The corridors of the Atlantis Tower always whisper secrets. However, far beneath them, below the teaching rooms and laboratories, lies a nameless library. This place is not recorded in official archives nor marked on any map. Fitran sat there, nestled between towering wooden shelves that almost brushed against the low, arched ceiling. The rough wooden surface, adorned with ancient carvings, was faintly covered in dust and black moss, creating a cold texture framed by the flickering glow of candlelight. Within those cabinets lay neatly arranged aged scrolls, some bound with fragile, cracked leather ribbons, while others were rolled and held together by fading and fraying golden ties.
The entire space was enveloped in the damp aroma of old paper, mingling with the scent of wax and herbal roots stored in small wooden boxes tucked away in the library's hidden corners. The porous stone walls, cold and wet, surrounded the area as if guarding the tightly locked secrets within. The deep black marble floor, speckled with fine gravel from broken stones, absorbed footsteps and sounds, making every movement feel silent yet heavy, as if the stones themselves held the memories of a forgotten time.
Fitran sat there, surrounded by cabinets filled with scrolls penned in blood and obsidian ink. The only sound was the low, rhythmic ticking of an antique clock, counting down the breaths of a forgotten world, alongside the smooth scratch of a quill on aged parchment. The candlelight hanging from the wall lanterns cast flickering shadows on the rough stone walls—shadows that moved slowly like the silhouette of something not entirely real. The light danced softly across the cracked surfaces, creating mysterious patterns akin to whispering incantations. The air in the room felt cold, but without the piercing dampness; it was heavy with the aroma of antiquity and mystery, as if every corner held the footprints of the past and secrets buried for centuries. The parchment in his hands felt rough and fragile, its edges beginning to peel, while the ink glimmered like crystallized blood in the darkness.
The candlelight casts his shadow on the stone wall, resembling a figure that isn't entirely real. Weariness marks his face, not from physical exertion, but from a soul burdened by too many secrets. In his hands, he clutches a parchment page that remains untranslated. The writing on it writhes like a live worm, avoiding meaning.
Soft footsteps echo silently in the dim corridor.
Hugo appears, draped in a dark gray robe, his hands grasping an ancient scroll bound with frayed golden ties and torn. His eyes pierce through the darkness, yet shadows of deep doubt linger—scars of a past that have never truly faded.
"You called for me, Fitran?" Hugo asks, his voice heavy yet calm.
"I'm trying to read this fragment. But every time I almost understand, the words fade away—like gazing at the face of a god in a dream that vanishes when awakened into silence," Fitran replied, his eyes still fixed on the blank parchment, his voice nearly a whisper filled with despair.
Hugo paused for a moment before placing the scroll on the moss-covered stone table, which resembled an ancient monument aged thousands of years. A single piece of rough and cracked gray marble, its surface layered with slime from the eternal moisture seeping into its pores. The table felt cold and heavy, as if bearing the weight of the hidden power contained within the fragile skin of the scroll.
Surrounding them, towering dark mahogany shelves reached up to the ceiling, filled with dusty manuscripts and artifacts neatly lined yet shrouded in mystery. Shadows danced on the walls, as if mystical beings were watching their conversation with cold gazes. A chilling breeze of unknown origin suddenly swept through, carrying a faint sound like the whispers of the spirits of the past wandering amidst the silence of that space.
"This isn't ordinary writing. Could it be Proto Speech..." Hugo whispered, his voice nearly drowned in the silence of that secretive space. His eyes fixated on the ancient scroll in his hands, filled with astonishment. "Where did you get this?" he asked again, his mind swirling with shadows of the name Keiran. Keiran, who was killed without a trace, left behind the mystery of a research that vanished without a mark. Hugo almost asked further questions, but his feelings held him back. He knew exactly who Fitran was, and in the gleam of his eyes, a hidden warning was etched in silence.
"A language born before the first word was spoken... before the first letter emerged from human desire," Fitran replied in a low voice, almost as if chanting an ancient incantation. His dark, calm eyes remained fixed on the dusty pages of the scroll. There was a silent power emanating from him, as if he bore the weight of time-enshrouded knowledge.
"A language that came before Logos. A language not used to explain the world, but rather to shape it," Hugo continued, his tone a mix of awe and fear. "Once, only the Builders had it—mysterious entities that even the Void hesitated to approach." The weight of his words hung in the air, intensifying the already thick tension.
"If a single syllable can shake reality... why is this language hidden?" Fitran rose slowly, his movements light like a shadow blending into the soft beams of light. His eyes penetrated deep, as if searching for the truth concealed behind the curtain of time.
"It is not hidden intentionally. This world—the collective consciousness—naturally rejects remembering it," Hugo answered, his voice laden with weight. "Proto Speech is not just a tool of creation. It is an ancient doubt that challenges the foundations of existence. And every such doubt is a gaping hole leading to emptiness." He spoke as if carving destiny into the cold winds swirling around them.
Fitran fell silent, his gaze fixed on the scroll that now felt more alive than ever. He touched it gently, as if feeling the pulse of a creature that still beats faintly. His breath was heavy, but not from fear—rather from a deep hunger, a thirst for understanding that transcended the boundaries of ordinary human discourse and logic.
"Teach me silence first… before words. Because I believe all language is born from stillness. If I could listen to the silence hidden behind those words… perhaps I could become that silence itself," Fitran spoke, his voice nearly trembling.
Hugo gazed deeply at him, his eyes radiating a faint light that brought forth memories of the past. In an instant, the image of a young and valiant Fitran on the battlefield appeared, his stern face as he stood in the silent courtroom, and his figure, brimming with rage, cursing the heavens while whispering poems filled with sorrow into the darkness of hell.
"I will teach you... but not as a teacher who imparts ordinary lessons. I am here as a witness—witness to every step you take toward that understanding. For if you succeed in transcending the boundaries of silence, the world will not remember you merely as an ordinary sorcerer, but as the Last Words of Nature," Hugo said with a tone full of honor and hope.
The fourth day since the scroll was opened.
In that nameless library, time lost its meaning; day and night were but shadows merging into eternal silence. Only the fatigue clinging to eyes that had begun to redden, and the clear beads of sweat slowly dripping from the foreheads of those seeking meaning, stood as the sole tangible signs of their relentless journey.
Hugo had not slept. His tattered cloak seemed heavy with the burden of a long night. His fingers were stained dark red from the blood ink—an intricate mixture of wisproot, the dust of time swirling in a small vial, and the remnants of bitter tears shed by survivors of nightmares. He remained silent, speaking little, the only sound the soft murmur escaping between his long breaths as he meticulously rewrote the letters of Proto Speech—symbols that once lived, refusing to be trapped in any form.
Now, he stood firm before Fitran. His eyes were swollen, yet behind the fatigue, there gleamed a strange glint: a victory shrouded in unspoken fear.
"I… succeeded," Hugo uttered, his voice cracking like a gentle whisper cast from behind an ancient gravestone.
"At least… one line. One full sentence."
Fitrangazed at Hugo with a long stare before slowly stepping closer.
"Say it."
Hugo shook his head violently, haunted by deep trauma. He unfurled the scroll, revealing bizarre writing that at first glance appeared ordinary—yet every time one attempted to read it, vision would seem to lose its way in an illusion. The letters were not just letters; they were fragments of memories from a past that had never truly existed.
"I will not speak it again… But I will write it down for you, Fitran. Because you are not an ordinary human."
He slowly raised his finger. With his own blood, he wrote in the air—letters formed from a gentle pulsating red light, vanishing into a silence that was not mere quiet, but a void without echo, without trace of existence. Fitran did not see those letters with his physical eyes; he felt them with memory, as if touching the deepest recess of a past that had just happened for the first time.
As the phrase completed itself, the room trembled with a silent rumble that penetrated the bones. The books on the shelves shifted and wept—each piece of paper quivered with unspoken sorrow. The ancient stone walls began to crack, splitting symmetrically in a pattern that seemed to reflect the awareness of the stone itself, realizing it was unworthy of standing. The candlelight suddenly went out, not due to a gust of wind, but because of the reluctance of the light to be believed.
Hugo fell to his knees, blood streaming abundantly from his nose and ears, soaking the rough floor beneath him.
"That sentence… it's just one line. But its meaning is: 'Don't forget that you were never real.'" Hugo said, breathless.
Suddenly, his voice choked, as if something was holding back the next words in his throat.
"Proto Speech… is a language that does not merely talk about the world. It compels the world to believe in something it has never experienced, hacking into the roots of consciousness itself and rewriting reality from the ground up."
Fitran fell silent, his eyes vacant yet his fingers trembled as if replaying that memory. He had seen a voice that could not be spoken. He had heard meaning before meaning was created.
Now, the world would never again see Fitran as part of an ordinary narrative. He had been equipped with a weapon: a sentence potent enough to make someone question their own existence.