The sky above the ruins of Narthrador remains gray, but it is not silent. There is something moving outside of time—not footsteps, not sounds, but a regret that refuses to die.
Among the remnants of crumbled walls and scattered debris, a dark aura envelops every corner of the place, creating a chilling atmosphere. The space around Beelzebub appears distorted, like a shadow trembling above still water. Her shadow interacts with the dim light, depicting a battle between what is lost and what remains, creating a silent rhythm that disturbs her existence, hinting at a deeply painful story.
And in the gaps of space that should have been buried...
Beelzebub opens her eyes.
She does not rise from the ground. She is not reborn. She emerges from the remnants of a reality that has been left behind.
Around her, dust swirls in the dim light, dancing in a movement against time, as if reflecting the buried stories and endless sorrow. Beelzebub's heart is filled with fear of the approaching darkness, highlighting the bitter reality that there is no clear path forward, as if facing directly with a painful fate.
Because part of her... never wanted to end up like this.
Her body is transparent in some parts, as if recreated from an incomplete reflection. The flesh and bone wings remain on one side—the other has turned into a reflective sheen like glass that holds alternative worlds. Within this refraction, every movement implies missed choices, trapping her in a mirror of the heart filled with forms of herself that once existed but have now vanished.
On her forehead now lies a broken glyph that keeps changing shape:
"Why do I exist?"
Before her, there is not physical space, but the Reflected Reality Space—a mirror dimension that holds all the versions of reality not chosen by the system. Each reflection is a painful reminder of what should have been and what will never happen, reminding Beelzebub of the burden of her complex identity and the choices that led her to her current condition. And in the midst of that space, Beelzebub stands alone.
"I have become a symbol of destruction."
"I have consumed names."
"But that is not what I want to ask."
"My question... is simple."
"Why must I... be a demon?"
Ritual of Reality Reversal: Inversum Ritualis: Quare Daemon? A forbidden ancient ritual within the Deus system, only to be performed by entities that were once part of the core, then rejected by a greater power. This ritual does not reverse time linearly but opens a challenging dialogue with the system about 'why' a role is assigned, forcing individuals to confront and question the identity they are compelled to live.
In Narthrador, the wind whispers softly, like the voice of a ghost wanting to tell the secrets hidden behind the mirror. A thin mist floats, enveloping the ancient stones that glimmer in the distance, as if reflecting all the possibilities that have been overlooked. In the nuance where darkness and light meet, Beelzebub feels the uncertainty return to her soul, a reflection of everything that has never been understood.
Three circles appear:
Circle of Light – The version of Beelzebub that refuses to be born.
Circle of Void – The version of Beelzebub that destroys everything.
Circle of Shadow – The version of Beelzebub that only... loves.
Each circle begins to speak with one voice:
"We are the versions you did not choose."
"But we still hold the same feelings."
"You ask... why must you be a demon?"
"The answer is: because the world does not know how to forgive something that continues to remember."
In the dim light, Beelzebub observes the shadow of her body reflected on the mirror wall. In every reflection, she sees different faces—some full of hope, others shackled by suffering. She feels trapped in a labyrinth of identity, as if the walls of the mirror are boundaries that cannot be crossed, imprisoning her in a tumultuous mind.
Beelzebub stands in the midst of it. Her hands tremble. She wants to deny.
"I do not want to be understood."
"I just want... another way."
Magic of Reality: Reflectum Caelus – The Mirror that Does Not Pray
With a split soul, her place between worlds becomes increasingly unclear. Outside the window, the moonlight reflects, creating an illusion of shadows dancing among the wild grasses. The rustling of leaves brings her back to memories of the past—moments when she had choices, not just being a reflection of failed hopes. The tightness in her chest intensifies, reminding her that in every unmade choice, there are consequences waiting to be faced.
Beelzebub opens one last form of magic—not to attack, not to fix. But to witness all the worlds where she did not become a demon... and realize something. The mirrors of reality open:
A world where Beelzebub becomes the protector of orphans.
A world where Beelzebub sacrifices herself to save Avalon.
A world where Beelzebub never meets Fitran, and only... writes poetry in the quiet mountains.
In every reflection, Narthrador blooms with confusing beauty, filled with soft light dancing among shadows. The air is filled with the aroma of wet earth and foliage, while the trees move slowly as if responding to Beelzebub's loneliness. There is something melancholic in the nature's hospitality that contrasts with the journey within Beelzebub's heart, full of anxiety.
Yet in all those worlds, Beelzebub does not cry, feeling the weight of every tear that does not fall—a form of denial against deep pain and her inability to feel true happiness. She stands firm in the midst of silence, remembering all the possibilities that stretch before her. Not loving. Not living.
Reflections reveal the choices she desired and all the possibilities that have been missed. In that silence, she feels alienated, as if stripped from her own soul; one soul that continues to seek form, torn between the darkness that knows her and the light that ignores her. Captured by the flow of time that cannot be changed, she feels lost in the silence of Narthrador.
For she does not fall.
"I am a demon..."
"...because only in this form... can I love fully, even if the world rejects me."
And from outside the reflection space, Fitran's voice sounds faintly:
"You are not a demon by your will." "You are a demon... because the world fears letting you love like a human."
Beelzebub closes her eyes. A single tear falls from the part of her face that has no fixed form.
As if that tear becomes a portal, revealing the beauty that has been overlooked. Narthrador not only holds her heartbeat but also stores every decision she has made, every hope that has been rejected. All the pain and sorrow that have accumulated create grass that never withers as her symbol. She feels trapped between mirrors and shadows that continue to call her name.
Then she says:
"Then let me be a demon who loves." "And regret it no more."
In those mirrors, she finds strength in her imperfection. Love is unimaginable for her, yet in her steadfast heart, she strives to gaze into a future that might be carved even if deemed wrong by the outside world. The ritual is complete. Reality closes again.
And from within the shadows of the Void, Beelzebub steps once more.
Not to merge with the system. Not to seek revenge.
But to stand... by Fitran's side.
As the face of love rejected by the world.
Amidst the chaos of nature ravaging Narthrador, dark shadows crawl across the land, creating undefined shapes, as if nature itself is torn by Beelzebub's inner battle. Acid rain gently drips, creating small shimmering pools like mirrors, reflecting various aspects of a soul trapped in uncertainty, and each reflection brings back forgotten memories.
The wind blowing carries whispers from lost souls, wrapping them in laughter and joy, as if reminding Beelzebub of her long-buried identity. She feels split, as if every gust of wind is a voice from the past, a voice that is more than mere lament; it is an affirmation of who she is—a reflection of intentions kept and hopes shattered. In the darkness, she finds her shadow colliding with hopes that are merely memories.
The sight of the devastated village, with crumbling buildings and murky springs, only emphasizes how far Beelzebub has fallen from who she was meant to be. Here she stands, in the midst of darkness, in the midst of shadows trapped in a living mirror. Every step she takes is not just a fight for love; it is an effort to understand, to align two opposing worlds within her—reflective sentences of love and burning hatred. The mirror never lies; it demands to look within and let go of the parts of herself that no longer exist.