Elbert's body was not cleaved in a single blow—rather, it was unveiled, piece by piece, like an ancient secret slowly unraveling. “Beelzebub's Magic: The Ninth Stomach,” Fitran's voice resonated, “it does not kill outright; instead, it tears apart the boundaries of sanity, shredding the meaning of your flesh.” The enchantment swirled around them, like a cursed prayer, uttered by countless invisible mouths, extending suffering, carving madness. “Can't you feel it? This is more than mere magic; this is the law of the Deity demanding its payment.”

  For a moment, millions of tiny, shimmering black insects swarmed, enclosing Elbert in a miniature storm. His voice, reminiscent of a death knell, cried out, “I am not afraid of this. Try, if you can destroy what I have endured!” faithfully drumming the rhythm of his helplessness. Each tiny jaw bit, every leg pierced, tearing into Elbert’s flesh, layer by layer. “Do you think this will change who I am?” he shouted, his voice growing more hoarse. There was no mercy; this was not just magic, but a primordial judgment upon all the arrogance he had ever possessed.

  “Elbert,” Fitran said, his gaze unwavering, his eyes dim yet piercing. “You speak of courage, yet time itself is conspiring against you. How many seconds do you think you have before you forget who you truly are? Each tick of the clock is but a step deeper into the abyss.”

  Elbert felt his shoulders shrink, his bones melting like wax. “This can't be happening…,” his voice shattered, “it’s just an illusion! There are cracks beneath it all. All I need is a little time—a sliver, and I can regain my dominion.”

  “It could be far worse,” Fitran fixed his gaze. “Time will offer you no mercy; there will be no gap in the magic that is entwined with the souls of traitors. You will merely become a part of their shattered legion.” The veins of his flesh twisted into threads, each one pulled by an invisible force—beyond the understanding of men, surpassing the interpretation of sorcerers, ensnaring hope within a trap.

  Elbert laughed bitterly, “I am Elbert… Lord Elbert... What insignificant creature would dare extend a hand to me? I—once flayed a traitor while he lived! This pain is merely a trivial sensation. It… is nothing, is it?”

  Fitran approached, his voice icy and piercing, “Even those who betray will surely weep when their names are forgotten. You have yet to experience the pain of being erased from the world’s memory.”

  A dark liquid began to flow from his eyes. It was not blood, but something far more foul—an anguish that seemed alive. His mind oozed out, not shattered by pressure, but devoured by the pitiful emptiness surrounding him. Small holes, like hungry mouths, opened on his face. They beckoned something to enter—something patient, waiting to reclaim the end of his life.

  Elbert's voice, half hysterical and soft, quivered, “Deity… if this is Your punishment... where are You now? There is no God here. Fitran—end me! Put an end to all this, for the sake of my dignity, for… who am I truly?”

  Fitran shrugged, his gaze empty as a bottomless pit. “Your dignity has long been sold at the altar of ambition. Now, relish the fruits of your own creation.”

  Elbert's abdomen swelled, then without warning, burst, releasing a thick, black mist that reeked of decay—not blood or flesh, but something resembling a stolen sin. The liquid evaporated, leaving behind a fine haze, swallowing the remnants of Elbert’s soul still trapped in the brink of consciousness.

  Elbert—or what remained within him—growled, trapped in the limbo of his consciousness. “This world is suffocating me… who is singing in my mind? Why do they call my name—or is it erased from memory?”

  He laughed, but his voice shattered like glass; a cough that emerged from a pool of darkness, compelled outward by a brain betrayed by reality. Once, he cried bitterly, then barked like a wounded, starving dog.

  “Who… who am I truly? My mother… ah, this rain—I’ve always hated the rain since childhood!”

  “They dance… tearing at my soul... look! Look at all that is happening…!”

  “My mind is starting to melt away… who am I? I… who?”

  The human body collapsed, distorted by magical forces, a mere mass of organic matter floating in the fog of darkness, moving without rhythm like chess pieces on a broken board. The world sang a requiem for the body that refused to vanish, knowing that returning was not an option.

  “…I… I… I…”

  “It hurts… it hurts so much…”

  “White… everything is white… blinding white…”

  “….”

  And suddenly, a chilling silence emerged. No screams, no sobs. Elbert’s existence began to fade slowly. Only the remnants of the ninth belly of Beelzebub remained, now sealed, like a predator that had just swallowed its prey. That silence spread fear, not because the sound had vanished, but because every hope of returning had dissipated without a trace.

  Fitran gazed at the ground where Elbert once tread. Now, only a bubbling black pit remained, its stench so potent it was enough to rot the roots of nearby plants. All around him, the atmosphere simmered; the deep purple sky was filled with strange, inhuman sounds. “These flowers... they are weeping,” he murmured, touched by the bizarre sight: blood weeping from their petals. The earth beneath him crackled as if it were flesh being burned.

  “It’s so easy to erase a trace,” Fitran said, his eyes capturing the faint glimmers of light, “with just intent and a touch of boredom.”

  With a wave of his hand, he dispelled the remnants of Elbert, as if brushing away morning dew under the blazing sun. There was no ash, no evidence. What was erased was not merely a body but an infinite trail: names, memories, stories—all drifting away.

  “Will all of this be forgotten?” he asked softly, feeling the grass beneath Elbert’s feet no longer wounded, growing lush as if untouched by the nightmare that had passed. On a distant mountain peak, an old hermit suddenly snorted, his heart quaking, “Have you conquered something that should be eternal?” Horror crept between them; the name once feared had now vanished without a trace, like thunder that extinguishes all memory.

  Fitran growled, “I have no intention of leaving behind a faded shadow.”

  “Look around us,” the old hermit said, his voice trembling, “every footprint you leave is a whisper of stories that must be erased.”

  He moved slowly, his steps barely a flicker, yet those who traversed that place felt dizziness, nausea, and an anxiety that seeped deep into their souls. “I am full…” his voice cut through the darkness, “but that hunger… will never fade.”

  The fractured dimension opened once more, creating a rift into an endless abyss. The pale moon lingered, casting a melancholic glow upon the shadowed earth. “Do you know what you are doing?” Fitran stepped carefully, his voice piercing the silence that surrounded him. “You are erasing tracks, not just the body.”

  In the midst of the thinning fragments of tranquility, beyond the bounds of time and space, a single eye began to open.

  “I do not belong to any mortal, and I surely am not a servant of the deities,” the entity whispered, its voice resonating with power. “I am the Reminder—the guardian of memory, an ancient spirit, formless, composed solely of memories and determination. I witness, more than just observe; I absorb every tale that has ever been intertwined.”

  “You are digging a hole that cannot be filled,” the Reminder continued, its voice growing heavier. “Have you ever considered that you erase more than just the body? You erase his presence.”

  Fitran stood frozen, his silhouette crossing the Reminder's view—not a shadow, but a haunting disturbance within the symmetry of existence. “Like words etched without ever being taught,” the memory of his name spoke, “carving into this silence.”

  “Let me write his name upon the walls of existence,” the Reminder proposed with hope. Yet, each letter melted away, flowing into an undefined black blood. “It is not just the physical that you have erased; the language of life, the memories, the reality—all have been taken.”

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  “And yet, there remains an emptiness,” it added, the tone of its voice striking like an axe. “That void demands to be filled by something urgent, without hesitation.”

  “Fitran,” it whispered, the sound cleaving through the night like a fierce wind sweeping away all emotion.

  As the void crept in, time spun wildly, as if listening to the pulse of his soul. Fitran's gaze was fixed upon the Reminder, cold light piercing through the fog of memories that would not fade.

  “Emptiness is an inevitable law, Memory Keeper,” Fitran said, his tone deep, as if sinking into the earth. “Every memory will succumb to darkness, making way for the new.”

  Reminder replied softly, "Without memories, we are but shadows, devoid of identity. Without a sense of self, this world becomes nothing but an emptiness that gnaws at our souls."

  This battle was no longer merely physical; it echoed with fragmented voices and shadows, tearing down and rebuilding in a cycle of destruction. Every word, every breath, stretched the timeline, striving to weave together the shattered remnants.

  Fitran radiated a chilling energy, erasing every trace that remained, akin to ice melting beneath the blinding sun. Reminder responded with a wave of emotions that flowed gently, calling back the life fragments that had evaporated, weaving hope among the nearly severed threads.

  In the gaps of time, the world seemed to dance on the edge of existence, surrounded by the cries of a newborn that shattered the silence—an unquenchable hope embracing the darkness. Whispers of memories fought against the longing to be erased forever.

  Fitran gazed at the cracked sky, feeling the remnants of power within himself, seeking meaning amid this ruin.

  "I am the architect of destruction," Fitran spoke slowly, his voice laden with gravity. "Yet within every ruin lies a chamber for eternity."

  "Ah, this memory," a soft voice filled with longing echoed in his mind. "I am the forgotten remnant, laughter and tears etched upon a page of history. I shall never relinquish myself to this void."

  The surrounding space trembled as the clash of two powers gave rise to a towering black aurora—like a torn fabric displaying a haunting tapestry of suffering and eternity.

  Beelzebub's voice soared, “Has that creature vanished from sight?”

  Fitran calmly asserted, “Only its name has slipped away. Yet, this world has a way of demanding balance. That creature will return. Soon.”

  He now bore the weight of all Elbert's power and memories—a legacy of pain and triumph. Energy surged through him, like a current of electricity igniting his nerves, awakening a new spirit that made him feel unstoppable. “With this power, I can either replace Elbert... or erase his very existence,” he thought, signaling the tension within his heart.

  This magic seemed to resurrect moments as he absorbed George's essence; now he was a shadow of George, carrying every laugh and every memory that had ever existed—a bond that was tightly woven, unbreakable even as time sought to tear it asunder.

  In the suffocating silence that enveloped him, Fitran sensed that something was off. “What are you doing?” he asked, his tone laced with worry, as if the world around him was trapped in an endless illusion. The emptiness surrounding him felt like a cold grip creeping in.

  He stood firm, one foot planted on the dark, scorched earth, while the other dangled at the edge of nothingness—a chasm that defied explanation. “There’s nothing you can do here,” the voice hissed, conjuring an illusion of movement in the black mist that curled around him, swaying as if waiting for the right command.

  “But those memories are alive,” Fitran challenged, his voice rising to resist the thunderous turmoil within him. “They’re more powerful than you think. They’re not just shadows that you can erase.” The voice resonated, vibrating in a fine line between sound and silence, urging him to resist the encroaching darkness.

  “So, are you sure those memories have the power to fight against this darkness?” Fitran asked, his gaze piercing and skeptical.

  Reminder offered no verbal response. She simply raised one hand. With every gesture, a circle of light blossomed, transforming into ancient script, shifting glyphs, and numbers that flickered like messages trapped in time. In an instant, their surroundings seemed to stretch infinitely, walls built from shards of lost history, broken dreams, and names that were nearly forgotten.

  Fitran smirked wryly, “Is all of this just an illusion, or merely a futile attempt to change our fate?”

  “Can you see?” Reminder's voice quivered, resonating from every corner, “Every destruction leaves a mark, and every empty space is a promise unfulfilled.”

  She waved her hand—like an explosion of memories, fragments of Elbert appeared: tightly held recollections, a promise to his mother, blazing betrayal. Those memories circled around Fitran one by one, struggling to fill the void that loomed between them.

  “Ah, all of that is just dust, memories devoid of life,” Fitran quipped with a sardonic tone. “I’m merely hastening the process of forgetting.”

  He raised Excalibur—now, its blade resembled a shattered mirror, reflecting countless versions of himself, including the lost faces that lingered in his grip. He swung the sword, each slash not only tearing through flesh but also ripping apart the very threads of time. Light and darkness collided wildly, creating a fissure between seconds; that fragmentation of time birthed a fragile space—some memories slipped away, while others remained tightly bound.

  “Listen, I won’t be easily swayed,” he declared firmly, his voice brimming with confidence. He moved, reconstructing layers of memory—glyphs of shimmering light danced in the air, forming a translucent shield crafted from Elbert’s laughter, his mother’s tears, and the cries of the fallen. “Each of these layers holds your attacks at bay, but cracks continue to emerge in every barrier I build.”

  “How many sheets have you prepared?” Fitran spoke softly, laced with sarcasm. “How many times will you repeat this before the world grows weary of remembering you? Memories never truly vanish, but they can get tangled in the noise.”

  “I’m only delaying your fate,” Reminder replied, her gaze sharp. “There’s always something lingering between loss and hope. I am the shadow in every void you leave behind, never to disappear completely.”

  Fitran spread his arms wide, intensifying the spiral spell—Abyssal Reflection—which erupted in the air. The space around him morphed into a sea of dark mirrors, where every soul that had ever vanished reemerged, calling to be remembered, only to be pulled back before their voices could reach the world. “This is the emptiness you’ve created,” he thought, feeling the screams of every lurking shadow—but they remained reflected, never able to escape the labyrinth of void that had ensnared them.

  “Well done,” Fitran said, his voice heavy with authority. “Try to reclaim those fragments. But remember, every effort will only add new wounds. Every memory you attempt to beautify, I will tear apart with the name you fear: Null Requiem.”

  He raised Excalibur, the sword humming with raw power, slicing through the winding threads of time. In an instant, Reminder's world trembled violently; some memories faded like smoke, while others piled up, becoming an unbearable weight on her shoulders.

  With a trembling voice, Reminder said, “Without memory, everything will be hollow. You will be trapped in shadows with no origin, haunting and marking every step you take.”

  Fitran stepped closer, his eyes glowing with ambition. “The place of return is only for those afraid to face the darkness. I carve a path to the abyss—and anyone who falls won’t be remembered, so they don’t become ghosts that haunt the future.”

  The atmosphere grew increasingly tense, as if dimensions were collapsing—time's voice froze, leaving only the rhythm of their hearts. Fitran intoned the final spell: Oblivion’s Law—a magic that tore not just through space, but the very essence of reality itself, reducing every memory recounted by Reminder to dust that drifted away, unrecognizable and irretrievable.

  “Look,” Fitran said, his voice calm yet laced with confidence. “You’re now trapped in uncertainty.” Around them, glowing glyphs and shards of time collided violently, like meteors in a storm, bursting forth in shades of purple, black, and white. The space between them fractured—hinting that reality swayed precariously between light and dark.

  “Even emptiness can feel painfully sharp, can't it?” Reminder’s voice rasped, shaking the cold smile from Fitran's lips. “Aren't you afraid of betrayal from your very absence?”

  Fitran laughed, his soft voice flowing like a whisper, “A witness means nothing. All I need is determination.”

  With an elegant flourish, she spread her arms, calling upon the power of Elbert—memories, strength, and even the darkest sins. A golden-black aura erupted, engulfing the entire battlefield. In that terrifying explosion, everything transformed into Null Requiem: devoid of time, stripped of meaning, governed only by the will of what is deemed real.

  Beelzebub collapsed, her body slowly dissolving into the fading light. The last memories dripped from her, like silent tears spilling from her essence.

  Fitran gazed at the remnants of her shadow, “Now, all you remember is the void. And even that will fade away.”

  “Can you feel it?” Fitran's voice trembled, cutting through the silence that enveloped them. “The world around us seems to vanish, as if all life is being drawn into the emptiness.”

  “Yes,” her friend replied, stammering, “like a sky shattering into glass. These sounds… they are merely echoes of silence touching the souls trapped here.”

  “You know what will happen, right?” Fitran continued, his tone reflecting uncertainty. “Anyone who treads on this ground will lose their way, will feel hollow. Just like we do now.”

  Outside the battlefield, the clamor of distant cities had fallen silent. “Listen, there’s a baby crying,” her friend interjected. “It doesn’t know the reason for anything, and the parents have forgotten their love.”

  Fitran stared intently, as if he could see deep into the heart of the darkness. “Poets have lost their words, artists have forgotten their colors—all because of a single name.”

  “Yes, one memory,” he replied quietly, “that has been erased from this world.”

  The path they walked grew increasingly burdensome. “Fitran,” Beelzebub's voice slipped into his mind, “you've won, but a victory in emptiness will only refill that void. How long will you endure?”

  Fitran offered a thin smile, his gaze piercing through dimensions unseen. “As long as I remember who must be forgotten, I will remain. Keep that in mind.”

  Under the shattered sky, he stood as the sole witness to the void he had created, the only author of a new chapter in the story of a world that slowly lay abandoned, devoid of meaning.