadows that trembled with the promise of resurrecting cursed souls, waiting to be awakened. "They will know fear, Mammon. History will repeat itself, and this world will face horrors more profound," he declared, his voice brimming with ambition.
Outside the library, the world remained shrouded in darkness, but something had changed. In the corridors of time, Vlad's footsteps, never completely silenced, began to resonate once more. In the ancient kingdoms, the whisper of the name Izanami crept through the cracks of the new leaders' nightmares.
And amidst it all, Fitran smiled faintly—because he knew that every contract, every spell, was the beginning of a new tragedy… or an opportunity to rewrite the history of Memory of Heaven, this time, with his own blood and will.
"So... you want to have it, don’t you?" Fitran said in a teasing tone, as if daring Mammon to reveal her hidden desires.
"My zombie......."
Mammon bowed her head, her eyes shimmering with dark ambition. A shadow swept between them, as if the energy from an ancient ritual was gathering to witness the clash between them.
"Yeah," Mammon replied, her voice hoarse, as if swallowing a great secret that would change everything.
"Because your zombie is special. Unlike regular zombies," Mammon continued, her hand gestures emphasizing the power at her fingertips, every motion hinting at hidden intentions. "Your zombie can infect and spread the curse, turning those touched into zombies themselves. With that power, it wouldn't be impossible to easily conquer this world," she said with a calmness that concealed the simmering panic beneath the surface.
"But it requires your control, Fitran," Mammon said, her voice trembling as she felt the tension building between them, as if the line between buyer and seller was becoming increasingly blurred.
"For that, you can use my memory. I’ll seal part of it in a crystal. You can use that to control the zombies," Fitran said, a mysterious smile playing on his lips, hinting that he would never simply hand over full power. It was as if every word was bait, luring a hungry bear into the trap.
"I agree," Mammon replied, her voice tinged with hesitation. She realized that this deal wasn’t entirely safe; every agreement had a backdoor that could flip the situation at any moment.
"But I still need my power. There’s someone I need to face before I hand over my memory," Fitran declared, his sharp calculations overshadowing Mammon's hopes, like darkness yawning before a flash of lightning split the night sky. Meanwhile, a dark aura enveloped the room, waiting for the next move from both of them, secrets and intrigue intertwining in the air.
The silhouette cut through the shelves like dark fog dancing between the light. The atmosphere of the library pulsed, as if a new heartbeat were breaking into an ancient world—and soundless footsteps filled the corridor. Mammon immediately turned around, her wings taut.
Mammon shot a sharp glance, “Something’s off… This isn’t just any visitor, Fitran. This aura—it's black magic.”
From the depths of the shadowy corridor, a figure cloaked in black emerged. It stood tall beneath a suddenly dimmed chandelier, its face hidden, but its gaze struck with the same intensity as Fitran's—yet hollow and steeped in emptiness. Drops of black liquid dripped from the edge of the robe, as if its magic were seeping out. “Are you ready to face the consequences of calling me, Fitran?” the voice of the Black Hood echoed, haunting yet daring.
Fitran narrowed his eyes. “I’m not afraid of my own shadow,” he asserted. “But in the Abyss Reflection, power comes at a price. Are you prepared to pay?”
Black Hood spoke with a gravelly tone, “What a blast from the past. You finally dare to summon me again, Fitran.” He stepped forward, more...
Fitran narrowed his eyes. “I'm not afraid of my own shadow,” he insisted. “But in the Abyss Reflection, power comes at a cost. Are you ready to pay?”
Black Hood spoke, his voice gravelly, “What nostalgia. You finally dared to call me back, Fitran.” He stepped closer, each movement seeming to wound an unseen presence. “Every entity born from the Abyss Reflection has its own desires. This magic is not merely a tool—it serves as a reminder of the dark past you hide.”
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Fitran remained unshaken. He regarded the figure with cold detachment. “Don’t get too cocky. You’re nothing more than a manifestation of the Abyss Reflection—a shadow of black magic, nothing more.” His voice held a provocative tone, challenging the encroaching darkness.
Mammon shot a sharp glance at Fitran. “You called upon a Doppelganger from the Abyss Reflection? Madness! That magic is unstable—it sometimes creates entities with their own will.” She chanted faint magical words, augmenting the energy in the air, making the heartbeat of the moment feel more tangible.
Fitran sighed, a hint of irritation in his tone, “I had no other choice. Tonight’s ritual demands a price that cannot be paid with blood alone.” Painful memories haunted him, past mistakes creating uncertainty in his heart. “Even this black magic I take pride in— is there a way to control it before it pushes me into the abyss of chaos?”
Black Hood approached slowly, his footsteps silent yet each tread resonated through the floor. “Don’t forget, I am every dark side of you that you’ve locked away. If you’re too weak, I’ll take over your body and your name.” His voice trembled with a terrifying promise, hinting at the potential vengeance that might follow.
Jacob chuckled low from behind the shelves, “This is incredible… A doppelganger with the potential for freedom. A tale of ruin and betrayal could be born from this!”
He felt the chill of the wind sweeping through the room, carrying the damp scent of ancient books and the shadowy figures trapped within their pages. Mammon smirked, a tense aura surrounding her, “What if your doppelganger decides to rewrite the contract in her own name?”
Fitran held the magical energy in his hands, forming a blue glimmering spiral glyph. The blue light seemed to evoke painful memories from his soul; each glyph vibrated with destructive power. “If he breaks the rules, I’ll erase his name. The only condition is: while you’re here, you must submit to the will of your creator.”
“You know,” Fitran continued, his voice growing deeper and more ominous, “in the hierarchy of dark magic, there are unforeseen risks. Every time I use Abyss Reflection, a part of me—a shadow of a dark past—diminishes bit by bit. And every failed ritual will bind me deeper into that darkness. Who knows, tonight I might become the reality, and you might just remain a shadow?”
Black Hood looked up, his dark eyes piercing into Fitran. Fitran sensed the tension in the air, the heavy aura of dark magic enveloping them, creating a chill that brushed against his skin. “Are you sure your will is strong enough? In every interaction with magic, the void starts to pull itself into you.”
He added, “Practitioners of dark magic often forget the price that must be paid. Every magical element carries a dark story it wishes to hide. If we reach that point, what will you choose? The illusory freedom, or the shackles you already know?”
Mammon reinforced the glyph circle surrounding them, creating a barrier of magic. “If this ritual is interrupted, no one can set the contract back on track. Fitran, are you sure you can control your creation?”
“I miss the days when dark magic was only a tool for domination,” Fitran replied, his tone icy. “Now, we're just caught in this dangerous game. I don’t have time to hesitate. Every spell carries a risk. But I name it, and I choose to end it.”
With dark energy swirling around him, Fitran felt a fiery sensation within. He understood that each colossal summoning chipped away at part of his soul. The memories of the lethal choices he made began to haunt him again, pressing down on him with an unbearable weight, like shadows of the past that always accompanied him. Even in this dark light, the screams of his lost souls echoed, demanding vengeance.
Black Hood smirked, “Dark magic always strikes back twice as hard. If you fail, I will thrive, and you will vanish.” He stepped forward, letting waves of magic envelop the corridor, each stride a haunting reminder of the consequences that awaited those who dared to defy fate. “In the past, many have underestimated the power of darkness.”
“You’re just leaning on the shadows, Hood,” Jacob noted softly, filled with fervor. “One ritual, two souls, and one world waits for the one who will remain named. But remember, every soul consumed by this magic leaves behind an invisible trace. One trace can summon a long-lasting fever.”
Meanwhile, the Doppelganger Black Hood began to spread dark shadows throughout the hallway, calling upon shards of ancient magic, threatening to swallow the last remnants of light in the room. Those shadows whispered, warning Fitran of the dark pact that always lingered at his heels, pushing him to once again breach his moral boundaries.
Mammon threatened, “You, shadows, are bound by the laws of contracts! Or I will sever the chains of your name myself!” Her face displayed anger, as swirling magic swirled violently around her. She knew this power came at a cost, and looking into Fitran's eyes, she could sense the buried fear within him.
“Go ahead, try,” Black Hood chuckled softly. “I thrive in the cracks of broken wills, and tonight... there’s more than one story waiting to be concluded.” His voice stretched the limits, filling the room with a shocking atmosphere. “We’re all part of this ritual, and every step we take carries immense consequences. How do you feel when all this comes to an end?”
Fitran stood tall, his magic shining brighter, ready to face the battle—not just against the world, but also against the darkest parts of himself. Each heartbeat felt agonizing, reminding him of all that had been lost and the wrong choices he had made in pursuit of dark magic. He was determined not to get trapped in that illusion of loss again, even though the darkness beckoned him.
The effects of Abyss Reflection were now palpable throughout the room, the aura of black magic clashing with the light of the contract. The rising pressure reached its peak. Every dialogue, every incantation, now carried risk: Fitran's doppelganger could spiral out of control, and the contract could transform into the beginning of a new destruction. Only time would tell who among them could survive this misery.
Mammon clasped her hands together as crimson glyphs twirled wildly, holding back the unleashed energy from the interrupted ritual. The air in the library grew heavier. The shadow of the Doppelganger—Black Hood—spread, tainting the air with sparks of dark magic that pierced the bones. "Dramatic, isn't it?" Fitran smirked, his gaze fixed on the spreading illusion. "But you've overlooked something; your curse will only reveal your own dark side." He knew that behind every glyph lay a horrific secret that could be exploited.
Fitran stood rigid in the center of the room, his breath heavy as he suppressed his fury. But as he stared at the cloaked figure, his mind began to whirl. "Have you ever questioned your own existence?" he asked. "Or is this all just a game far bigger than your imagination?" His red eyes bore down intensely, every pixel of the void-colored backdrop threatening his rapidly beating heart. "You are the one who put Rinoa on the path to destruction. And for that... I won't forgive."
Fitran clenched his jaw, "You, who attacked Rinoa in Thirtos… I know that wasn’t a shadow or an illusion. I know... you did it deliberately." He concentrated the power of the glyph in his palm. Every impulse for violence surged stronger, calling forth the raw energy within him.
Black Hood wore a thin, emotionless smile. "Rinoa? Ah, the eternal flame that always flickers in your eyes. Have you forgotten, Fitran? I’m merely a reflection of your instincts. If I hurt her, it’s only because you planted that intention yourself." He felt as if Black Hood was toying with him, dancing on the edge of his thoughts. "A reflection? Or perhaps more like a dagger piercing your heart." Fitran shot back, challenging him, "If you expect to see anything but my dark side, maybe it’s time for you to look a little clearer."
"What happens if you awaken a monster far more terrifying than yourself?” Fitran spat out, unleashing his anger. The entire room seemed to grow desolate, not even a whisper could be heard. Only the sound of a buzzing filled his ears.
Then Fitran exhaled deeply, "I think I've expended too much of my power. This can’t be good for my health."
Fitran observed the three of them frozen in place.
He then gripped the glyph sword in the air, a blue-golden energy vibrating in his palm. “Stop hiding behind your cheap logic. You are indeed a reflection… but you aren’t my wish. You’re taking something that doesn’t belong to you!” His voice burned with a deadly urgency as he added, “You know, Black Hood, even a mirror can shatter. Are you ready to face your own shadows?”
Mammon stepped back, shielding the contract table. “Don’t be foolish, Fitran! If you destroy your Doppelganger here, the Abyss Reflection could break—there’s a chance you might be the one who perishes.”
Fitran rolled his eyes, a phrase slipping from his lips. “Oh, Mammon, you don’t get it. The spirit of warriors lives on, even beyond death. So, it seems we both are taking a risk.”
Black Hood moved, his steps like waves of shadow creeping along the floor. “Stop pretending to be the hero. You aren’t anyone’s savior. Every drop of blood that spills from your hands only makes me stronger.”
“Strong?” Fitran smirked, “Your strength is just an illusion you've forged from fear. I don’t just wield this sword; I hold your fate in my hands.” He paused, remembering the wound on Rinoa’s shoulder, the terror in her eyes that night in Thirtos, and the chilling whisper that poisoned her dreams thereafter. “And I will make sure you feel every last bit of that punishment.”
Fitran, cold, added, “I created you to protect, not to kill without reason. But you’ve harmed those who should remain untouched. Tonight, you’ll lose your name.” Before swinging his sword, he activated the glyph at the blade’s tip—a magic system that connected the user’s soul with the remaining elemental power. The energy pulsed, challenging the darkness surrounding him.
Black Hood let out a low chuckle, his voice raspy like thunder echoing from the bottom of a well. “You talk about names, yet every wound in this world stems from your own. Do you really think I bear the guilt alone?”
Mammon reprimanded, “Stop arguing! Decide here and now, or the entire magic contract will shatter! The Abyss Reflection is already beginning to crack. Rewrite your will, or free your doppelganger forever!”
Fitran fell silent for a moment, contemplating Mammon's words. He understood that the connection between Abyss Reflection and the magical contract held a significant secret. With his doppelganger continuously shielded by magic, any added tension could trap him. In this intricate web, he only needed to find a way to turn the tide. “You don’t get it, Mammon. In this game, I’m not just a player. I’m both the chess piece and the mastermind moving behind the board. Let’s see just how deep your ties run.”
Without waiting for a response, Fitran stepped forward, swinging his glyph sword toward Black Hood. “This is for Rinoa.” His voice was rough, laced with the tricks of fate that he had woven himself. As his sword sliced through the air, the glyph glimmered with a faint light, emanating from the magical energy bound to the contract. Each design etched into the blade was a reminder of power and vulnerability.
Shadows darted rapidly as Black Hood deflected the attack with a dark blade, forged from remnants of Vlad's incantations and shattered nightmares. "You think your magic is stronger than my memories?" she said, her tone dripping with condescension and confidence. Each clash sparked bursts of light and darkness, turning the shelves of books into a battlefield of the mind. Amidst the chaos, Fitran felt a psychological tension rising; he understood this was all a mental game—who could break the other first.
"You're too slow. Your magic ages along with your regrets," Black Hood sneered, every word piercing like a dagger.
Fitran shot back, breath held tight, "Regrets that give me more strength than all your darkness combined." Anger and irritation flickered in his eyes, but he knew he had to stay calm. In his mind, strategies and tactics converged. He analyzed each move from his adversary; when Black Hood launched her attack, Fitran quickly calculated his response, like pieces on a chessboard in a grander game.
The next attack launched—a spiraling glyph illuminated around Fitran's body, casting new shadows that encircled Black Hood from every direction. This was a magic technique drawing on negative energy, bound to the Abyss Reflection—where every sign and repetition wove a new tapestry of magic, waiting to be drawn back in a threatening contract.
Black Hood smiled with a bitter edge, “You think copying my old magic will defeat me? You forget, I know all your moves.”
Fitran whispered a swift incantation, “Reflection Severance—Chains of Names Severed!” In an instant, a spiraling glyph radiated brilliant blue light from his hand. This glyph not only channeled magical energy but also reflected the darkness of Black Hood’s spell. The effect seemed to create an invisible net, ready to ensnare every movement of his foe.
The spiraling glyph struck sharply, hitting Black Hood. The sound was like shattering glass, and in that moment, Black Hood staggered back—but the Doppelganger only faltered for a heartbeat before regaining his terrifying calm. “Is that all? Look at you, even your anger is as feeble as your mercy.”
Fitran gritted his teeth, a sharp voice escaping his lips, “Ah, Black Hood, you’re always trapped in the illusion of your own power. You’re too late—did you really think that ancient technique would be enough to stop me? People like you never learn; the ground you stand on is but a shadow of the darkness you spread.”
Mammon noted, her voice trembling with tension, “Look closely, this is the boundary between creator and creation. If Fitran loses, Abyss Reflection—the magical contract binding his soul—will seize his original body, separating the two forever.”
Fitran shut his eyes, allowing all his anger and past wounds to spill forth—Rinoa’s face, the blood on his hands, the promises unfulfilled, and the sins time couldn’t erase. In that moment, he felt the flow of energy around him, strategizing in silence, “I know Alice thinks this is a dead end. No one expected me to confront death in a completely different way.” His aura erupted in a spiral of white and blue light, breaking through the darkness of the room—challenging Black Hood’s existence with newfound power.
Fitran, slowly and with an enticing tone, said, “A name is more than a chain; it’s also forgiveness. You’ve never understood the meaning of the word 'sorry,' Black Hood, because all you know is vengeance. In every move, there’s always a choice—choices you ignore in your endless quest for revenge.”
Black Hood fell silent, her magical aura wavering, “Don’t lecture me with your false virtues. This world is decaying because of people like you.” At that moment, Fitran could feel the psychological tension enveloping the space—where not only magic clashed but also the souls and philosophies of these two opposing figures.
The next attack was a collision of high-level magic—Black Hood’s dark sword merging with Fitran’s spiral blade. The library split in two: one half filled with shards of black magical glass, the other shrouded in the light of glyphs and spells of forgiveness. “How easily you dismiss this all as a game,” Fitran remarked with a sardonic tone, his eyes shimmering with indifference.
In the corner of the room, Jacob scribbled rapidly on a sheet of paper, his eyes sparkling, “This is the best chapter—it's a war of meaning and will, not just a clash of strength.” In his mind, Fitran observed every detail of Jacob's attack, sensing the tension that hung in the air before the next strike. Recognizing this moment was key. “A war of meaning? Only if it means erasing the weaknesses from the minds of my opponents,” Fitran replied, his gaze fixed on the shimmering glyphs encircling Jacob.
Mammon focused the protective glyph on the contract table, strengthening the seal, “Whoever wins here will be the one to dictate the rules of eternal life.” In that moment, Fitran mused that the glyphs were nothing more than gatekeepers, though the gatekeeper had no idea that he had become one himself. “The rules of eternity? That's just an illusion—I'm the one who can change everything,” he said, glancing at Mammon with a wicked, knowing smile.
Black Hood's voice was low, “Rinoa has always been your weakness. By sacrificing her, you could rewrite the world. Are you willing, Fitran?” Within Fitran's soul, each word from Black Hood was a void waiting to be filled by darkness, and he smiled with satisfaction. “Willing? That’s not the issue. When you wield memories as weapons, even your greatest weakness can become a devastating tool,” he answered with a manipulative edge to his tone.
Fitran, his face set like stone, said, “If the price of immortality is repeating tragedy, then let the world collapse with me.” Hatred flickered in his eyes, and in an instant, he calculated each move, intertwining meaning and power. "Repeating tragedy? What if that very tragedy becomes the stage we’ve all been waiting for?" He paused, assessing the reactions of his opponents.
Black Hood moved swiftly, unleashing the spell “Nightmare Erosion—Memory Invasion,” as dark shadows surged toward Fitran’s mind, showcasing every failure and betrayal from his past. But Fitran quickly regained his focus, suppressing those thoughts. "Try again, Hood. Memories merely add to the thrill of this hunt," he retorted, casting a defensive spell in response to the attack, intertwining glyphs of protection amidst shadows and light.
For a moment, Fitran staggered, hearing Rinoa’s cries, the vanished face of Iris, and Mammon whispering, “Abyss Reflection… it’s not just a mirror but a bottomless pit.” That stirred something within him, a sense of urgency for action. "Abyss Reflection, huh? What if we turn that mirror into a cave that could devour everything you’ve ever conjured?" he said with a cold smile, aiming to destabilize his opponent's mind.
Fitran struggled, his voice low, “I… not you… I, Fitran Fate—who refuses to bow to old wounds!” Deep within, he knew that every rejection bolstered the mental walls he had built. Each fight was not merely a display of physical strength, but a battle of minds where every move was sharp and meticulously calculated. "They never understand the depths of the thoughts I pen," he murmured, striving to maintain control over the blood pulsing through his veins.
With his final strength, Fitran thrust the glyph sword into the chest of his Doppelganger, shouting, “Spiral Rebirth—A Name That Cannot Be Erased!” In that moment, the tension in the room escalated, like a thin thread about to snap. Only true heroes or madmen on the brink of death could seize that moment. "The mystique around us isn't just for show; it’s a tool—I'm the architect crafting the flood that encompasses humanity," he added, realizing how to manipulate the flow of magic in every movement.
Light erupted from the glyph, slowly incinerating the shadow of Black Hood, shattering her form into fragments of black ink that dissolved into the air. “See? Even the strongest shadows can disintegrate that quickly,” Fitran taunted, a cynical smile etched on his face. “You only repeat the same mistakes, Black Hood. You don’t understand that every defeat is a step towards my obliteration?”
Black Hood, nearly vanishing, whispered, “Do you really think you've won? As long as there's a wound, I will always return…” His voice thundered with desperation, and Fitran could feel the wave of tension creeping around them. “Every wound does offer a glimmer of hope for a comeback. But hope is merely an illusion for those who are already dead,” Fitran replied, masking his own uncertainty with arrogance.
Fitran lowered his gaze, his body weary. “So I will continue to write a new name—for Rinoa, for the world, for all that remains.” He touched the tip of his finger to the glowing glyph, a magical marker connecting this realm to the dark abyss. In an instant, he felt the tug between reality and the Abyss Reflection, the place where his soul was bound by a perilous magical contract. “With this power, I can change the fate of anyone, even my own,” he whispered, awakening the dark side that lay dormant within his soul.
Mammon approached, her magical aura calming the room. “The contract is complete. Your doppelganger has returned to the Abyss Reflection. But remember, the more often you summon it, the thinner the line between you and your shadow becomes.” She observed Fitran, trying to peer into the swirling dark thoughts within him. Fitran chuckled softly, “Oh, Mammon, what does a boundary mean to me? I prefer to dance with shadows rather than merely becoming one myself. The deeper I dive into darkness, the brighter the light I will discover. Isn’t that the true essence of magic?”
Fitran nodded slowly, still catching his breath. “I understand. But I will never let shadows dictate the future of those I love again.” In his heart, he plotted his next moves, considering how he could wield his magical power to breach dimensional barriers, tearing apart the contract that was meant to bind him.
Jacob glanced at Fitran as he penned the final line, “And this tale… has finally reached a chapter where shadows and light bleed alike.” Tension filled the air as those words hung between them. Fitran could sense the tremor of shock all around, weighing the significance in each syllable. “Light and shadow have never been equal, my friend. Like fate, light is always destructive,” Fitran replied coldly, a reminder of his manipulative nature in his scheme to create chaos.
Slowly, the library fell silent once more. The chandelier's light flickered softly, and the shelves of books seemed to rearrange themselves. Yet behind every aisle, the shadow of the Black Hood lingered—waiting for the next weakness, for a new name, for the chance to pen the next chapter of tragedy. “They’re just biding their time, like predators lying in wait for their prey. But I’m no prey; I’m the hunter,” Fitran mused in the tranquility, plotting a more cunning and lethal strike across the stretched timeline before him.
Outside the library, the world remained hushed, but Fitran knew the next war had begun—not against outside creatures but against himself. He held Rinoa's name tightly in his heart, crafting strategies in his mind, sealing a vow: no one else would be harmed by their own shadow. “Once this is over, I’ll find Rinoa, with a new world in my grasp. And who knows, maybe I’ll even call upon my own shadow for assistance,” he smirked, a blend of hope and threat hanging in the air.
Mammon smiled meaningfully, “Every contract is a new beginning. And every beginning casts shadows of the next ending. Welcome to a new era, Fitran Fate.”
Fitran stood alone amidst countless silent books. In that stillness, a soft voice seemed to whisper Rinoa’s name—and for the first time in ages, Fitran felt a flicker of belief that there were still chapters worth fighting for.
“Ah, Mammon,” Fitran replied, “do you really think those shadows can’t be severed by a sharp blade? The contract you offer is merely a new bond for traitors like us.” He stepped forward, the darkness around him appearing almost alive, clutching at the shadows that danced between the shelves.
“And what do you want from this chaos?” Mammon asked, her eyes probing, seemingly aware of Fitran’s cunning ways. “I’m granting you power, a connection between Abyss Reflection and the magic contract. Its strength lies within you, waiting for you to unleash it.”
“This system doesn’t just bind power; it also traps souls,” Fitran replied with a smirk. “Every glyph is marked by uncertainty—who's really summoning whom? If you think I’ll let you dominate this game, you’re sorely mistaken. The intertwining contracts will lead us to a dreadfully clear end.”
The books around him pulsed softly, as if responding to his presence. With every word, he felt the wounds in his mind, awakened by psychological tension, a battle between heart and reason. “Try all your tricks, Mammon. But remember, in a fight, it’s often ignorance that leads to the end of everything. As for me... I’m the reader of the future, choosing each step with precision.”
Fitran gazed into the darkness, one by one, glyphs emerged in his hand, glowing with a dense black light—those glyphs of Abyss Reflection. “My decision will blur your view of this world. One wrong step, and you’ll find that shadows can be quite deadly.”
He felt his mind racing, analyzing and mapping out Mammon’s potential moves. “Of course, if you want to stay on the right side of this contract, you need to understand—I've never been an ally to those with ambitions greater than my own.”
“Amid all these books, make sure you don't miss the end of my story,” he warned, a wide grin on his face as if predicting every maneuver she would attempt. “Perhaps we can witness the outcome of the ending you create atop the bones of our enemies.”
