The underground room of the Temple of Mount now vibrates in a torturous silence. The remnants of twilight pierce through the gaps of the roots of the Tree of Scars, casting broken shadows on the stone floor and walls adorned with nearly faded glyphs. Blood and dust dry everywhere—traces of battles that continue to repeat in this place, as if the world is reluctant to let its inhabitants find peace. A faint rumble echoes as if resonating from the depths, suggesting that this place holds stories and secrets ready to awaken buried fears.
Fitran sits leaning against a cracked old pillar. In his hand, Voidlight appears like a shadow of a sword, almost losing its physical form. Every time he tries to summon power from within the sword, only ripples of emptiness respond, like a deep well that has run dry of hope. In that silence, he feels as if something is waiting, whatever it may be—a call from the past that always shadows his steps, reminding him of the heavy burden he carries.
He observes the palm of his hand—there is dried blood and old scars that are beginning to darken. Behind each wound lies a story that failed to end. He wonders in his heart: How many names must be sacrificed for a single world to be saved? That question haunts his mind, like a flash of lightning breaking the silence of the night. Often, he feels trapped in decisions he never chose, as if fate is playing with his life to teach him a lesson that is too costly.
Rinoa approaches with slow steps. The remnants of a harmonious song still resonate in her aura, but its tone is no longer whole. She gazes at Fitran in silence, then looks down at the sword in his hand. Rinoa's hands tremble, not from fear, but from the weight of hope and uncertainty that clouds her mind.
"What remains within Voidlight?" Rinoa whispers.
Fitran simply shakes his head. "There isn't enough world to absorb. There aren't enough names to redeem. But… if we let it die, all the promises we made will collapse along with the roots of this tree." A bitter taste lingers in his words, revealing that he feels the weight of an uncharted responsibility.
Rinoa takes hold of the sword, gripping it alongside Fitran. For a moment, two streams of power—void and harmony—clash in the fading blade. Flashes of blue and red flow briefly, conjuring the shadows of the faces they once loved, and simultaneously betrayed. Those voices haunt them again, the sounds of cries and laughter coloring dark memories, making her doubt the courage she possesses.
"Not only the world has lost its meaning. This sword refuses to utter your name, Fitran," Rinoa murmurs. "Because you refuse to forget your own wounds." The sadness in her voice creates a bitter tremor that feels almost physical, indicating that their pain is inseparable, just like the flow of sound reaching desperate.
Fitran exhales, gazing far into the pulsating roots of the Tree of Scars, which throb like the veins of the world. He realizes that the power he needs does not come from outside—but from wounds, failures, and all the names he has allowed to burn along with the old world. In his mind, he envisions the faces of those he was forced to sacrifice, the steps he must take for the greater good—and that is the heaviest burden he must bear in the silence of the night.
Outside the Temple, night slowly descends. The Knights of the Round gather in a circle, their armor reflecting the remnants of blue light dripping from the sky. Gawain stands in the center, bowing his head to the ruins of the altar Stones. He feels heavy, not only because of the armor weighing down his body but also from the burden of the souls' cries that have vanished from memory. Tonight, memories intertwine with the remaining hope.
"We are no longer judges. We are residues," Gawain whispers to the other knights. "Every oath we once held has shattered in their hands."
In the midst of the wind's rustling noise, Gawain's voice resonates, creating a moment of disconnection with the others. As if understanding the depth of his words, one of the younger knights nods, his eyes shining with doubt. They all feel the same loss, but who will speak of that pain? Who dares to show fear in the face of the lurking darkness?
Galahad flips another page of his book of light, looking at names that can no longer be read. "Not a single name among us is worthy to be repeated. The world has rewritten its own history."
As he utters those words, a chill touches his heart, as if history itself groans in sorrow. He remembers the moments they fought side by side, determined to combat all that was deemed evil. Yet now, all of that feels distant, like a shadow buried beneath a pile of emptiness. Galahad closes his eyes for a moment, trying to gather the remaining strength.
In a corner of the arena, Mordred sharpens his sword with the remnants of dark energy. He does not look at the other knights, only staring at the shattered stones, as if searching for a reason why the world refuses to heal him. In silence, his gaze crosses the remnants of battles, recalling his long journey filled with betrayal and longing. "Should we tread the same path again?" he thinks, gazing at the dark night sky, hoping to find answers among the dim stars.
Satan walks among the decaying roots of the Tree of Scars, each step radiating an aura of emptiness that freezes the air. He gazes at Kaseo, who now sits cross-legged on a stone, closing her eyes as if waiting for an answer from a dying world. Within him, Satan feels the tension enveloping the atmosphere, like an invisible spider web binding every element of life around them.
"What are you waiting for, Kaseo?" Satan's voice echoes softly.
Kaseo opens her sharp blue eyes, looking at Satan expressionlessly. "I am waiting for the world to decide what it wants to bury and what it wants to resurrect. Every root of this tree is a path to the past—and I want each path to merge into one will: a will that refuses forgiveness." In her heart, Kaseo feels an inner struggle, as if every word she utters is a thread of hope and fear tightly woven together.
Satan chuckles softly. "Do you still believe in curses? Or do you hope that from emptiness, a world more cruel than the gods will be born?" In his tone, there is a cynical note that reveals a deep-seated hatred for what he considers naive hope.
"What I believe is that there is no forgiveness without betrayal," Kaseo replies quietly. "And the greatest betrayal begins at this altar—in the hands of those who refuse to write their last name." Then, she recalls the bitter memories of the past, when she herself was betrayed by those closest to her, and how that pain shaped her view of the world.
Their eyes meet, the dark aura of Satan and Kaseo's blue emptiness colliding in the air. The roots of the Tree of Scars respond to that vibration, dripping blood more profusely onto the Stones. The struggle between light and darkness is not only happening outside but also within each soul, battling the whispers that incessantly disturb their tranquility.
Fitran stands again, gripping Voidlight with both hands. Rinoa closes her eyes, placing her hand on Fitran's shoulder, merging in silence. The only sound that can be heard is the beating of their hearts, as if the outside world has vanished, leaving only the two of them in a space filled with tension.
For a moment, the voices of the roots, the whispers of wounds, and the heartbeat of the world blend into a symphony of despair.
Yet from within the emptiness, Fitran feels something vibrate. He remembers the times he was a protector, a foe, a traitor—and all those wounds, instead of weakening him, begin to ignite a small fire within him. As shadows of the past emerge, he catches the scent of blood and dust, awakening memories of unforgettable battles and the sacrifices he must pay to protect his loved ones.
He plunges Voidlight into the altar floor, his own blood dripping onto the blade. With one ancient mantra—half Proto-Speech, half prayer in the language of the old world—Fitran calls back all the oaths he has ever broken. In his heart, he prays that not only he will be remembered, but also those who have gone, for every forgotten name is a burden he must bear.
Voidlight glows faintly, blue and black intertwining, dancing like the spirits of a world that refuses to die. On the surface of the blade, the names that had been erased begin to reappear, one by one, in a faint, bloody, yet still living form. Rinoa watches with hope, feeling the spirit emanating from the blade as if renewing her promise to stand with Fitran on this journey.
The Knights observing from a distance feel the tremor. Their armor shakes, the ancient magic they have stored begins to hum again. Gawain, Lancelot, Galahad, and Mordred exchange glances, recognizing the familiar energy that was once part of them—but now has lost its original meaning. Each of them feels the weight that has been buried, memories of victories and sacrifices that seem to remind them of the promises they once made to each other, that they would protect this world until the end.
"Will we surrender this world to the will of one man?" Bedivere asks, his voice heavy. Behind the setting sun, the red light seems to reflect the doubts in his soul. He remembers the hundreds of faces that have trusted him, and his heart trembles with the awakening of a deep sense of responsibility.
"The world no longer needs the old will," Galahad replies calmly. "Perhaps… it is time to let the wounds we have tended evaporate with the morning mist." The calmness of his voice holds a strength born from the restlessness within him. Galahad knows well that allowing those wounds to evaporate is the same as releasing the painful memories, but in an open heart, he also feels a new hope being born.
The roots of the Tree of Scars tremble, channeling new power throughout the Temple. The dark underground begins to glow, each root reflecting the blue shine of emptiness and the black of wounds, creating spiral patterns throughout the room. The presence of this energy seems to merge with the heartbeat of the Knights, awakening a promising spirit, replacing doubt with a call to action.
Fitran raises Voidlight, which has now been "reforged"—its blade solid again, its light dark yet glowing. Around him, the sound of Rinoa's harmonious song begins to return, though still heavy, now in tune with the new notes of the world. He feels a peace flowing through his body, as if the song speaks directly to his soul, inviting him to return to the right path after enduring a long and painful journey.
Fitran gazes at his sword, looks at Rinoa, and for a moment, he feels—not forgiveness, not victory—but the courage to step forward again, challenging the entire world's sins with names that no longer wish to be spoken. His face slowly smiles as he recalls the beautiful moments they have (and need to) fight for together. In his silence, he realizes that their journey is not just about battles, but also about the friendship that strengthens and the hope that never fades.
"From this moment on, the old throne has been burned. What remains is only the will of those who dare to rewrite their own wounds," Fitran says slowly, yet his voice echoes throughout the Temple. In his eyes, the glimmer of determination mixed with pain is clearly visible; like a bucket filled with water but can no longer hold its contents, the ability to bear heavy burdens is diminishing. He knows that every word spoken is a promise to himself and to those who have suffered under the old tyranny.
Outside the Temple, the night of Stones remains silent. Yet at the peak of the Tree of Scars, blue and black light merge into a new ray, marking the resurrection of Voidlight that has been reforged. The Knights stand still, Satan and Kaseo smile faintly. Satan, with his sharp and wise eyes, gazes at the new light, as if holding hope in his smile. "Finally, this moment has come," he whispers to Kaseo. "We will prove that hope can rise from darkness." And the world knows, the war for the throne is not over—but a new chapter has begun.