Memory of Heaven:Romance Written By Fate Through Beyond Infinity Time-Chapter 447 Unproven Reflection

The next space had no surface, but the entire world around it had transformed into a mirror reflecting an unfathomable existence.

A frame-less mirror. Boundless. Without origin. As Fitran and Beelzebub stepped forward, they did not see their reflections... but saw their other selves.

"This space," whispered Beelzebub, "holds all the versions of you that the world acknowledges... but you have never acknowledged yourself."

Among the reflections hanging in the air, there were faint whispers of possibilities and decisions, like voices from the past. Each reflection flickered in soft light, as if reminding Fitran of paths he had never chosen, with possibilities inviting regret and new hope. Behind each of her figures lay lessons and sacrifices, the unsolved puzzles of life.

From a distance, Fitran saw a version of himself in white clothing, standing among the people and smiling gently—Fitran the Peaceful King. That smile was like light, illuminating the way for many lost souls, but behind that glow, there was a hidden shadow, as he wondered: am I worthy of this sincere expression of love?

On the other side, he saw himself with disheveled hair, hands stained with blood, standing atop a pile of noble bodies—Fitran the Revolutionary. In the silence that followed, there was a heavy sense that carried the consequences of every anger. The struggle between the two poles of himself became a longing; did desperate actions change the right path?

Behind him, the silhouette of himself embracing Sheena on the throne of Elysvarre appeared. Then another—holding Rinoa's hand, smiling under a star that never existed in the real world.

Every version of himself...

lived.

Breathed.

Did things that could have happened—but did not.

Behind him, the silhouette of himself embracing Sheena on the throne of Elysvarre emerged. In that silhouette, there was a soft light, glowing like a candle flickering in the darkness of night, adding elegance to the moment. Then another—holding Rinoa's hand, smiling under a star that never existed in the real world. Perhaps those stars were hope, symbols of every possibility that had ever crossed his mind.

Every version of himself...

lived.

Breathed.

How strange, he thought, that behind every smile and tear, there were shadows of missed decisions. Like fallen puzzle pieces, those parts of identity staged their own stories, forming an eternal and unexpected narrative—a mosaic of life reflecting the conflict between hope and reality.

"Why are they here?" Fitran asked, his voice full of doubt, as if he were asking the wind that whispered softly. He felt their presence not just as shadows, but as reflections of his fragmented soul.

"Because you live in a world that always creates other versions of you," answered Beelzebub, her voice calm like an echo in a deep cave, resembling a mirror of unexpressed thoughts and hopes. "Versions created by the views of others. Versions born from decisions you did not take. Versions shaped by their desires, not your will." It was as if every word from Beelzebub was a thread weaving together the fabric of reality and dreams, revealing how fragile the existence we live is.

Fitran gazed at the version of himself gently kissing Rinoa. In his gaze, there was a longing expressed, a desire that could not be put into words. Their existence, walking paths of life he no longer chose, called him to reflect—are we truly free if choices can become a net that traps us?

"That's not me... but I want it." Fitran's voice trembled, as if inviting the universe to understand the dilemma that pressed upon his soul, and behind that desire surged a deeper question: does this desire come from himself, or from the voices around him that shaped him? In the silence, he found that between desire and reality, there was a chasm he had to bridge with courage.

"And desire," said Beelzebub, "is the only thing that cannot be proven by the logic of this world."

One version approached.

Dressed in gold, a crown on her head. Clean hands. Calm eyes. Behind her thin smile, there was an unspoken tension, as if she held a secret deeper than what was visible. In the peace that cloaked her appearance, there was an inner storm waiting to change everything.

"Why do you reject all paths? Look at me. I have not lost Sheena. I do not pursue Rinoa. I chose the kingdom."

"But you are not me," Fitran replied.

"Wrong. I am you if you choose stability. And I succeeded."

"There is no suffering. No emptiness. No love rejected by the system." ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com

Fitran fell silent. As silence enveloped them, he felt the flow of energy from this formless body, an aura radiating as if suggesting that behind every decision lay unexpected consequences. In the darkness surrounding him, he contemplated the meaning of choices that had come and those that might come.

Another version approached. Full of wounds. Empty eyes. As if exploring the pain she once experienced, every scar on her skin told a story of rise and fall, a tale etched in memory, fully alive in the silence filled with meaning.

"I am you who failed to save anyone. I cannot even mention the name of the person I love... because I am afraid."

"But I... still stand, even amidst obstacles and failures."

Beelzebub raised her hand.

All the reflections suddenly spoke in unison:

"Choose one!"

"I am the sanest."

"I am the most loving."

"I am the least selfish."

"I am the one you left behind."

"I am the one who will save the world."

"I am the one who will let everything perish."

"Choose one of us, and this labyrinth will end your suffering."

In the midst of the crowd of voices raining upon his ears, Fitran felt a vibration within him—like the whisper of wind breaking through the crevices of his soul, reminding him of a situation that shook his heart. Those voices created a rhythm, a symphony inviting his heart and mind to wander in uncertainty. He felt his heart palpitate with each choice, an inner voice whispering that whatever he chose, what would happen next was his own responsibility.

Fitran fell to his knees. His head was filled with voices—all convincing.

Everything made sense.

All could be her. In this void, every reflection seemed alive, as if they were parts of his fragmented self. His mind drifted back to moments when those choices felt clearer, when the steps in his life were not reduced to a series of inner debates. He touched the ground with his fingertip, feeling the cold that sparked curiosity—perhaps there was truth beneath the pile of conflicting views and hopes.

"No..." he finally whispered.

"I... will not choose."

Beelzebub's face distorted in dark steps, yet Fitran's gaze remained steadfast, challenging all the shadows that tried to bind him to the fate offered. In that silence, he heard an echo piercing through a hundred shadows—a formless voice reflecting his deeper existence. "Choice is freedom," he thought, reminding himself that the essence of his identity was not in the choices made, but in the journey that brought him to this point.

"You must!" their voices screamed.

"No," Fitran stood. "Because I do not want to be the result of proof. I want to be the result of will."

He pulled one fragment of glyph from his memory— the only symbol that did not originate from any system.

(∅):=愛

An empty symbol redefined as love.

And at that moment, all reflections shattered.

Among the shards of mirrors, a light seeped through, creating patterns dancing in the void. Each fragment told a forgotten story, reflecting a soul struggling to understand its place in the world. The fading voices were like the wind whispering, reminding that identity is often bound to lost memories, and countless choices.

The mirrors shattered one by one, releasing fading voices:

"You will regret."

"You will be alone."

"No one will know you."

"No one will speak your name."

"And if Rinoa does not remember you..."

As if hearing those lines of regret, Fitran felt the presence of all the choices he had ever made, each step carving a path within his soul. In the darkness, he witnessed the shadows of all the missed possibilities; a trace that etched hope and fear onto the canvas of his destiny.

"...you will still love her," Fitran whispered.

He created a mantra in his chest, a call for himself to face the buried fragility. For the first time since this journey began, Beelzebub smiled not out of cynicism, not to test—but because she believed.

"You do not prove who you are; you are not merely a shadow of others' hopes..."

You simply choose to remain... even though the world leaves no room for that."

In that moment, a cosmic presence vibrated the air, as if the universe affirmed the importance of existence even in uncertainty. Every choice, no matter how small, composed a larger narrative—one that transcended the boundaries of time and space.

"And that," she continued, "is the foundation of all love that has failed to be seen."

She spoke that sentence with certainty, as if this truth was etched along space and time. Reflections are not needed to be real.

And Fitran stepped into the next space

not as an answer to a choice,

but as the only question that could not be denied.

At the threshold of a new dimension, uncertainty enveloped every heartbeat. Yet, behind the fear, there was a shining strength; the journey toward self-discovery became more important than the end result. In the darkness, a new light shone, illuminating the path toward a deeper understanding of who she truly was.