Endless White Plain
A few moments after Omega vanished
Fitran stood alone.
White dust slowly swirled around him.
There was no sound.
There was no wind.
There was no past.
There was no future.
Only his own will remained.
Gazing up at the gray sky, Fitran felt as though time itself had stopped, trapped in a chilling void; each breath became the only sound amidst the silence, reminiscent of a whistle of sorrow, reminding him of empty memories, like a faint shadow drifting aimlessly. In that moment, he realized how life was like fine sand slipping through the cracks of his fingers, something that could never be tightly grasped—an illustration of the fragility of existence.
He looked down.
Excalibur felt heavy.
Not because of its metal, but due to the burden of a promise he could not fulfill.
With tears concealed behind his gaze, he felt as if he was inheriting legacies from fallen heroes, their silent cries buried in the void. Every intricate detail of the sword was not merely metal but a poignant reminder of the responsibilities weighing heavily on his shoulders, demanding actions he no longer had the courage to take. In the darkness that engulfed him, his uncertainty resonated, echoing amidst the ruins of hopes shattered in despair, evoking a sense of nostalgia for unresolved battles.
Sheena was gone.
Elysvarre had disappeared.
At that moment, Sheena's face emerged vividly in his mind, bright yet painful, like a star that couldn't be reached in the vast night sky. The entire world seemed to lose its color, replaced by the deep sadness filling the void she left behind, as if each heartbeat resonated with nothing more than unspoken sorrow. Fitran whispered to himself, as if trying to embrace that loss, "Where does it all end?"—a profound question that hovered in the air like an unanswered prayer.
"I have lost everything."
"And I... am too weak to stop it."
His words spilled out, each one heavy with the emptiness he felt. It was a reflection of the remnants of his soul, mirroring the shattered fragments of hope. It was as if, amidst the void, a question emerged: why did he continue to endure, like a candle still flickering despite the fierce wind trying to extinguish it?
Then... a rustling sound was heard.
Not the wind.
But the sound of flesh growing.
The sound of jaws slowly turning.
It was as if the very essence of nature itself was evolving, casting Fitran's gaze into a realm where new fears were born. Each unsettling sound seemed to emanate from a deeper darkness, urging him to comprehend the gravity of all that was lost and what peril lay ahead. In his ignorance, the signs of an impending threat felt ever closer, clutching at the depths of his heart with an iron grip, demanding his attention and action.
A gaping void opened in the ground before Fitran.
Dark. Without a bottom.
From within, greenish mist billowed up.
Flickering symbols of consuming desires glimmered faintly in the air.
Layer upon layer of circular jaws appeared, each filled with ancient glyphs.
The smoke coiled like erased memories, dancing amidst the darkness that grasped
each corner. As if the world that once existed had been swallowed whole, leaving only shadows and endless anxiety.
The sound came from all directions, thunderous yet whispering at once.
These voices haunted, bearing the forms of many souls trapped between time and space,
conveying vague messages that seemed to recount their tales of loss.
"Fitran Fate."
"You have tasted both victory and defeat."
"You have fought against time, angels, demons, and the laws of the world."
"But what have you truly achieved?"
The voice trembled, awakening memories buried in uncertainty and doubt, as if celebrating a long journey filled with wounds and futile rebirths.
A massive figure emerged ominously from the haze of will, taking form as Beelzebub, a figure intertwined with the fabric of fear and legend.
Beelzebub.
Its form was more terrifying than before.
A colossal body like a cathedral filled with rotating jaws.
On its chest: a gaping hole—The Ninth Stomach.
Black flesh wings spread behind it, dripping with the putrid fluid of will.
Its presence radiated a haunting aura reminiscent of the ruins of lost cities, calling every remaining soul to remember, to bear witness to the void left in the dust of years gone by. Each feathered wing moved with a heavy grace as if to remind of the lives ensnared, submerged in silence, giving form to an unspoken history of grief.
It was a sight of the emptiness left behind in the dust of time. Each feathered wing moved as if to remind of the lives ensnared, submerged in silence.
However, his eyes radiate a terrifying wisdom.
He is not merely a monster,
but an Eternal Idea Predator.
In the silence enveloping the surroundings, every whisper of the wind carries echoes from the past—memories of a civilization that crumbled, submerged in the shadows of faded hopes.
"I come not as an enemy but as a harbinger of your choices."
"I come... with an offer."
"I have seen you reject the old destiny."
"But you know, Fitran..."
"Those who rewrite the laws will always be hunted by those who enforce them."
'Among the shadows of ruins, souls are trapped, abandoned in solitude.' The specter of the past appears faintly beneath the full moon's glow, creating an illusion of a life that once was.
"Today, Omega has arrived."
"Tomorrow, someone older than Omega will come."
"If you wish to write a new world without fear of erasure..."
Beelzebub lowered his head.
A jaw opened before him, emitting a golden-green light of will.
Behind that light, an empty desert swirled, with each grain of dust telling the tale of countless losses.
"I offer you a power that surpasses the Guardians."
"Magic that not only defies will..."
"...but also consumes that will."
"Transforming you into not just a new writer."
"But the Hunter of Old Wills."
An otherworldly wind blew.
The glyph on his chest pulsed weakly.
Darkness loomed, wrapping around them like a lost former ruler—once a terrifying force, now merely a haunting specter.
Excalibur gleamed... yet did not reject the offer.
As if even the sword of light understood:
In a world where laws could be erased, perhaps devouring those very laws was the only path forward.
Fitran gripped his sword tighter.
"If I accept your offer..."
"What price must I pay?"
Beelzebub smiled.
Her jaws turned slowly.
Among the chilling laughter, a resonance of sorrow was heard, a reminder of what had been unleashed upon this world—no one would survive without a price to pay.
"That price... will not be determined by me."
"But by how much will you be willing to consume your own will?"
"And in the end, only one will remain—a testament to the clash between destiny and willpower."
"And in the end, only one will remain..."
In the context of this inevitable battle, the only stark difference that will emerge is whether he will become the author of a new world or instead become the Predator of a new world, whose cunning is unimaginable.
Fitran lowered his head.
In his mind, Sheena's face flickered.
Outside, the gray sky stretched like a heavy blanket that would never lift. The wind whispered softly, as if recounting a longing for a past that had vanished. Silence enveloped, punctuated only by the echo of his footsteps, which seemed to shatter the stillness.
Fitran opened his eyes.
The glyphs glowed brightly on his body.
Excalibur shimmered.
However, the blue light began to be enveloped by a green aura—evidence of a contract that had never existed before.
In his peripheral vision, shadows of long-gone spirits danced joyfully. They united in the darkness, representing souls lost in the quest for power. Then, his spirit trembled, gathering all the emptiness within to forge a new hope.
"I will not become a predator for the sake of power."
"I will consume the old will... to build an invincible future."
"I accept."
Beelzebub laughed—a heavy laughter that made the barren land shudder.
Hundreds of glyphs of will swirled and adhered to Fitran's body.
Amidst that laughter, a profound sadness lingered, like lightning tearing through a brooding sky. The stories that vanished were akin to a storm that had passed, leaving behind ruins steeped in deep sorrow. No one fully grasped how cruel the world had become, where power and loss had intertwined, manifesting as two sides of an inseparable coin that defined their existence.
The mana of Fitran and the Devourer glyphs merged.
Excalibur transformed—becoming larger, heavier, and in the center of its blade, a new emblem emerged: a spiral of will with a small jaw on its edge.
With every heartbeat, it returned to the unspoken roots of existence, intertwining strength and vulnerability. In the coloring of fate's threads, he felt the pulse of life ready to revive the desolate world, an echo of resilience. With each transformation, the shadows of the past were cast aside, paving the way for the birth of something new, something that defied the very nature of despair.
A new name began to etch itself into that empty world:
"Fitran: The Will-Eater."
"The Writer and Predator of Will, embodying the duality of creation and destruction."
In the empty horizon, a new light ignited.
Not dawn.
But the call of an impending war.
The sound of trumpets of emptiness echoed, carrying messages for all remaining souls. In the chilling silence, hope rekindled—manifesting as fervent resistance. Those who remained awake in the darkness vowed to challenge fate, singing the song of change amidst the ruins that remained.