故事模式剧情详表 (移动版)：修订间差异

 她期望着能在这里见到其他人。<br><br>她不知道自己为何这么想。她的周围是一片白色的荒芜，只有褪色已久的废墟，<br>却毫无生灵的迹象——她自己则是个例外。<br><br>自苏醒于此处之后已经过去了几天，她却无法找回任何的记忆。<br>从前，她曾行走于天涯海角，探索力所能及的未知。眼前的这片破败的建筑并没有办法为她解惑。<br>所有的建筑都空无一物……虽然她觉得这些建筑本身看着眼熟，<br>却无法回忆起她究竟在何时得知了它们的名字、形状和作用。<br><br>她一次又一次地遇到这种状况：知道“是什么”，却不知“为什么”。<br>这对她来说倒也只是个烦恼，毕竟关于这个世界——以及她本身——还有更加明显、更加重大的事情需要去思考。<br><br>不过必须得说的是：这可真是个令人抓狂的怪地方呀。----她紧紧地抓住肩膀上的吉他背带，于是问题来了：她是在哪儿拿到它的？<br>她到底为什么要带着它？虽然醒来时它就在她的身边，她却无法解答这些问题。<br>她只知道拨动琴弦、奏响旋律、在音品上方按住琴弦、作出更多旋律。<br>要适时地弹奏它，创作出节奏、音调、和弦、和声。更重要的是，当她握着它的时候，感觉非常的……安心。<br><br>但为什么？不，她不知道为什么。为什么她不知道呢？<br><br>她陷入了一片沙漠中，这是亘古岁月中的水流侵蚀所形成的。<br>然而周围并没有水，甚至连液体都不存在。这里怎么会有沙漠？行走，她知道如何行走。<br>为什么？她不知道答案。她从来就没获得过答案。<br><br>这些知识，甚至是“记忆”，真的有哪怕一丝的价值吗？<br>她真的“记得”这些东西吗？她是否已经“忘却”了别的东西？<br>她似乎失忆了，但失忆怎么会是这么的……有选择性？----拥有知识，却不清楚知识的由来，这种情况让她陷入了深深的失落。<br>这让她显得不完整。就好像有人剥去了她的皮肤、肌肉和骨骼，然后组装到了另一个不相称的容器中<br>，还忘记了放入其它重要的东西，把空虚的她丢在了这里。<br><br>她讨厌无知。<br><br>她的脑海中有无数的疑问如万花筒般流转不息。<br>她强迫自己把注意力放在突然出现的、数不胜数的拐角上。但答案呢？还是没有。这里没有答案。<br><br>在她的赤足探险中（她一开始就决定把鞋挂在脖子上，因为硕大的鞋跟在这样的地形中不方便），<br>她几乎毫无收获。实际上，她看到的越多，就越是感受到自己的无知。<br><br>她讨厌无知。她知道自己周围的很多东西，却感觉对自己一无所知。<br><br>她看到的大多数东西都令人迷惑、毫无意义——尤其是那些莫名奇妙地飞舞在空中的玻璃。<br>那些玻璃向她展现了其他的人、其他的时代、其他的世界。这些镜像激起了最为古老的共鸣。<br>这些镜像，她觉得无疑是自己熟悉的东西。----不过，所谓的熟悉终究也只是一种感觉。玻璃展示的镜像中从来没有她自己的身影。<br>这些场景并不是她所记得的过去。它们并不是回忆……至少并不是她的回忆。这些Arcaea，都不属于她。<br><br>她的情绪陷入消沉。这种消沉逐渐催生出担忧、疏离、迷惑和孤寂，<br>并让她感觉自己的内心缺失了某个重要的东西。她一点儿也不喜欢这种感觉。<br><br>她又开始了行走。行走好像总是能缓解她的情绪。这让她能够转而关注自己周围的东西，或者说，外界。

She kept expecting there to be more people here.<br><br>She wasn’t sure why. All around her was a white wasteland, filled with nothing but faded, ruined buildings,<br>bereft of all life—all except for her.<br><br>In these few days since waking up in this place, without any recollection of what happened before,<br>she walked quite far and explored what she could. The tattered structures did little to answer her questions.<br>Each of them was empty... and while she found the architecture itself familiar, she seemed to have no<br>memory of when she’d learned their names, their shapes, their functions.<br><br>Time and again, that was the idea she’d come back to: knowing “what”, but not “why”. It could be the idea<br>was just a distraction for her, something to ponder in favor of the more obvious, weightier things regarding<br>this world—and inside herself.<br><br>She had to say, though: this was certainly a bizarre and bewildering place.----She pulled her guitar’s strap tightly over her shoulder, and the questions returned. Where had she gotten it?<br>Why in the world was it with her? Despite having woken up alongside it, she couldn’t answer those questions.<br>She only knew to pluck the strings to make sounds, to hold the strings over the frets to create others.<br>To strum them in time, to create rhythms, melodies, chords, harmonies.<br>More than that, it was almost... comforting, when she held in her hands.<br><br>But why? No, she did not know why. Why didn’t she?<br><br>The sand around her—eroded over eons by water. No water here. No liquid, even. How was there sand?<br>Walking. She knew how to do that. Why? She had no answer. She never had any answers.<br><br>For what it was worth, was any of this knowledge even “memory” at all?<br>Was she “remembering” these things? Had she “forgotten” other things?<br>It seemed to her she had amnesia, but was amnesia this... selective?----Knowing things, but not knowing why that knowledge existed within her, had her deeply and fundamentally<br>upset. It made her feel like an incomplete person. Like someone had removed her skin and muscles and<br>bones and placed them into some false container, but had forgotten to put in all the other important things,<br>leaving her hollow, forgotten.<br><br>She hated not knowing.<br><br>A kaleidoscope of questions shifted and rotated in her mind. She forced herself to focus on all the sudden<br>and overwhelming turns and angles. But answers? Again, no. There were no answers.<br><br>During her barefooted expeditions (she decided early on to keep her shoes looped around her neck, since<br>the large heels were inconvenient for the terrain) she’d learned next to nothing. In fact, the more she saw,<br>the less she felt that she knew.<br><br>She hated not knowing. She knew so many things about what was around her, and yet she felt like she<br>knew nothing of herself. So much of what she saw was baffling nonsense—not least of all the glass wandering<br>through the air for seemingly no reason. Glass that showed her other people, other times, other worlds.<br>Reflections, resonating in the oddest ways. Reflections, she thought, which were undoubtedly familiar.----Yet the familiarity was but a feeling. The glass never showed her in their reflections.<br>These were not scenes of a remembered past.<br>These were not memories... or, at least, they were not hers, these Arcaea. Nothing was hers.<br><br>Deep down, her emotions shifted. With that shift came a growing sense of concern, of being out of place,<br>of confusion, of faint loneliness, of something crucial being missing somewhere inside her.<br>And she didn’t like it one bit.<br><br>She started walking again. Walking always seemed to help.<br>It let her focus on what was around her instead. On what was outside.

 不过对心中盘踞着的那种感觉的忽视也只能到此为止了。<br><br>最终，她坐在了一块稍显平整的岩石上，有些焦虑地用手梳理了一下秀发。<br>她转过头，看到一长串足迹渐渐消失在沙尘中，蜿蜒通向远方的地平线。<br>这里怎么可能会有这么大一片沙漠？她开始有些感到厌恶了。<br><br>在片刻的思绪之后，她拿起了自己的吉他，再次抱在了怀里。<br>那种安心的感觉瞬间回归了，就好像……来自父母或者友人的安慰。<br>她叹了口气。说实话，她能够继续前行的动力完全来自于此。<br><br>她不假思索地开始了弹奏。她的指尖抚过琴弦，安静而细微的和弦为旋律赋予了一丝难得的和谐。<br>她记得如何行走，记得如何弹奏。一丝微笑闪过她的嘴角：这两种行动对她来说就像是呼吸一样自然。<br><br>然而片刻过后，她的嘴角再次垂下，失去了笑意。已经有歌词涌到了她的唇齿之间，想要加入到这首歌曲当中。<br>它们起初是断断续续、吐露不清的，但在试着描绘一幅完整而有意义的景象。----于是，身着红黑礼服的她唱起了歌——在这个白色的世界里，在这个看似单调而无尽的牢笼里。<br><br>逐渐地，她的歌声不再虚妄。感情在她的心中激荡、变得愈发地猛烈。<br>这些发自本能的歌声并不新奇，但也不属于被遗忘的过去。<br>它们一直都在她的心里，只是现在开始了涌动，想要冲出她的胸膛。<br>光是唱出来还不够，必须要叫出来、吼出来，才能让它们响彻在这个死寂世界的每个角落。<br>她竭尽全力地高喊着。<br><br>似乎这就是她最该做的事情。<br><br>她朝着迷惑的心绪咆哮，朝着未知咆哮，朝着黯淡的景象咆哮，<br>然后朝着小小的玻璃碎片中转瞬即逝的多彩回忆咆哮。<br><br>她用咆哮宣泄着——<br>恐惧。----在弹奏中的那个瞬间，她终于明白了自己心中的那个感觉是什么。这个空虚的世界，她那空虚的记忆……<br><br>让她感到害怕。<br><br>她是谁？这个寂静的地方是哪里？她的身上将会发生什么？她的过去曾经发生过什么？<br><br>不过她已经知道，自己大概永远也没法知道答案了。至少在这里不行。<br><br>她的声音出现了些许的嘶哑，但她催促着喉咙、压迫着心肺，想要突破它们不知是否存在的极限。<br><br>她的手指在六根琴弦上疯狂地舞动。<br>她能在脑中清晰地聆听到空气的轰隆、尖啸与震荡，感受到其中蕴含的力量。<br><br>这是一股灵魂和音乐的风暴——在她的歌词下涌动着的是澎湃的暗流和沸腾的恐惧，<br>随后又变为强劲的热浪，从她的双眼奔流而出。<br><br>但不知为什么，出于某种她无法道明的原因，这让她稍微好受了一些。不再那么迷惑，也不再那么恐惧。----一段时间后，吼叫的回声终于淡去。她的右手最后拨动了几下，随即从琴弦上垂下。<br>她的作品完成了。她的歌声消逝在明亮的天空中，能证明刚才发生的事情的就只有她心中近乎空虚的记忆。<br><br>她用另一只手擦了擦双眼，一边颤抖着，一边拒绝望向那带走了歌声的天空。<br><br>但她随后就笑了。这让她自己也很惊讶。这是发自内心的笑容——是实现成就后的笑容。<br>她用裙子抹了抹手，又自顾自地叹了口气。<br><br>老天啊，这鬼地方真是太讨厌了。

But she could only ignore that creeping feeling for so long.<br><br>Eventually, she sat down on a relatively smooth chunk of stone and anxiously ran a hand through her hair.<br>Looking back, she could see a long set of footprints through the faded sand, stretching all the way to the<br>horizon. How was it possible there was this much sand? She was starting to get sick of it.<br><br>After a moment’s thought, she brought her guitar around and held it, again, in her hands.<br>And there it was again, instantly: that comfort. It was like... a reassuring parent, or a friend.<br>She sighed. Really, that was all that she needed to keep going.<br><br>Without thinking, she began to hum a tune. Her fingers strummed the strings, their quiet, tinny chords<br>adding that precious harmony to her melody. She could remember how to walk, and she could remember<br>how to play. It brought a momentary smile to her lips: how both of these acts came about as natural as<br>breathing.<br><br>Her lips turned down again a moment later, however, losing their humor. Words were coming to her<br>tongue, her teeth, her lips, wanting to be added to this song. At first they were scattered, whirling,<br>trying to form a complete, sensible picture.----And so, dressed in black and scarlet, she sang—in this world of white:<br>this colorless and seemingly infinite cage.<br><br>Gradually, her words gained volume. Her feelings roiled within her, wild, building in intensity.<br>These instinctive words weren’t new, nor were they old and forgotten.<br>They were always with her, and now they were clawing, screaming their way out of her chest.<br>Just speaking them wouldn’t be enough. They needed to be shouted, roared so that they resounded in<br>the furthest corners of this dead world. She yelled them as loud as she possibly could.<br><br>It just seemed like the right thing to do.<br><br>She shouted about confusion. She shouted about the unknown, about the bleak landscapes, about the<br>bounteous memories in tiny glass shards flitting past for brief moments before disappearing again.<br><br>She shouted about—<br><br>Fear.----For that one critical moment as she played, she realized what she’d been feeling, deep down.<br>This empty world, her empty memories...<br><br>They terrified her.<br><br>Who was she? What was this quiet place? What was going to happen to her? What HAD happened to her?<br><br>But she already knew that she might never know. Not here.<br><br>Her voice broke for a note, but she pushed past and forced her lungs, should they exist, to their limits.<br><br>Her fingers flew madly across the six strings.<br>She could hear it vividly in her mind, the power, the weaving together of rumbles, screeches, and vibrations.<br><br>A storm of her soul and of music—a tumultuous undercurrent rushing beneath her lyrics along with the<br>simmering dread, growing into a powerful heat, which reached her eyes as well.<br><br>But somehow, in some way she couldn't pinpoint, it made her feel a little better.<br>A little less confused, a little less afraid.----After a time, the echoes of her shouting faded out. A few final plucks with her right hand, and she dropped<br>it from the strings, her work finished. Her song vanished into the bright sky, the evidence it had ever<br>happened now residing within her near-empty memories.<br><br>She put her other hand to her eyes and rubbed them, shivering, refusing to look at the heavens that had<br>taken her song away.<br><br>But then she gave a laugh. It surprised her. It was an honest laugh—and the smile of a job well done.<br>She wiped her hand on her dress and sighed to herself.<br><br>Man, she hated this place.

 这个世界还是那么令人迷惑——那么可怕、空虚而冷漠。<br><br>但现在，她觉得自己已经能够承受它们了。<br><br>她的心里并没有底，但可以肯定，那种恐惧也是她熟悉的东西。<br>她了解这种东西——它会让你双腿打颤、让你吓得跑开、让你无法做出决定、让你成为被它掌控的傀儡。<br>那是对未知的恐惧，是对失败的恐惧。<br><br>她现在只能假设，弹奏这首歌是自己的本能。<br>也许她以前就弹奏过，也许她以前就用咆哮宣泄过恐惧，就用这相同的方式。<br><br>也许她以前也这么做过。至少现在，她觉得自己能应付恐惧了。<br>她现在能更好地掌控自己扭曲的小情绪。如果她希望在这个令人困惑的世界中保持理智，<br>就需要时刻注意情绪，防止自己被恐惧所掌控。不过，恐惧总是如影随形。----她呼出一口气，然后调整了一下坐姿，将吉他小心地放在身边，靠在了岩石上。<br>然后，她听到了一声轻轻的叮当声。<br><br>一个小布包掉出了她衣服内侧的口袋，落在了从沙中刺出的岩石上。<br>里面是几根针、一把小剪刀、一个顶针、几卷纺线以及一个卷尺。这是一个针线包。<br>她在刚苏醒时身上就带着它。她只能猜测这个东西是属于自己的。<br><br>她刚发现这个包的时候，心中充满了迷惑。她知道它是干什么用的，但不知道为什么自己会带着它。<br>当然，她“知道”里面的所有东西，但就像自己带着的吉他那样……并没有什么有用的线索能指出它的由来。<br><br>不过现在，当她伸出手想要捡起包时，她看到了自己的袖口，然后身形一凝。<br><br>她……是知道的，不是吗？她知道怎么织出这样的袖口。她知道该如何落下针脚。<br>她知道每一个褶皱的做法。她知道这些颜色具体叫什么。她知道这些衣线就来自于这个针线包。----但除此之外就没有然后了。她可以轻松地根据逻辑得出结论，但她的回忆仍然被封锁着。<br>知识与记忆之间存在着残酷的断层……这简直是一种折磨。<br>\t<br>不过现在……她不会让这种断层所造成的恐惧席卷自己的内心了。她会承认它，利用它。<br>就算不记得了又怎样呢？重要的是她知道这些东西。<br><br>但是，有一个切实的目标总归是好的。她目前并没有目标，但也许到了某个时候，她也会找到目标。<br><br>她重新动了起来，露出一个发自内心的笑容，一边还在想着这个刚才让她整个人都僵住的针线包。<br>这还挺便利的不是么？至少在这空虚的旅行中，她能保持最佳的着装状态了。<br>想到这里……她的外套并不是很实用，但这是属于她的，她也不会因为这个世界而抛弃它。<br><br>对，这是属于她的。<br><br>它，还有吉他、针线包——在这片记忆的荒原，这些都是属于她的。<br><br>知道这些并没有什么大用，但足够她走过很长一段旅途了。----……走过一段路之后，身下的某个东西吸引了她的注意。<br><br>沙中的足迹……<br><br>但它们并不属于她。<br><br>足迹穿过了她的路线，向着左边延伸，尺码显然要小上几号。<br><br>她开始沿着足迹走去，然后看到它们消失在一个小坡后面。<br><br>她的脸上又露出了一个发自内心的笑容。<br><br>哈……<br><br>到头来，自己好像还真有一个观众哎。

The world was no less confusing now—no less intimidating, no less empty, no less merciless.<br><br>But now, she felt like she could deal with it.<br><br>She couldn’t be sure, but she could have sworn that fear was something she was familiar with.<br>She knew things about it—how it could make your legs weak, how it could make you run away,<br>how it could prevent you from making decisions, how it could control you.<br>The fear of the unknown. The fear of failure.<br><br>And she could only assume it had been instinct that had led her to play that song.<br>Maybe she’d done it before. Maybe she’d shouted through her fear before, in much the same way.<br><br>Maybe she had. At least, now she felt like she could handle it.<br>She had a firmer grip on that twisted little emotion now.<br>If she wanted to stay sane in this baffling world, she needed to keep it in check, keep it from controlling her.<br>But it would always be there.----She exhaled, then turned in her seat and carefully put her guitar aside, laying it onto the stone.<br>Then she heard a soft clink.<br><br>A small cloth bag had fallen out of her inside pocket to the stone sticking out above the sand.<br>In it were several needles, a little pair of scissors, a thimble, a few spools of thread, and a measure.<br>A sewing kit. It had been with her when she’d first woken up. She could only assume it was hers.<br><br>When she’d first found the pouch, it had just confused her. She knew what it was for, but had no clue why<br>she was carrying it. Each of the accoutrements within was, of course, “known” to her, but like the guitar<br>she carried with her... it hadn’t come with any helpful little notes explaining where it came from.<br><br>But now, when she reached down to retrieve the pouch, upon seeing her sleeve, she froze.<br><br>She... knew, didn’t she? How that sleeve was made. She knew the stitches, she knew all of the folds.<br>She knew the exact colors. She knew those threads were in the sewing kit.----But any further connection escaped her. She could easily draw conclusions based on logic,<br>but her mind still felt closed. That cruel disconnect between knowledge and experience... It was agonizing.<br><br>Now, though... Now she wouldn’t let herself be overwhelmed by the fear caused by that disconnect.<br>She would recognize it, use it. So what if she didn’t remember? What mattered was that she knew.<br><br>A concrete goal would certainly help, though. She didn’t have one yet, but maybe, in time, she could find one.<br><br>A grin crossed her face as she started off again, still thinking of the kit which had just made her shiver.<br>Pretty convenient, huh? She could at least keep her clothing intact on this inane journey.<br>And with that thought... her outfit certainly wasn’t practical, but it was hers, and she wouldn’t<br>give it up for the world.<br><br>Yes. It was hers.<br><br>That, her guitar, and her sewing kit—in this wasteland of memory, they were all hers.<br><br>Knowing that helped a little, and a little help could go a long way.----...A few steps later, something below her caught her eye.<br><br>Footprints in the sand...<br><br>But they didn’t belong to her.<br><br>Crossing her path, leading off to the left, they were definitely a few sizes off.<br>She stared the way they headed, and saw that they disappeared behind a few gentle hills.<br><br>Another genuine, familiar grin crossed her face.<br><br>Huh...<br><br>Maybe she’d had an audience after all.