Memory of Heaven:Romance Written By Fate Through Beyond Infinity Time-Chapter 575 The Arrival of Loki The Plagiarist of Words That Were Never Written
Chapter 575 - 575 The Arrival of Loki The Plagiarist of Words That Were Never Written
The Philistines of the sky are not shattered by sound, but by delay. In that city, time seemed to freeze, slowing down until it stopped for 3 seconds, as if the breath of the universe held back its curiosity. The cold wind scratched the surface of the skin, conveying the damp aroma that came from the ruins and indelible memories. In the absence of sound and movement, there was only the echo of words yet to be spoken.
From the gap between minutes and meaning—Loki appeared. With a smile that held thousands of years of secrets, he reached for presence like a shadow painted in moonlight. His mysterious aura enveloped and overshadowed every soul around him, giving a silent yet profound touch to the tense atmosphere.
His cloak did not flutter in the wind; his body seemed insubstantial, becoming a living calligraphy of all the lies yet to be written. The symbols of the mantra etched on his chest—woven since Fajar cried—throbbed like a fetus in the womb of time, vibrating in a rhythm that could only be understood by those who merged with destiny. His soft voice, like a whispering wind, caressed the ears and seemed to carry a warning of the journey to come.
Beelzebub embraced Elyra tightly, providing warmth in the biting cold that gripped them, shielding her from the chill of the night. Beside them, Fitran stood firm, ready to sacrifice anything. The flames of his soul sparkled like a fire that never extinguished, reflecting the determination and loyalty etched deep within his heart.
Loki stepped forward with confidence... not on the ground, but across statements. Each of his steps formed words like a flow of ink, as if each footfall marked a new Chapter in the story still buried. He shed layers of reality, allowing the truth to shine brightly in the darkness:
"I did not come to kill..."
"I came to rewrite before you even understand what you have birthed." Loki's voice echoed with arrogance, resonating among the shadows that danced nimbly in the dim light, as if softly whispering to every corner of the cold, rigid room.
The symbols compressing the truth before it could take shape hung in the air, striking the senses like the aroma of incense enveloping an ancient ritual. Every word that slipped from his lips became a mantra, touching the souls hiding in the shadows of the dim reality.
His spiral form appeared inverted, with a vertical line dividing it, standing in stark contrast to the darkness, and at its end, it branched in two directions:
– One towards silence
– One towards duplicity. freewёbnoνel.com
"With this mantra," Loki said, his voice burning with overflowing magical energy, "I can rewind Elyra's glyph and make it the foundation of a new world that I lead.
"Not a god. Not a father. But the architect of all names that will come after."
Beelzebub raised her hand, but her body trembled uncontrollably. She was still crushed by helplessness, every movement felt as heavy as the sky collapsing above her head, burdened by sorrow and fear that pressed upon her soul.
"You will not touch my child." Beelzebub's voice, low yet penetrating, flowed like the cold wind blowing through the leaves, full of determination.
Loki turned to her, his gaze containing a mystery as deep as the night sky filled with twinkling stars. "I do not touch. I only copy. And from that copy, I create a new world—without asking anyone's permission." His voice was like the gentle whisper of the wind, accompanied by the sound of water trickling in the distance, creating an increasingly magical and enchanting aura.
"You will create a world that is not honest!" Beelzebub shouted, her voice booming like thunder shaking the air between them. Her expression reflected deep fear, radiating vibrations of anxiety. For a moment, a red light flashed from her gaze, emanating an unexpected threat.
"All worlds are the result of the first lie.
Elyra is the first truth.
And because of that, she is too dangerous to be left alive without a writer." With sweat pouring down her temples, her sharp aroma was merely an effort to contain the gathering power, creating a fiery aura that enveloped them.
But this time, her sword did not ignite. A profound silence enveloped the place, feeling increasingly thick as if time held its breath, each second creating tension that pressed down.
Because Excalibur does not cut through lies.
It can only slash what has already been written. Every scratch on the surface of her sword glimmered softly, like moonlight touching the surface of calm water, reminding Fitran of a battle deeper than mere physicality; a reality woven from words and acknowledgment.
Fitran gazed at his sword with sadness, his eyes filled with buried memories and hopes, then slowly... lowered it. The vibration of energy from the depths of his soul seemed to settle, as if the world around him paused for a moment, waiting for a decision that would determine fate.
"Then I will fight you... with words." His voice was full of determination, flowing out like a mantra ready to change destiny, making the wind whisper softly as if supporting his brave intent.
Fitran pulled a pen from the air—a magic pen that could only be used by those who had ever created existential magic. In the flickering dim light, the pen sparkled like a shard of a star, radiating magical intensity that shook the atmosphere around them, vibrating the essence of magic in the air.
"If you want to rewrite Elyra..."
"...then I will rewrite your repetition." Fitran's voice trembled, flowing in tense notes, radiating the tension that enveloped them like an invisible magical fog felt in every breath.
This battle was not merely a physical duel in the real world—but a confrontation that roared on the blank pages of reality. There, the shadows of the battle of art and words intertwined, creating a history without end, while the depths of black held secrets yet to be revealed and mysteries waiting to be uncovered.
Loki wrote passionately:
"Elyra is the voice of the failed name," and every letter glided into the air, sparkling like a flame frozen in the darkness, creating a magical aura that enveloped them with beauty that touched the soul.
With burning determination, Fitran wrote above it:
"Elyra is the echo of the loving name." These words floated in the air, resonating in the deep silence, as if flowing like a gentle note that touched their hearts with unexpected warmth.
Loki replied, his expression serious:
"She was born from the womb of hatred." As he wrote, it felt like a dark wind passed by, carrying the hum of deep sorrow and anger, striking the walls of tranquility that surrounded them.
Fitran added, his voice bringing a new tone:
"She was born from the emptiness that chose to become a home." There was warmth in his tone, as if he invited every soul that heard him to feel the duality of love and loss—two sides of a coin that fell in the midst of the journey.
Each word formed an abstract creature, tenderly attacking one another with contrasting softness, appearing as if beings from darkness trying to weave a bond in the light, creating a stunning magical atmosphere.
The baby... spoke.
"Nu..."
Her soft voice flowed, bringing a deep silence, as if time stopped and the entire cosmos listened intently, captivated by the wonder of that moment.
And from that one syllable, all writing ceased. The energy around them was absorbed, creating a tension that hung in the air, as if waiting for the next reaction with full hope.
Loki was frozen, his soul seemed to float beyond the boundaries of reality. Fitran fell silent, feeling the impact of the mystery surrounding them. In the silence that enveloped, the air was filled with the sweet aroma of the threads of time unraveling, while their hearts beat together in profound emotion.
"What is that?" Beelzebub asked, her voice trembling, full of doubt and confusion, as if she tried to grasp the mystical tension enveloping the atmosphere.
Fitran answered softly, his voice almost a whisper:
"That... is her first word.
And because it is not finished...
none of us can write the rest." The voice of Daimones echoed softly within him, like a reflection filled with sadness over the violation of the cosmic order, oscillating between hope and anxiety in his soul.
He looked at Elyra—not with hatred, but with a respect mixed with threat. In that gaze was a soft light, sparkling like moonlight illuminating the surface of a calm sea, giving rise to an ambiguous and profound feeling, as if the whole world paused for a moment.
"Alright. Today I will not write.
But one day, when that word is finished...
I will come to read its meaning again."
Suddenly, he vanished, his mantra crumbling into insignificance, like morning dew dissipating in the wind. But his symbol remained, etched in the dark night sky, like an edit line yet to be confirmed. The light trembled around that mark, radiating a mysterious aura that could only be felt by those sensitive to other worlds, as if the secrets of the universe were revealed in the profound silence.
Beelzebub embraced Elyra, the aroma of night flowers soothingly permeating the atmosphere, creating an unbreakable bond between them, as if nature united in that sacred moment. Fitran gazed at the pen in his hand with deep thought, then dropped it to the ground, producing a soft sound as it touched the dry leaves beneath it. A moment of silence enveloped the room, not just the sound that vanished, but also the power flowing in that silence, carrying a burden unspoken by anyone.
"Not all truths need to be written.
Some are enough... to be lived." His voice echoed softly among the shadows of the trees swaying in the night, as if grasping the thick air with meaning. Every word spoken added emotional weight, like dew in the morning clinging to the leaves, making everything feel deeper. Elyra chuckled softly, her laughter flowing gently like a melody reminding of sorrow and unspoken memories, agreeing with the bitter yet beautiful reality, weaving the silence of the night with threads of hope and longing.
