The ruins of the temple are like remnants of a nightmare left by the deities. The light of the lily belonging to Izanami has gone out, and the world is slowly flooded with the shadows of strange stars: Astral Theorist, the voidwright magic of Fitran, has been fully activated. Outside the altar, the world begins to change. Time is no longer linear, space becomes a labyrinth of memories, and every human around Yamato starts to feel the impact—whether it be wild inspiration, sudden madness, or flashbacks of a past they have never understood.

  Fumi sits curled up in the corner of the refugee barracks, her trembling hands covering her face. “Why am I seeing strange dreams, Hana? Just now I saw my father crying by the river of stars…”

  Hana closes the fabric curtain, her face pale. “You’re not the only one. Just now I dreamed of walking among glowing trees. But every tree called me by a different name. It felt like… I wasn’t myself.”

  Chiyo takes a short breath, holding back tears. “Just now I saw my mother splitting the sky. Yet, my mother died when I was little.”

  In the streets of the old city, time and space crack like glass. Every step the survivors take seems to bring them to two places at once—on one side, the ruins filled with spiral smoke, on the other, they see the past: lantern festivals, laughter at celebrations, even their own deaths replayed over and over. Amidst the chaos, Fitran appears like a shadow, his smile mysterious and his eyes sharp, fully understanding every movement and fear that flickers in their hearts. With a single hand gesture, he directs the flow of dark energy towards the people who are cornered, and in an instant, they are trapped in a terrifying illusion, as if ensnared in a magical trap of his making.

  “You know,” Fitran says, his voice soft yet sharp like a sword, “those dreams are not just fantasies. They depict your deepest fears. The more you resist, the stronger the illusion becomes.” He stares sharply at Fumi, making her feel alienated in her own thoughts. “Are you brave enough to face it, or will you remain trapped in the shadows?”

  Mira, holding Ryumaru’s shoulders, her voice small amidst the world’s roar. “Ryumaru, I don’t know what’s a dream, what’s reality, and what Fitran wants. But I can feel his power—as if he can read every thought of ours.”

  Ryumaru stands in the empty field, staring at the ground now filled with shadows of astronomical circles. “What have you done, Fitran? This is not a world that can be understood by humans.”

  Mira holds Ryumaru’s shoulders, her small voice piercing through the chaotic world. “Ryumaru, I don’t know what’s a dream, what’s real. Just now I spoke with my ten-year-old self, and then suddenly everything turned into a rain of ink.” Waves of magic shake the space around them, triggering a reaction of fear that clings to everyone’s mind.

  Ryumaru exhales deeply, his firm voice reflecting confusion, “If this is Fitran’s way of protecting the world, maybe the world doesn’t need saving. Strengthen yourself, Mira. Don’t let him control this game.”

  Above the ruins, void star glyphs form a giant pattern, as if watching every movement. The magic of the Astral Theorist not only disrupts time and memory; it forces anyone weak to confront all their wounds and failures without filter. Every spell cast by Fitran flows like blood in the veins of the earth, illuminating the dark sky with flashes of energy. Old traumas resurface, and some citizens begin to talk to their shadows, trapped in the web of deception that Fitran has built.

  Saburo walks alone in the spiral corridor, his voice flat and expressionless. “I used to think the world ended when death came. But now, I meet myself who failed to save Kaoru. And he laughs at me.” The sadness seems to hiss, warning of the mistakes that haunt him.

  Takeshi holds back the urge to vomit, his body weak between two walls of time. “Saburo, don’t talk to the shadows! If we talk, they will enter our heads.” He knows that Fitran is manipulative; every word can become a trap that swallows his soul.

  Saburo smiles bitterly, his red eyes staring at Takeshi. “Maybe it’s better that way. At least I can kill the cowardly version of myself. With every second that passes, Fitran gains the advantage.” Despair washes over him, but there is a glimmer of hidden hope in the desire to fight back.

  Fitran stands at the edge of the altar, his body wrapped in void runes, creating an intimidating aura. In the darkness, he sees a world turning into a labyrinth of stars, every step infused with the mesmerizing magic he wields. He shows no remorse, fully aware that this game is in his hands. “You see, every step I take weaves a new reality. What you consider an end is merely a new beginning without control,” he says, a sly smile spreading across his face.

  Saburo smiles bitterly, his red eyes staring at Takeshi, “Maybe it’s better that way. At least I can destroy the cowardly version of myself, bringing the emptiness that should erase every doubt.”

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  Fitran stands at the edge of the altar, his body surrounded by shimmering void runes, gazing at a world turning into a labyrinth of stars. His gaze reflects strategic intelligence, showing no remorse, but rather as if planning every step like a general before war. Before him, waves of magical energy swirl, pulsing as if bound to his will.

  Fitran steps onto the shadow of the altar, his voice echoing with a cold power that penetrates space, “Look, Izanami. The magic of the Astral Theorist that I have applied now reveals the truth you fear. This world does not need to be restored; it is forced into the mirror of its own reality!”

  Izanami kneels, her body appearing frail amidst the ruins, “What is the use of a world full of broken mirrors, Fitran? They only go mad, punish each other, or reject the life that remains!”

  Fitran grins, stepping closer with certainty, “That is the price of honesty, Goddess of Redemption. No human truly wants to heal; they only want to escape reality. I force them to see the roots of their wounds. Only the strong, who can pass this test, will survive. The others deserve to vanish into uncertainty.”

  Izanami glares at Fitran with hatred, her voice trembling, “You enjoy their suffering. You are not a savior—you are a destroyer!”

  Fitran turns, allowing the world to shatter in illusions behind his back, “A world that can be restored with a single spell is merely a lie. When all these false hopes shatter, what remains is the truth. I am not exterminating humans, but rather destroying all hopes that are merely a mirage.”

  In the city center, some citizens begin to kneel, scratching the ground with family names, creating a ritual of sorrow connected to the lost magical power, then crying and laughing at themselves simultaneously. Others walk aimlessly, chasing shadows that only they can see, each burdened by dark imaginations entangled in their minds.

  Nobuzan sits on a cracked wall, her fingers tearing old paper, recalling the formulations of lost spells, waiting for the right moment to summon back a power greater than herself.

  In the city center, some citizens begin to kneel, their search for the lost leading them to scratch the ground with the names of the deceased. Tears flow, bitter laughter seems to mix the taste of grief and lost hope. Others walk aimlessly, following shadows that only they can see, as if trapped between reality and illusion.

  Nobuzan sits on a cracked wall, her trembling fingers scratching the hard ground as if searching for a grip on reality, “I no longer know who I am. Just now I saw my vision marrying a man who has passed away. Am I already dead, Hana?”

  Hana hugs Nobuzan tightly, her tears creating a sea of fear, “We are not dead. This is all just Fitran’s magic. Remember your name, don’t let the whispers of the stars erase your memory.”

  Nobuzan takes a deep breath, her hoarse voice reflecting emptiness, “If I have to survive in a world like this, maybe I would prefer to be forgotten…”

  Some souls begin to gather at the street corner, forming a mysterious circle of mirrors. They speak to each other with voices that penetrate time, recalling lives that once were. Each meeting is an inner trial: they blame each other, demanding answers from the world and themselves in moments of helplessness. The glyphs of the Astral Theorist in the sky become silent witnesses, observing the endless battle of souls.

  Kaoru runs in the middle of the ruined field, holding her head that feels like it’s about to burst from the heavy mental burden, “Fitran! I know you’re listening! You can’t let the world continue like this!”

  Fitran stands atop a broken pillar, staring at Kaoru emotionlessly, “This world cannot heal in a single night. Don’t you know? A great shock is a tool of purification. My magic is not the answer, but a catalyst to awaken those who are complacent.”

  Kaoru cries, throwing stones at Fitran, “You’re selfish! All these wounds are not power—they are a curse!”

  Fitran closes his eyes for a moment, before opening them again with a sharp, calculating gaze. “A curse is the best teacher for those trapped in neglect. Every scar you see is a step towards learning. If the world survives the Astral Theorist, then they deserve to continue existing. However, if not, I will not shed tears for the worthless loss.”

  Outside the city, void star rain slowly falls, each drop seemingly charged with magical energy that touches the soul. Kaoru feels its effects, buried memories awaken within her, creating deep pain. Her light is passed, revealing the darkness that lies beneath. Some children suddenly become aware of their family’s sins, and some adults reflect on failures accumulated since their youth. Everywhere, the underworld of the Astral Theorist becomes a stage of honesty, without disguise.

  Fumi sits under an old tree in a meditative position, staring at the cracked sky that seems to hint at chaos outside. “Will the world always be like this, Hana? I want to stop dreaming and return to reality,” she laments, her voice breaking with the hope that surrounds her.

  Hana caresses Fumi’s hair, her eyes filled with tears. “If Fitran still has the will to live in his heart, he will soon stop all this. If not, we must take control and rewrite our names, step by step, in harmony or conflict.”

  Fitran steps into the shadow of the altar, observing a world buzzing with chaos caused by his own magic. There is no smile on his face, only a cold calmness and careful calculation. He speaks to himself, to the empty space that bears witness, “Every fighting technique I apply, every spell I embed in the form of space and time, is the result of total sacrifice. If I must transform into a monster to open everyone’s wounds, then I will accept that curse.”

  Fitran walks slowly, his voice quiet and cold, “Every new world is born from the destruction shaped by skilled hands. Every meaning grows in the shadows of guilt, like a technique stored in memory. If I must be the monster that opens everyone’s wounds, I will accept that curse wholeheartedly. I want this world to be strong enough to hate me, but not foolish enough to love false comfort.”

  Izanami collapses at the altar, her whisper almost inaudible, “If this world falls into a spiral of madness, your name will be hated forever; my path will not allow it.”

  Fitran gazes at the sky, void runes surrounding his body, glowing symbols of magic as he channels energy. “They may hate. As long as they do not forget, as long as they do not become the souls of redemption who forget the essence of suffering. This world needs deep wounds, not empty embraces that merely distract.”