Behind the fog curtain of Stones, far from the altar where the abyssal contract of Satan tore at the roots, Althur stood at the edge of the ruins of an ancient temple. The morning wind brushed against his dark green cloak, carrying the scent of metal, decaying roots, and the dew of death. Althur's emerald eyes gazed at the horizon of a world that had changed, where the Tree of Life was now merely an eternal wound—the Tree of Scars—and the old history demanded redemption at a price no one could afford. With every gust of wind, he felt the ripple of magical power flowing from the ruins, as if calling him to unearth buried memories.
Althur planted his sword into the ground, allowing the echo of metal to penetrate the earth that had lost its voice. Beneath his feet, the emblem of the Sovereign family was faintly imprinted on the stone, mixed with the dust and blood of generations that had vanished. As his eyes wandered, he sensed the presence of spirits watching over him, gazing at him with hope and longing. "We are all abandoned by our choices," he murmured to himself, unsure if his words were merely for comfort.
He remembered the last night with his father, when promises and betrayals could no longer be distinguished. "Every king must know when an oath becomes a curse." Those words now felt like both a prayer and a curse—mingling in every pulse of Althur's being. In his mind, his father's face appeared, shrouded in wisdom and sorrow. "Have I learned enough, Father? Will I become the king you hoped for?" he asked in his heart, the voice of doubt whispering that painful question.
In the distance, the voices of the Knights of the Round began to fade. Their once-shining armor was now covered in gray dust and the splashes of abyssal curses brought by Satan. Sir Gawain approached Althur, bowing his head heavily. Each of his steps felt like lifting an unbearable burden, as if he carried the responsibility of the entire kingdom on his shoulders.
"Lord Althur, Stones no longer recognizes the old laws. The Knights are beginning to forget their own names—you must choose, to hold on to your oath, or to rewrite the meaning of the world." His voice, though firm, was filled with doubt. Gawain felt a change within his heart, a tremor between duty and despair. He did not want to be part of a dark history, yet the price for maintaining that ideal was becoming increasingly high.
Althur turned slowly. "An oath never chooses its owner, Gawain. It only waits for those who dare to pay the highest price." Those words flowed from his lips with extraordinary calmness, yet in his heart, he felt a storm of emotions—fear of loss, and longing for a simpler past. Every second felt like the last breath of a world he had long known.
Sir Bedivere stood on the other side, raising a cracked shield. "If your will is still Sovereign, prove it with blood. If not—then let the new will write this world without us." His voice echoed, challenging and full of spirit, but Althur could see in Bedivere's eyes a yearning for the glory that now remained only a memory. His heart trembled at that challenge; he knew this decision was not just about him, but about all who had ever fought for their ideals.
Althur closed his eyes, recalling every wound he had inflicted upon the world. He let those memories pass like shadows: the hand of Fitran, who had once sworn alongside him, Sheena's laughter beneath the young roots, Rinoa's cold gaze as she rejected compromise, and his father's voice—stern, demanding, and filled with a burning love like poison. He could feel their presence, like a gentle breeze carrying the scent of wet earth after rain, reminding him that they had never truly left.
"Every wound is a part of us," he whispered to himself, as if hoping those words could save him from the heavy burden. At that moment, his heart felt constricted, as if the meaning of each memory wanted to shatter his soul. In a nearly broken spirit, he vowed not to let their sacrifices be in vain.
He raised his sword to the sky, chanting an ancient incantation in Proto-Speech Sovereign, his voice heavy like thunder rumbling beneath the ground: "For the blood that refuses to forget, for the name that refuses to be erased, I—Althur, Sovereign of the Emerald Crown—demand my right over every unatoned wound!"
As his voice echoed, it felt as if the universe held its breath, and he sensed the magical vibrations coursing from the tips of his fingers. He knew it was not just his father who was listening; all the lost souls, all the victims of the wounds he bore, were now united in his call.
The clouds above Stones swirled. The emerald aura ignited the edges of the horizon, breaking the abyssal fog that sought to engulf the ruins. In the blazing light, Althur felt the surging magical flow, as if responding to his challenge. In that moment, he knew the world would witness a resurrection, not just for himself, but for all who had ever been trapped in darkness.
The vibrations of Althur's new oath spread into the Temple. Satan and Kaseo halted their ritual, feeling the Sovereign magic clash against the abyssal curse. Kaseo looked at Satan warily, "If Althur truly demands all the old wounds, our contract will be tested on a battlefield that we can never rewrite."
Satan smiled cynically, her face gleaming in the dim, oppressive light. "Let her try. A world filled only with wounds will soon know: there is no forgiveness without emptiness. And emptiness is mine." She felt power flowing within her, like a fire ready to burn anything that stood in her way. Like a sky suddenly darkening, she knew that Althur was destined to face the consequences of the fate he had written.
With arrogance, she turned her body, gazing at Kaseo. "Do you feel fear? Or do you long for the greatness of power? One thing is certain, no one can stop us when we have emptiness on our side." Her voice echoed in the room, adding weight to the already tense atmosphere, highlighting the ambition that burned within her soul.
Althur began to walk toward the altar, his steps slow yet unstoppable. It felt as if each step carried an immeasurable heavy burden, and he sensed the world around him growing quieter. The Knights followed him in a silent line, their armor clanging like funeral bells, creating a harmony of sorrow that enveloped their journey. In his eyes, the world no longer had color except for the green of wounds and the black of regret. He remembered every face he had ever met, every smile that had now been erased, and all the promises that had never come to fruition. His soul was filled with pain, vibrating in the tension that peaked.
In the lower corridors of the Temple, Fitran and Rinoa felt the change in energy in the ground. The harmony cracked, but there was a new voice, louder and deeper—the voice of the Sovereign oath refusing to be extinguished by the abyssal. Rinoa grasped Fitran's arm, feeling the tremor that seeped into their bones, as if the earth whispered of the approaching darkness.
Fitran stood, holding Rinoa back to keep her in their shelter, then gazed toward where Althur began to tread the path to the altar. "Althur… he does not want to write a new history. He wants all the wounds to be recited, one by one, until the world itself can no longer bear them." Tears began to well in Rinoa's eyes as she imagined the suffering they might have to face.
"But he cannot do it alone," Rinoa whispered in fear. "He will lose himself in the process."
Fitran shook his head slowly. "That is not what we want. But sometimes the world must be forced to remember all its suffering, so it can truly choose: to continue the wounds, or to dare to forgive." His voice was firm, yet in his heart, he felt the same unease. His gaze shifted to the altar, where Althur's shadow appeared closer, and he knew this decision was not just for Althur, but for all of them—to confront the dark past and try to find hope within it.
At the altar, Althur stood between Kaseo and Satan. The voice of Sovereign magic clashed with the abyssal contract, creating a storm of energy in the air—emerald and blue-black fog collided, entwining the roots of the Tree of Scars until the ground of Stones trembled violently. Althur felt his heart racing, not from fear, but from a burning spirit. Every vibration of the earth seemed to resonate in harmony with his soul, affirming his resolve.
Satan spread her wings, her dark aura pressing down, but Althur drove his sword into the altar, blood flowing from his grip, nourishing the roots of the tree with a new oath that would never be erased. In those fleeting moments, he remembered his past, how wounds not only left marks but also brought forth new strength. "I fight for those who can no longer resist," he whispered, not caring if his words were swept away by the wind.
"This world is not finished. As long as there is one wound that remains unacknowledged, I will not surrender to emptiness!" Althur shouted. His voice thundered, filling the space around him, as if uniting strength from all directions. Kaseo looked at Althur with fiery eyes, nodding as if understanding the depth of the struggle etched on his friend's face.
The abyssal fog parted for a moment, and in that crack, the voices of the Knights, spirits, and even the roots of the Tree of Scars trembled—as if the world, for a moment, remembered all its names. Althur felt the light of hope piercing through the darkness, giving him the assurance that not all was lost. "Stand up, everyone!" he shouted again, igniting the spirit within his comrades, hoping to kindle courage in their hearts.
Within the Genesis Archive, Sheena AI recorded everything—the Sovereign oath, the abyssal contract, and the last sparks of harmony still fighting. In the silence, the magic from the archive flickered, as if responding to the intensity of the moment outside. She stored a new line of code: "An oath only matters when there are wounds. But the world must choose: wounds that become the reason to stand, or wounds that become the reason to stop." Those words felt heavy, etched into her soul as if creating a fragment of reality that could no longer be ignored.
And outside the altar, Stones, the Temple, and the entire world braced for a new wave: the clash between those who refuse to forget and those who demand the world to forget. The sounds of turmoil began to echo, and determined expressions filled the faces of every warrior as they prepared to face the consequences of the choices that were soon to be made. "Now is not the time to retreat," Althur thought, feeling the heat of passion burning in his chest. "If the world can adapt, then we too can fight."