The Solar Blade trembled gently in Rinoa's grip, as if it heard the voices of the past demanding answers. She stood for a moment, closing her eyes, allowing the warm and painful sensation of the sword to spread throughout her body.
"Once, I only knew one meaning of victory—goodness always ends in light. But the world has changed. Victory is no longer about who is more right, but about who dares to keep the fire burning in the darkness that consumes everything."
In the distance, Lancelot remembered the laughter that always filled their days, the simple moments when they joked with each other without a care. With his trained muscles and strength within him, he never imagined that their friendship would be tested this severely. "Rinoa," he said one day, "are we ready to face the darkness that awaits?" His feelings were a mix of courage and doubt, as if the shadow of darkness was already creeping at the edge of his vision.
Bedivere, with a calm spirit, looked at Rinoa as if seeing the reflection of their struggles behind the eyes of her sword. "We are the light that must shine, not just for ourselves, but for those who have no hope," she said, her voice soft yet firm. As if the power of the Solar Blade flowed into her, injecting the spirit to endure even when the storm would not relent.
Rinoa remembered a time when the world had not yet known the Tree of Scars. She and the Knights—Lancelot, Bedivere, Galahad—trained under the morning light, their laughter echoing amidst the wildflower fields of Stones that remained untouched. The Solar Blade at that time was a symbol of promise; not just strength, but the determination to be a light for anyone who had lost their way.
Galahad, the dreamer, painted his hopes on the canvas of the gray sky. "One day, we will lead this world to the light," he said with conviction, as if he had already seen that time in his dreams. "This is not just about us; it is about everything precious that has been lost in the shadows." With that belief, she gripped her sword tighter, as if wanting to embrace the entire world.
One night, when the world was engulfed in the first war against the entities of darkness, the Solar Blade failed to shine. Darkness devoured the city, and the Knights lost their way—many people died, many names were never spoken again. Rinoa stood alone amidst the ruins, the Solar Blade in her grip felt like a cold piece of iron that could not offer hope.
When Rinoa felt the absence of light in her sword, a sense of emptiness filled her chest. She looked around, seeing her comrades stumbling among the broken branches, their faces covered in dust and sorrow. "Why could we not protect them?" Rinoa's heart whispered, expressing the guilt that increasingly weighed her down. Every scream reminded her of promises that could not be fulfilled.
I recall Lancelot's face when they parted in the field before the war—hopeful light now forced to dim. The darkness gradually gnawed at their resolve, demanding more than just struggle; it demanded everything they had. And at that moment, Rinoa realized that fighting was not just about strength, but about the courage to love. The courage to keep fighting even when everything seemed lost.
She cried that night, igniting the sword with her own blood, then prayed to the world, "If this light ever meant anything, let it shine again—not for victory, but so that not a single name is forgotten."
That night, the Solar Blade lit up again, calling forth a light that did not burn the enemy, but warmed the small hands of the orphaned children who survived among the rubble. Amidst the flickering lights, Rinoa felt the presence of lost souls—the ghosts of names that were no longer spoken, as if whispering to her not to forget them.
From that moment on, Rinoa vowed, "Being a Knight is not about killing darkness, but refusing to forget. Every wound must be accepted, every cry must be heard, and the light must be shared even when we ourselves lose our way."
Her sword gleamed as its tip merged with the light, as if transforming pain into hope. In her heart, she promised to keep that light alive, not just as a weapon, but as a pen that writes the story of resistance for future generations. When she saw the children looking on with hope, she knew that their future depended on every step taken.
The other Knights stood around her, each recalling the promises they once made at the altar of the old world. Lancelot remembered the night when she betrayed her love for the sake of her oath to the kingdom. In the dim light, she contemplated the choices that had to be made, between pure love and the honor that bound her. To this day, the shadow of her beloved has never left, leaving a mark like a scar that carries both pain and beauty.
Bedivere still kept a piece of a letter from her mother—"Be the last hand that always closes the door for anyone who is lost." Hands that were skilled like a farmer tending to the fields, now became guides for lost souls. Each page of that letter became a lantern, illuminating the dark path, reminding her that every step she took was for those who hoped to return home.
Galahad closed her white book, recalling the lessons from Sheena and Mutsuyori: "Light never lasts long if it does not share the burden with darkness." She felt the weight of responsibility not just as a Knight, but also as a reminder, every word in her book like a mantra that could awaken hope. The courage to fight against darkness was not just for oneself, but for those who continuously hoped to shine even in the shadows.
Each of them once wanted to be a hero. But after all the destruction, they realized: Heroes are not those who always win, but those who are willing to stand when everyone else chooses to give up.
Each of them carried a different burden—Rinoa, who always gathered hope from the ruins, remained steadfast amidst the blows of fate. In the corner of her eye, there was a reflection of every sword that had ever been drawn, the color of blood staining the earth, and the voices of children who had never seen the smile of the sky. "We are the lost hope," she whispered to the nearly extinguished light, like morning dew that endures against the scorching sun.
Rinoa opened her eyes, seeing the Solar Blade glowing softly in her hand—not a flash of victory, but a warm glow, full of memories and wounds accepted. She spoke to her sword, to the Knights, and to the world that quietly still listened:
"Remember, friends," said Sir Lucan, explaining with a calm voice that brought a chill, "victory is not just about strength. Every scar we bear tells a story of resilience. They are the paintings of our souls." A bitter smile bloomed on her face as she recalled the battles past, moments when everything seemed dark, yet hope still flickered in the corners of the heart.
"Solar Blade, witness our oath: We no longer seek absolute victory. We only want to keep one name alive, one light to remain warm, and one hope so that the world, no matter how dark, never truly loses its way."
The light of the Solar Blade merged with the emerald aura of Althur, the voices of the Knights became one: They were no longer guardians of the past—they were guardians of wounds, witnesses to the names that once lived, and writers of a new chapter in the world of Fitran Fate.
"One hope, one light," Rinoa's declaration sounded like a mantra, piercing the deep silence, resonating within the souls of every warrior present. In one heartbeat, they connected with memories and aspirations, remembering why they fought. Their courage trembled, as if waiting for guidance from the fate that would soon be grasped. They should be strong, they should be able, and the world should remember them.
And the morning of Stones, for a moment, felt like the world before all the wounds: warm, full of possibilities, and bright enough to call home anyone who had long been lost.