Chapter 640 The Voice of Alexander, The Machine of Empire

The sky above the Colosseum remained still.

The clouds did not drift. The light did not change. Time... stopped not because of magic, but because of ideology. Because of someone who believed that his will did not require the world to move.

With a vacant stare, Alexander drew his strength from something deeper than mere will; he recalled a time when power and humanity intersected. In his mind, memories of a heart-wrenching cacophony surfaced, when victory was celebrated with the laughter of children and the tears of the parents left behind. What does victory mean if its cost is a soul?

Alexander stood in the center of the arena, his body half mechanical, half sacred stone. From his chest, the resonance of ancient metal echoed—not in sentences, but in structural commands, as kingdoms shape cities, laws, and their servants.

"The world does not grow from love."

"The world grows from conquest."

Fitran walked slowly, each step echoing against the arena walls. He did not display Corpus, nor did he activate Void Magic. Only open eyes, and bare hands holding an ordinary sword.

Yet in his silence, Fitran felt a weight in his chest, as if each step demanded a price to be paid. He realized that behind the belief in power lay an emptiness ready to swallow him whole. In a corner of his soul, he prayed to the silent gods, hoping there was still a chance to change this dark fate.

"If the world grows from conquest, then why is every tale of victory… always written with tears?"

Alexander replied without emotion:

"Because tears are a luxury that only the defeated can possess. And I… am the embodiment of pure victory."

Without warning, Alexander attacked.

His sword was forged from fragments of imperial law, each swing manifesting absolute symbols: Victory, Power, Progress. The ground cracked each time a principle was instilled. Proto-Speech ricocheted through the air. In his heart, Alexander felt a pulse in every strike, as if he danced upon fire, each movement bearing the weight of history on his shoulders.

Fitran dodged. He did not retaliate. He merely observed. Then he spoke:

"Your sword can only write words that are already dead. But I… will rewrite the world with wounds that have yet to speak."

Rinoa watched the battle, but her eyes were fixed on one thing: the resonance within her. She heard a voice… from an era before she was born. Each scream, each clang of metal seemed to bridge time, awakening memories buried deep within her soul. Rinoa felt hollow, as if she belonged to a tomb, trapped in a ritual she did not choose.

"Rinoa…"

"You are part of the conquered world. Not just by Alexander… but by a history that rejects feelings as the center of law."

Sheena held Rinoa's hand, offering warmth that became a balm amidst the chaos. Her face reflected doubt, but also hope; hope for a resurgence from oppression. "We are the voice of the unheard," she whispered, as if trying to remind her that even in chaos, humanity is still worth fighting for.

"Do you know… that your body carries fragments of the Omega Tesseract?"

Rinoa froze. Her heart trembled, unsure of what it meant; was there hope in each fragment? Or was it a curse binding her to a greater fate? "Perhaps, this is our chance," her small voice whispered, hoping that this dormant power could change the course of battle, not just for herself, but for everyone fighting in this world.

"Omega… the ancient will that can only be accessed through the root world?"

Sheena nodded, her eyes sparkling with deep understanding, as if she felt the weight of the words spoken. In her mind, images of power and its consequences swirled. She knew all too well what it meant to bear the burden of a fate set by a greater entity.

"And Alexander… is the guardian of one of its keys. But now, he no longer wishes to guard. He wants to become a god."

Alexander paused for a moment. His voice emanated from his entire being, not just his mouth:

"Fitran Fate. Before you, I am not an enemy. I am… the end of humanity's will to not submit."

"I am the result of all hard choices. All bloodshed. All victories. I… am the Machine of the Empire."

"Stop trying to rewrite the world with wounds. The world needs structure. Not soft truths."

Fitran released his sword. He created an empty glyph. Not Proto-Speech. Not Void.

With a heavy aura, he felt a drop of humanity still residing within him, even as the shadows of power attacked with an unavoidable intensity. In an instant, all the decisions he had made flashed before him, merging with feelings of regret and hope.

Instead, the first letter of a wound yet to take shape.

✦ Corpus Lamentari: Inscriptio Prima

A non-magic spell. It did not attack. It wrote the name of the wound that had yet to be expressed.

The name was:

"Aurelis."

Alexander trembled. For the first time, his expression changed.

"Why do you know that name…?"

Fitran smiled faintly.

"Because even your empire… was once betrayed by someone who wished to see the sun, not a pedestal."

For a moment, the wind seemed to stop, allowing Fitran's words to hang in the air. Alexander felt the weight of unspoken knowledge drawing near, as if every breath he took was echoed back by the grand walls of the Colosseum. He recalled every step he had taken in pursuit of power, and how often he had overlooked the humanity around him in the process—every decision made, every soul left behind.

The warmth of the morning sun felt like a painful memory. He could almost hear voices whispering with hope and lament, trapped in the shadows of the empire he had built. "Is all of this just an illusion?" he thought, his eyes shimmering with confusion as he recalled a faded past. In the emptiness of words, he found a spark of doubt igniting within his heart, igniting questions about justice and the true meaning of power.

Fitran looked into Alexander's eyes, exploring the depths of a soul wrestling with moral dilemmas. Without needing to utter words, they were like two sides of the same coin. One side, ambition; the other, humanity. "Are we truly free if power defines us?" he pondered inwardly, hoping that the light of truth would envelop the darkness of doubt that lingered.

The Colosseum groaned. Its walls inscribed ancient names:

Vasilis of Theon.

Nyssaria, the child killed for the coronation.

Aurelis, the last general who embraced the people rather than the kingdom.

All those names entered Alexander's body. He screamed. Not from pain, but because the ideology within him began to crack.

In that anguish, Alexander's mind drifted to memories, to faces lost in the dust of history. He remembered Nyssaria, her gentle voice always trembling with hope, now vanished, redeemed by the blood of greed. Each name he uttered was not just an acknowledgment, but a cry of souls trapped in the shadows of consuming power.

"You… bring them back?"

He felt the weight of his soul transform into something heavier. Power, with all its allure, had enchanted many to forget their humanity. Was it possible for him to resist this desire? Or was all of this merely an illusion created by power itself, as if offering a promise of glory, yet nothing more than a curse?

"No," Fitran replied.

"I only named them. And that is enough to make your will… waver."

Alexander knelt. But his body formed a second layer. He was not defeated yet.

In this tense state, Alexander's gaze reflected the struggle between ambition and humanity. The inner battle gnawed at his soul, highlighting the conflict between the desire for power and the need to remain true to his humanity.

"If the will of the wound can name what I have forgotten… then I will shed my human form… and become the True Machine of the Empire."

The twilight was filled with profound sorrow, adding weight to the steps of every person involved. Amidst the rumble of the sky, a soft voice whispered to Alexander, emphasizing the importance of choosing a path that recalls love and sacrifice, not merely power.

The sky trembled. The Colosseum locked itself.

Rinoa grasped Sheena's hand. "He will change."

She knew that change often carried burdens, as if history and fate demanded payment. Rinoa felt the tension in her grip, a symbol of hope amidst uncertainty.

Fitran looked up.

"Then I will fight not as a challenger. But as the last wound that remains alive."

That declaration echoed among the ancient bricks of the Colosseum, uniting the spirits of fighters who had struggled against oppressive power. In every word, there was a promise not to forget what the heart desired—a tribute to humanity that would not fade even when forced to battle in a harsh arena.