There was a girl.
Nine, maybe ten. Old enough to know her name, young enough to forget the rest.
She sat in the grass just beyond the edge of the border town, plucking flower petals with a rhythm that didn't match any song.
She thought it was a game.
One petal for every name she could remember.
Ma.
Da.
Big brother.
The baker with the crooked smile.
The boy who threw stones at clouds.
Captain—
She paused.
The petal between her fingers curled. Turned gray.
She stared at it for a long time before letting it go. It floated sideways, not down. Then disappeared halfway to the ground.
---
She didn't panic.
Children didn't know which physics to trust yet. So when the world broke in front of them, they often just blinked and kept going.
She stood. Brushed pollen off her knees. Walked home barefoot, trailing wind that didn't move the grass.
---
The town looked normal.
Mostly.
There was a street that used to curve left. Now it didn't curve at all.
There was a bell on the tower that chimed once an hour. Now it chimed every eleven minutes, exactly. Except when it didn't.
She didn't ask about it. No one ever answered when she did.
---
Her mother was boiling something in the kitchen. Her face was tired in a way that didn't match her body.
Her father was sitting by the window. Crying.
She stepped closer.
"What's wrong?"
He looked up. Eyes hollow, mouth trembling.
"I… I forgot who sat here."
She blinked. Looked at the chair. Just a plain wooden one. Empty.
"I think it was—"
"Don't." Her mother's voice, sharp. "Don't say it. That name's not for children."
The girl went quiet. She didn't know which name she'd been about to say.
---
That night, she curled up under a thin blanket. One arm clutching the doll the knight had given her two years ago.
Except…
No one remembered which knight.
She did.
A tall one. Dark cloak. A tired smile. He hadn't said much, but he'd knelt when he handed it to her.
"It remembers," he had whispered. "When nothing else does."
The doll was made of rune-thread. Charred a little on one side. One eye missing.
Still warm.
She fell asleep holding it.
---
And in the dream, there was a field.
Empty. Cracked.
No sky above — just ash and static.
But something moved in the middle of it.
A figure. Not walking. Not running. Just… arriving.
He had no face.
But he had weight.
The field curved toward him, like the land itself was leaning to listen.
She tried to step forward — to see — to remember—
But the wind said no.
So she stood still.
And watched him walk past.
And even though she couldn't see his eyes, she felt them on her.
Just for a moment.
Like he knew she was watching.
Like he'd always known.
---
She woke up gasping.
The doll in her arms was glowing.
Faint. Flickering.
The rune across its chest had changed.
Just one symbol.
A broken circle.
------------------------------
TPOV - Mereoleona
There were parts of the Burning Hills that no map dared to mark anymore.
Once, they'd been just another frontier — all magma flows and ashlight storms, ripe for mana-hardened miners and reckless squads.
Now?
They were zones where direction died screaming.
Where time folded like bad origami and wind ran in loops.
Where even flame had to fight to remember how to burn.
---
Mereoleona stood at the edge of one such faultline.
Her boots cracked the stone as she moved, slow and deliberate, the world beneath her shifting without rhythm.
There was no sky here.
Just a swirl of gray and scarlet — thick like melted ink — pulsing overhead with a heartbeat not her own.
---
She should have turned back hours ago.
Even she knew that.
But something about the distortion felt… familiar.
Not to her mana.
To her rage.
---
She stepped forward.
The land didn't scream.
It just shuddered.
Like it remembered pain.
---
There had been a village here.
She could still see the outlines.
Homes scorched clean. Roads twisted like dried sinew.
And at the center: a crater. Not formed by impact.
Formed by absence.
As if something had pulled the middle of the world inward, chewed through its name, and spat out a silence that refused to echo.
---
That's where it waited.
The beast.
If you could call it that.
It had no spine. No limbs. Just a shape made of flickers ...voices, limbs, half-faces , a memory storm packed into a form that didn't know what shape to be.
It moved like it was caught between moments.
Like it was remembering itself wrong on purpose.
---
It didn't speak at first.
Didn't roar.
It just turned toward her.
One dozen eyes blinking in sequence.
None of them real.
---
Then it whispered:
"You shouldn't be here, flame that walks."
---
She flared up instantly.
Not in fear.
In fury.
Because it knew what to call her.
And because it called her flame that walks — not that burns.
---
She charged before it could morph again.
Flames surged out, crimson-orange, carving her name into the air like a sword stroke.
But the fire didn't hit.
It bent.
Curved sideways.
Caught in a gravity that wasn't there.
---
The beast opened.
Not a mouth — not exactly.
Just… a split in the noise.
From it came a sound she didn't know how to hear.
Like a scream being recalled, not made.
Like something was pulling pain out of its past and pressing it against her ribs.
---
She didn't stop.
She couldn't.
If she stopped now, she'd forget why she'd ever moved.
So she roared back.
Louder than her mana. Louder than her doubt.
---
Her second strike landed.
Not because the fire obeyed — but because she remembered how it should.
Reality twisted.
The beast flinched.
One of its eyes popped like a spell crystal under too much compression.
---
Then it spoke again.
But not in one voice.
All of them.
Children crying. Mothers weeping. Knights screaming through smoke.
And in the middle of it:
"You are one of the old ones."
"You are still held by story."
"You burn because you have not yet been forgotten."
---
That stopped her.
Just for a second.
The flames dimmed. Not from weakness.
From memory.
---
A flicker ran through her — not fear, not hesitation — just… a thought.
What happens when even fire doesn't want to remember you anymore?
---
She forced it down. Gripped it. Fed it to the heat.
And then she struck again.
With no spell.
Just her fist.
Flesh and will and presence.
---
The impact split the air.
Not the creature.
The zone.
A ripple cascaded out from the point of contact, and for just a moment —
Time remembered itself.
The loop broke.
The sky fractured.
And the beast—?
It folded.
Not destroyed. Not dead.
Just put away.
As if it no longer had permission to be visible.
---
She dropped to one knee.
Not from exhaustion.
From cost.
That kind of magic wasn't magic anymore.
It was refusal.
Refusal to bend.
Refusal to forget.
---
Her hand was bleeding.
Not from a wound.
From the sigil burned into her skin.
It hadn't been there when she arrived.
It wasn't inked. Wasn't carved.
It had simply… appeared.
Right above her pulse.
A fragment of the Rejection Sigil.
---
Not complete.
Not hers.
But clinging to her like smoke to a battlefield.
---
She stared at it.
And for once… she didn't shout.
Didn't burn it off.
Didn't challenge the sky to send something worse.
She just sat there. In silence.
Because she had seen enough devils to know when something wasn't summoned—
But left behind.
---
There was no roar as she left the zone.
No blaze to mark her trail.
Only a faint glow trailing her footsteps.
Ash that didn't want to fall.
---
And behind her, high above the scar in the ground—
A crack pulsed.
Not wide.
Not deep.
Just enough to show what was underneath.
Black flame.
No sound.
No invitation.
Just grief.
---------------------------------
TPOV - Asta
There was a place beyond the world's clock.
Not outside of time — just where time had stopped asking questions.
It wasn't a rift.
Or a realm.
Or even a scar.
It was a pause.
A breath the universe had taken…
...and forgotten how to release.
---
No stars shone here.
Not because they'd died.
But because names didn't stick long enough for light to remember where it came from.
---
In the middle of this stillness, a boy stood.
Older now. Sharper around the eyes. Quieter in the shoulders.
His blade was still massive.
But it didn't hum with defiance anymore.
It just… listened.
---
He didn't speak.
Not because there were no words left.
But because sound felt rude here.
---
He stared forward.
At something he couldn't see.
But had felt every day since the war ended.
Something that lived in the corner of every silence, and curled beneath the skin of every peaceful morning.
---
He didn't know its name.
Didn't want to.
Because if he named it…
It might answer.
---
Behind him, the corridor of crystal-light twisted.
A map made of breath and blood and broken promises.
Leylines that didn't follow terrain anymore.
Magic that forgot its own rules.
Somewhere back there — in a place called Clover — a city was unraveling.
Somewhere else, a sigil had flared.
Once.
High and black.
---
He didn't flinch when it happened.
Didn't need to look.
He just knew.
---
Because something had tugged.
Not on his mana.
On his memory.
---
It didn't try to erase anything.
It just asked him if he wanted to remember.
---
And that was the most dangerous question of all.
---
He closed his eyes.
And saw nothing.
Not because he was blind —
But because the thing he wanted to see most…
Had never been allowed to be seen in the first place.
---
A step echoed in the stillness.
Not his.
Not hostile.
Just... old.
---
The space around him didn't crack.
It bent.
Light warped. Time bowed.
And from between two thoughts that never should've touched —
a voice arrived.
---
Not loud.
Not soft.
Just real.
"The circle broke."
---
He turned.
Slowly.
Not afraid.
Just respectful.
---
Nothing was there.
But the words had mass.
He could feel them anchoring to the marrow of his spine.
---
He spoke back — not aloud.
Just with breath.
With intention.
"I know."
---
"He left it behind."
---
"I know."
---
"Not because he wanted to."
"Because he ran out of world."
---
Asta lowered his head.
Something hot pressed behind his eyes.
Not grief.
Recognition.
---
"What's coming now,"
the voice said,
"...won't ask you to fight."
"It will ask you to remember."
---
The sword on his back pulsed once.
Heavy.
Warm.
Not with magic.
With memory.
---
Then the light folded.
The voice vanished.
The pause un-paused.
---
And the path ahead of him, the one made of crystal veins and flickering arcane lines — lit up again.
A single rune burned along its edge.
Not one he recognized.
Not one any kingdom still taught.
But he felt it.
Down to the bones of a promise once made beneath a dying sky.
---
It was the sigil of Rejection.
But not complete.
Just a glimpse.
A shard.
A memory.
---
And somewhere far above — beyond spell and sun and scripture.....
A breath passed through the fabric of silence.
Not from a god.
Not from a devil.
Just…
from a boy who should've died.
------------------------------------
TPOV- Librarian
There was once a book that could not be shelved.
Not because it was forbidden.
Not because it was unreadable.
But because it didn't stay still.
It had no spine. No title. No binding.
Only pages — endless, scattered pages — that appeared where forgetting had failed.
---
Some called it a curse.
Some, a relic.
But the ones who truly knew?
They never called it anything at all.
Because to name it was to give it a direction.
And this book had none.
---
It would show up at thresholds.
In the moments between silence and scream.
In the breath between names.
In the pause after lightning but before thunder.
And always, always, when someone tried to remember something that the world had already let go.
---
Its pages were not paper.
Not flesh.
Not spellcloth.
They were made of moments.
Real ones.
Torn clean from timelines that had collapsed before they were ever lived.
---
And right now?
One of those pages drifted through the void.
Not falling.
Just... realigning.
---
It turned.
Twisted.
Caught a glimmer of meaning in a place where mana had stopped making sense.
And landed — not on ground.
But in a mind.
---
A librarian blinked awake.
Somewhere beneath the capital — in a library that no one built, but always existed — she sat bolt upright, her breath ragged.
Her candles had gone out.
The ink in her quill had fled backward.
And the sentence she'd just written?
Was no longer in her language.
---
She looked down.
Her hands were shaking.
But the paper in front of her didn't care.
It had a symbol now.
Not written. Not drawn.
Burned.
A circle.
Broken at the top.
Trailing threads.
---
She stood.
Pages rustled in the dark.
Scrolls wept quietly on their racks.
And across the stone floor, hundreds of tomes trembled in unison.
---
Then — one by one — they began to forget what they were.
---
She moved fast. No hesitation.
Every librarian had been trained for a breach like this.
But none of them had ever thought they'd see a sigil breach.
---
The air cracked.
Not with mana.
With meaning.
---
She shouted an incantation. Nothing happened.
Not because it failed —
But because the library no longer recognized cause and effect.
---
So she did the one thing no librarian was ever supposed to do:
She touched the sigil.
Not with gloves. Not with a spell-bound tool.
With her palm.
With her presence.
---
And for one heartbeat —
She saw.
---
---
Not visions.
Not prophecies.
Just memories.
Everyone else's.
Children watching skies blink wrong.
Knights forgetting who they served.
Fathers crying over chairs they couldn't name.
Asta kneeling before something he'd never seen.
Mereoleona carving reality with her fists.
The girl clutching the doll.
The doll that remembers.
---
And in the middle of it all —
A name.
Not said.
Not spoken.
Just felt.
A name the world had rejected once.
A name that now bent gravity and breath and thought alike.
---
Kael.
---
She gasped.
The ink on her arm flared.
Old wardings, deep-seated — soul-bound — burned hot, then died.
Her mana drained sideways.
Into the sigil.
Into him.
---
But it didn't hurt.
It ached.
Like remembering a dream where you were whole.
---
Then the page vanished.
Just… gone.
No fire. No wind. No sound.
---
And in its place:
Only a single feather.
Black.
No bird had ever grown it.
No wind had ever carried it.
But it smelled like lightning and winter and truth.
---
She picked it up.
And every single page in the library bent toward her.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
---
Because now she was part of the story.
Because now — she remembered.
---
Far above, in the sky that had no moon anymore…
One final crack opened.
Small.
Quiet.
Nothing came through.
Nothing had to.
Because the world no longer needed a messenger.
---
It had a witness.
---
Guys I wanted to tell you guys something, this is a story way away from the line of original, friendship power has no use here, zero plot armor, plot armor is going to be given to one who fights our MC, I mean who da faq below tier 1-B can survive him??? And this world is not planetary power up anymore, it is already running at multiversal and dimensional scales....I mean yami himself is at tier-1B and every top magicians arealmost immune to reality wrapping and has the power to alter reality, tier of the universe is all time high.... again this world has the rule "give and take" in terms of power on steroids, basically fullmetal alchemist world rules on steroids and coke.....and obviously I ain't gonna stop this, even if people won't like this...I don't mind it, cause, I want this to be at the level of refined top fanfictions... everything should have a meaning and stake... again this story is for mature audiences, if you are reading it for fun, you won't enjoy it....but if you want to dwell into the world I am creating, then this is for you, have a nice day and thank you for reading
Tighten your seatbelts, you are gonna have a rollercoaster ride from now on