Chapter 630 The Subterranean City of Forgotten Blood

As they delved deeper into the memory corridor of Gamma, the roots of the Tree of Life transformed—no longer soft and radiant, but hardened like unnaturally grown bones. The air grew dry yet dense, like a breath held back. Not far from where they stood, faint whispers seemed to rise from the ground, trembling in the silence, beckoning them to explore the mysteries hidden within.

Tension enveloped Fitran, attaching a sense of unease to the tips of his fingers. He felt a discomfort blanket his spirit, as if the entire corridor was a prison devoid of time and space. Fear and hope intertwined in his mind, like shadows dancing in the dim light.

Before Fitran lay a vast cave illuminated by a dim red light. It was neither fire nor magic, but rather a kind of blood-red crystal growing from the cave walls. This space emitted a constant hum, like an unfinished war chant. The crystals twinkled in the darkness, as if exuding a vibrant aura, enveloping them in a foreboding yet dimly hopeful atmosphere.

Every second felt frozen as her gaze traced the line of those crystals. In her heart, she wondered who had stood in this place before them. What dark stories were hidden behind that light? Each heartbeat felt like a call to action, stirring her instincts to step deeper into the suffocating darkness.

And behind those walls…

there was a city. A city seemingly trapped in time, where shadows of the past continuously cloaked every stone, whispering tales of history that would never be fully revealed.

Like a silenced voice of the heart, nostalgia burst forth from the countless ruins. Rinoa felt a profound melancholy, as if she could hear the unheard cries of souls trapped within those walls. Those voices whispered promises to remember the lost, seeking meaning amid the dust and mystique that embraced this city.

The underground city is not a ruin. It is alive.

The stone buildings in Gamma style stand tall, adorned with old banners and military insignias. However, time has drained them of their colors, leaving behind the hardened ashes of war in the form of memories. A gentle breeze carries the scent of nostalgia, stirring the souls that remain and reviving battles long past, as if time itself momentarily rewinds.

In every corner of the city, shadows of the past unfold, filling the space with echoes of sorrow. The remnants of conflict whisper untold stories; the laughter that has faded, the tears that remain hidden, and the endless cries of hope. Fitran's steps are in rhythm with the pounding of his heart, creating a melancholic symphony amid the silence of those corridors.

Fitran walks slowly. Rinoa and Sheena wait outside. There is something in the air of this city that resonates only with Fitran's blood. The darkness of the corridor seems to stretch out shadowy fingers, gripping their hearts with a mix of fear and curiosity that struggles within. Each step feels heavy, the floor beneath his feet vibrates with buried memories, calling them to uncover the secrets that lie ahead.

As the wind whispered, seemingly clutching the city's untold secrets, Rinoa felt the tension between them. She struggled to calm her heart, but the shadows of the past loomed over her mind, refusing to fade. "What do you feel, Fitran?" she asked softly, hoping to receive an answer. She glanced at Fitran, who seemed lost in thought, feeling the fear of losing herself in this place filled with mysteries.

From behind the shadows of stone pillars, dozens of pairs of eyes emerged. They gleamed dimly, the spectral figures trapped between worlds, waiting for the moment to speak. Their faint whispers formed a haunting melody, filled with pain and sweat, reminding Fitran of the fate intertwined within this darkness. The echoes of their whispers flowed like hidden tears, entwined with a yearning for a past erased by time.

Each gaze reflected an episode of lost existence. Occasionally, a soft voice slipped into Fitran's mind, calling his name with a heart-wrenching tone. "This city... what do you want from me?" he murmured, stunned by the sinister presence lurking in the dark corners.

A loud voice echoed from the guard tower:

"The Voidwright has returned."

"His name is Fitran Fate. The harbinger of war. The butcher of our will."

The town's inhabitants gathered—old, young, and children born beneath the earth. They were no ordinary humans. Their physical forms were slightly different: their muscles denser, their eyes aglow with Gamma crystal light. Among the shadows, whispers of ancestral spirits resonated like a siren's song, praising a courage that they no longer possessed. As their gazes pierced the darkness, a mingling of repressed pain and anger simmered within them, as if waiting for the opportune moment to erupt.

Then their leader appeared: an elderly woman wielding a spear, standing on a stone courtyard etched with the history of war. She moved slowly, as if treading on cursed ground, each step producing a rustling sound akin to the wind whispering through the ruins. With every footfall, the spear in her hand and the mystical aura surrounding her seemed to reinforce her role as a bridge between the tangible world and the forbidden. Her face briefly hinted at the wisdom gained from enduring multiple sufferings, yet in her eyes, there was a profound longing for justice that remained unresolved.

"We are the Sworn Remnants.

The last warriors of Gamma, never allowed to return to the land of Gaia."

"Because of the war you started, Fitran. Because the skies were scorched by the Heaven Wars. Because the world chose to seal our will... instead of hearing it."

Rinoa's voice trembled, igniting a hollow ember within the hearts of all who listened. As she spoke, a cold wind swept through the valley, disturbing the tranquility of the underground city that had been trapped in darkness for years. The walls, soaked with history and tears, seemed to awaken, absorbing every expression of pain, creating an emotional resonance that touched the souls of everyone present.

Fitran did not defend himself. The atmosphere around them grew increasingly tense; shadows from the ruins created intimidating silhouettes, as if the city itself watched this debate with a mix of curiosity and sorrow. Deep underground, the damp walls vibrated as if absorbing every word, resonating with a sense that the city sanctioned those who dared to speak out, yet condemned those who showed weakness. A chill ran down Fitran's spine, not just from the cold air, but from the heavy weight of regret that filled every empty space in his heart.

"The war… I didn't start it alone."

"No," the old woman replied.

"But your name is mentioned in every roll of devastation. In the prayers of the refugees. In the cries of the children who died in the bunker. Even in our training, we were taught... to kill you."

Her voice carried a longing for a more peaceful past, a time when spirit and hope burned bright before the darkness of war crept in. Each word she spoke hinted at deep wounds, seared by memories of the past and an undeniable sorrow that could no longer be ignored.

"And you never came."

"Because I thought you were all dead."

The woman raised her spear, her eyes gleaming sharply in the enveloping darkness. A cold wind blew, carrying the damp scent of long-buried earth, adding a chilling atmosphere between them. Unbeknownst to him, Fitran felt a vibrant energy emanating from the city walls that had witnessed too many tragedies, every stone seemingly telling tales of souls trapped and lost in shadows.

"No. We were left behind.

And we chose to survive underground… waiting for the day we could break the will of the Voidwright."

As those words echoed, Fitran's heart raced. Amidst the lies and betrayals that surrounded them, a flicker of hope ignited in the shadows. Not everyone wished to fight. But vengeance knows no bounds. Therefore, Fitran declared:

"If you want to kill me, I will not run.

But let us prove…

whether my blood still deserves to be called an enemy, or if you are merely reminiscing about the ghosts of the past."

As his words flowed forth, a profound emotion filled the air. The townspeople hidden below began to unearth forgotten memories, like shadows flickering between the cold, suffocating walls. They all longed for a validation—something beyond mere combat, but a chance to reclaim the story that had long been snatched away from them.

The elderly woman pointed to the city center, where the Sworn Remnants carved their names into the soil before battling—symbolizing that whoever lost… would be erased from history. Around them, dark shadows trembled, hinting at the presence of spirits trapped between dimensions, waiting to see if the bloodshed would call them back. The atmosphere felt heavy, as if this city, filled with bitter memories, was being engulfed by profound darkness. The warriors felt like the shadows themselves, bound to a fate they could not escape.

Fitran released his Corpus. With no glyph and no Void Armor, he stood empty-handed. A shroud of loneliness enveloped him, yet a flame of unwavering spirit burned within his heart. Amid the deceptive tranquility, whispers echoed in the void, reminding him that this battle was more than physical; it was a war with their very souls.

In the suffocating silence, the cold wind murmured like the voices of ancestors, reminding everyone of the uncertainty surrounding them. In the dim light, Fitran's eyes gleamed with determination, as if defying the darkness itself. Yet, behind that resolve lay an unspoken tremor of fear—what price must he pay to protect his loved ones?

"I will fight you… with a will that you think I have extinguished."

One by one, five seasoned warriors advanced, each wielding ancient techniques; a burning sense of nostalgia ignited with every planned attack, every movement serving as a reminder of a shattered past.

The echoes of earth-shaking blows.

The venom from root marrow.

The magic of the Gamma war song.

The light sword aimed at the pulse.

And the leader's own spear.

Fitran held back everything without killing.

He only parried. Withstood. Accepted. As he remained rooted in his steps, it felt as though he were trying to hold back a storm with the palm of his hand—each impact filled his soul with pain. In the chasm of emptiness, an unexpected glimmer of hope emerged; a hope that he would not be torn apart by the haunting memories. Emotional cries echoed within him amidst the ruins of the underground city, laden with buried sorrow and hidden hopes.

His blood flowed. Yet he never raised a hand to retaliate with death. Inside his heart, a deeper battle raged, as he found himself trapped once again in the memories of the shattered city.

Around them, dark shadows flickered, as if this cursed city was watching them. Faint voices echoed from the ruins, expressing unspeakable sadness and anger. A chill of regret mingled with the atmosphere, creating a layer of fog in the air. The air of sorrow enveloped the arena like an invisible prison, evoking an emptiness that words could hardly express.

The Sworn Remaining Leader stood alone in the center of the arena. She shouted:

"You can endure. But can you face our wounds without turning away?" Her voice touched the deepest walls of the heart, challenging Fitran to see beyond the darkness. In her eyes, shattered hope and profound despair reflected.

She attacked.

Fitran did not dodge.

The spear pierced his shoulder. But he grasped the leader's hand. In their grip, there was a tension, like a time needle trying to halt the seconds that relentlessly moved forward.

The sound of clanging metal and the heavy sighs felt too tangible in this darkness. It was as if the souls of the fallen warriors were giving voice, resonating among the mysterious ruins. In the fleeting visuals, their shadows were painted, hinting at the tragic stories buried within. Silence seemed to stir, poised to witness the next fate.

"I did not come to ask for forgiveness.

I came… because I want to know your names." In her words lay a longing to reconnect the threads that had frayed over time. Her voice pierced through the darkness, as if probing the deepest reaches of a buried yearning.

The woman fell silent. Her hands trembled, not merely from physical tension, but also from the emotional weight she had to face. Her face oscillated between fear and hope, caught between a horrifying past and an uncertain future.

"We no longer have names. The world has stripped them away." Her voice—like the whisper of the wind flowing among the ruins—carried profound sadness, suggesting that their identities had vanished, consumed by time. They were meant to be part of something greater, yet now, they existed merely as shadows of what once was.

"Then I will hold onto them. Let me be the one to remember you… if the world chooses not to." In this promise, Fitran hoped to rebuild a bridge, however tenuous, between hope and bitterness.

As if hearing Fitran's promise, the air grew colder, and a dim light emerged between the dark shadows. Something unseen seeped into their souls, connecting them beyond time and space. An indomitable spirit flickered still, trapped within the ruins of the Buried City. A blend of hope and loss swirled within their hearts, crafting a melody of travelers that seemed to endure even amid the debris. Each breath taken felt like a question, filled with longing for an uncertain future among the remnants of resurgence.

The fighting ceased.

The townspeople did not cheer or kneel. Instead, they pulled back the banners of war and lowered their heads. Their weary expressions seemed to question the sky they could no longer see, wondering if there was hope beyond this darkness.

Amidst the swaying shadows, a somber atmosphere enveloped the arena. A thin mist hovered, as if infusing the air with a profound sorrow. Each heartbeat resonated like thunder within the enclosed walls of the city, amplifying the thick silence. Buried City, once aglow with life and laughter, now left only bitter traces of memory. The surviving buildings stood tall, though most had crumbled into ruins. Fragments of art lay dismembered, seemingly praying to be recognized once more, even in the darkness.

From the center of the arena emerged a carved root:

ꦧꦿꦶꦗꦶ ꦒꦩ꧀ꦩ ꦲꦶꦤ꧀ꦢꦺ ꦢꦺꦤ꧀ꦢꦺꦮꦺ —

Briji Gamma Inde Dendéwé

(We are not the will you have conquered. But we are the will that endures.)

Fitran gazed at them, his look imbued with deep despair, as if he could feel the threads of fate binding them within the darkness.

In his eyes, a dim light sparkled, reflecting the hope concealed within that darkness. Outside the arena, the narrow corridors of the underground city remained shrouded in mist, with cold, damp stone walls that seemed to harbor long-forgotten secrets. The sound of trickling water from the sewers far below reminded them that even in this place, life continued to flow.

In the oppressive silence, each individual began to reflect on the meaning of those words, striving to release the uncertainty that gripped their souls. Their thoughts flew back to the past, recalling their struggles against the fate that constrained them, questioning whether all their efforts had been in vain. Around them, shadows seemed to stir, ready to reclaim what was thought to be lost.

"You will survive… not because you win.

But because you still choose to call your name."

The voice, though soft, echoed among the ruins of stone, providing the courage needed to keep moving forward. In the haunting stillness, each heartbeat merged with the rhythm of an endless struggle.