Chapter 639 The Colosseum Beneath the Stone

The wind that descended upon the heart of Stones carried no scent of magic, but rather the musty smell of old dust and forgotten metal oxidation. It was not metal born of magic, but metal from a time before the first language was discovered. Their footsteps echoed in the stone corridor that had never been repaired, for this place had never been broken—only buried by time.

In the air, there was a chilling vibration, as if every gust of wind was a whisper from the past, reminding them of secrets buried deep. As they ventured further, Sheena felt a light tremor beneath her feet, as if the ground below remembered the steps that had once graced it. "There's something here," she murmured, her voice nearly swallowed by the silence. A sense of curiosity began to creep into her, creating a bridge between the past and the present, like a fine thread stretched between them.

Before them stood a massive circular structure, half-collapsed yet still exuding an aura of authority. The circular pillars still stood, as if challenging destruction. Among the ruins, a faint shadow seemed to pass by, hinting at the presence of something unseen. A guardian of time, she thought, witnessing history from this place as if ensnared by a greater power. In the center, a round arena with paths etched into the ground formed strange letters—neither Proto-Speech nor glyphs, but units of pre-existential information.

Time and again, the echo of the wind added to the tension, as if urging them not to proceed. "This Colosseum… is not a place for magical performances," Sheena said softly, as a cloud of uncertainty gathered in her chest. "This place… is for questioning the very existence of living beings."

"It's as if every stone here has a soul trapped within," Sheena said, her eyes sweeping over the space thick with emotion. "Perhaps this is an arena where truth is not foretold, but unleashed."

"Every corner is a witness," she added, her voice trembling as she recalled stories deeper than mere stone and dust. "Perhaps we are not just observers, but actors in a drama that has already been scripted." Rinoa lowered her gaze, feeling the hard ground beneath her. She sensed a slow pulse, like the heartbeat of the buried stone. But its rhythm did not belong to this world. Its beat defied time.

As if responding to Rinoa's touch, a rumble within the earth formed small waves. Her heart trembled as she heard a faint whisper, as if the beings below were trying to convey a message that could not be understood. An undefined feeling coursed through her body, creating an unavoidable tension. "What do you need?" her heart asked, but only silence answered.

"This place is alive…"

Fitran stood still. In the heavy silence, he felt his heartbeat merge with the rhythm of the earth. In his mind, fragments of old memories surfaced—not from himself, but like traces forced into his consciousness:

The march of a thousand soldiers.

A scream in ancient Latin.

A tall man clad in iron, standing over his army… with eyes that could not be defeated.

In that shadow, Fitran felt a force binding him to that figure. It was as if the man's gaze pierced his soul, unveiling his deepest fears. Tension crept in, as if an unseen power was pressing down on him. He took a deep breath, trying to control his racing heart.

"Alexander…" Fitran whispered. "But why is he here…?" His voice was hoarse, filled with fear and curiosity, as if the name spoken was a spell that could awaken something greater than himself.

In the center of the arena stood a massive altar sealed by roots of metal. Its shape resembled a vertical tomb—but from within came the sound of breathing. Not human breathing. Not the breath of a spirit. In the chilling silence, faint shadows danced around the altar, as if hinting at forgotten tales and buried secrets. The distant audience fell silent, waiting for what would happen next.

Sheena approached. She tried to read the symbols on the altar but failed. Uncertainty enveloped her mind, making her feel as if something greater than herself was hiding beneath the surface. The sound of her heartbeat buzzed in her ears, merging with the echoes that pierced the space around her—a primal resonance declaring that a threat might be patiently waiting.

The mysterious allure of the altar made her heart race. Every time she tried to get closer, her inner voice whispered for her to step back, warning of dangers that might lurk behind that seal. "You feel it, don't you?" Sheena whispered, her voice almost lost in the whispering night wind. "This power… it feels like it's pulling me into darkness." In that uncertainty, hope and fear battled within her mind.

Fitran raised his sword.

"This is not ordinary writing… this is an existential command. If opened… we will not only activate a body, but the ideologies embedded within it." His voice trembled with unwavering conviction. Amidst his fervent words, there was a hint of anxiety, a call to challenge a darker fate.

Fitran exchanged glances with Sheena, revealing the tension in his thoughts. There was a desire to know more, but also a fear of the consequences of his actions. In that gaze, a forgotten lesson unfolded—that knowledge often comes with a painful price.

"We must be very careful," Sheena whispered, her voice almost like the night wind. "History has a way of reminding us of the price that must be paid." As if hearing her whispered words, the faint shadows around the altar swayed gently, adding to the weight of tension in an atmosphere already thick with mystery.

"I will open it. I want to know… why I was called here." The confession came out firmly, yet within that voice lay unspoken doubt—a desire that pushed him to the brink of uncertainty.

Rinoa grasped Fitran's arm.

"You just healed the wounds of the world. Why open new ones?" Rinoa's voice pierced through the complexity of Fitran's thoughts, emphasizing the need for wisdom before taking the next step. In her gaze, the dim light revealed the depth of her emotions, struggling against feelings of helplessness.

Fitran looked at her, his eyes sharp yet weary. Rinoa recognized the wave of confusion behind that gaze; she knew exactly what her friend was feeling. "Every action has consequences, and unsealing that could bring forth a greater danger."

In the darkness of the night, the wind whispered, as if warning them, reminding that the dormant power was never meant to be awakened without consequence. Rinoa felt something was missing, as if there was a piece of a puzzle yet to be placed. She recalled tales of powers hidden within ancient altars, how many had sacrificed everything after awakening something that should not have been. A chill enveloped them, stirring a growing fear.

"Because not all wounds come from betrayal. Some stem from hopes too high… until they consume the world."

With a single slash of will, Fitran broke the metal seal. It was as if the entire Colosseum held its breath, a chilling silence hanging in the air, ready to witness what would happen next.

The ground trembled. Roots exploded to the side. An ancient yellow light illuminated the dark sky of Stones. From the altar, a colossal body slowly rose. In every tick of time, it felt as if the world united in an inescapable weave of fate.

It towered nearly touching the outer walls of the arena. Its form was neither fully golem nor fully human. Its eyes—two deep circles—contained reflections of history. Everything vibrated in resonance, as if calling forth the souls that had departed, stirring deep emotions within Rinoa and Fitran.

He was Alexander the Great. But he did not speak in the language of humans. He spoke in the echoes of imperial will. "I have returned," he whispered, "to show the world that ambition and power will never die."

Fitran, with his heartbeat echoing in his ears, recalled all the stories about the long-gone king. What could make a leader return at a time like this? In the union of fear and deep curiosity, he felt as if Alexander's soul was stirring his own. In the darkness of the Colosseum, shadows of history danced around him, creating an atmosphere filled with the rumble of the past. The words spoken resonated, touching his soul, awakening memories of a history full of war and ambition.

A heavy voice emerged from the open chest of the golem:

"I am Eschaton Mekanikon. The final form of humanity's will to be eternal."

"I am not a king. I am not a conqueror. I am the world's decision to never die."

Every word that escaped his mouth echoed as if guided by an ancient power flowing through the recesses of the Colosseum. Fitran stared at him, immersed in the dim light that revealed the shadow of the tragic figure before him.

"Then why was I called here?"

Alexander pointed at him. His gaze, like sunlight piercing through morning fog, reached deep into Fitran's soul, inviting him to question not only the reason for his presence but also the essence of existence itself.

That question hung in the air, the resonance of Alexander's voice shaking reality as if peeling back layers of time. Fitran felt an immense weight; it was not just a question, but a profound call that could shake destiny. In his heart, he felt the breath of desire and ambition, as if Alexander himself was imparting his dormant legacy. Around them, the shadows of fallen warriors trembled, as if returning to life, recounting tales immortalized in dust and blood.

"Because you… are the will that never submits. So if I can defeat you… the world will return to its straight line: Victory. Power. Eternity."

Sheena pulled Rinoa aside. The roots began to harden. The Colosseum locked itself—there was no escape. Not because of magic, but because the concept of battle had begun. The space gathered in silence, where every breath and heartbeat echoed as if the voices of ancient times whispered secrets before the storm.

Rinoa screamed, "We're not ready! We didn't bring a formation!"

Fitran stepped into the center of the arena. He felt the tension enveloping the place, like energy pulsing between them. A warm whisper of wind circled around him, as if conveying a message from an unseen otherworld. His soul vibrated with a deep awareness that every movement and every choice would shape a greater path of destiny.

"Hope and fear unite here," Fitran murmured to himself. In a flash, faces wrestling in his memory—friends and foes—were all touched by the impending conflict. In the heart of Nuria, he knew this was more than just a fight; it was a test of who they truly were. There was uncertainty creeping between them, yet behind it, the strength of the bonds within each of them became a flame shining in the darkness.

"If this is about will… then I will fight not to win. I will fight so that the world has the right to choose its own wounds and memories." In the morning dew enveloping the ancient Colosseum, his words echoed, flowing like the wind disturbing the surface of water. The atmosphere radiated a mystical aura, as if the entire structure breathed along with the warm tension.

The Alexander Golem lowered his sword—its length equal to the main roots of Stones. His steps created ripples in space and meaning. In every movement, the shadow of a legendary figure seemed to pass by, as if the warriors of the past were watching from the endless darkness. They were the silent witnesses of every heartbeat that had ceased in this battle.

And in the air, Proto-Speech could not write a single word. The vibrations of unspoken words enveloped the arena, adding weight to the atmosphere, like moonlight casting rays from the deepest sky.

For what was about to happen… was not magic. It was the testament of souls left behind, an important reminder of the meaning behind every decision made.

This was a battle of concepts. Between the will of humanity… and the world's will to be imperfect. And in that moment, as the dice of fate were cast, all present felt the weight of the choices hidden behind the light, and the whispers of the future began to touch their hearts.