A Few Days Before Tiamat Arrived,
The sky above Stones had cracked like an old mirror, reflecting a world that no longer knew its name. The land once blessed by the roots of the Tree of Life now lay in dust, fragments of promises, and the sound of footsteps avoiding the light. In that emptiness, thirteen Knights of the Round descended from the throne of Excalibur—not as humans, not as spirits, but as the architecture of will that refused to be forgotten.
They stepped one by one onto the land that had lost its direction. Their armor gleamed, each shard of light creating living shadows, intertwining between life and death. The air flowed slowly, carrying whispers of forgotten history, as if the stones and trees surrounding the Temple of Mount were silent witnesses to the arrival of this ancient will. The cold night wind seemed to remind them of the long journey they had traveled, as the stones whispered and the leaves rustled, saying, "We still exist, even if you forget."
Among them, Bedivere stood tall with deep-set eyes, remembering every wound he had ever received for a vow that now lay shattered. "We will not forget the sweat and blood that flowed for this kingdom," he said softly, his voice hoarse with nostalgia. Gawain, with his hair flowing, his eyes ablaze with contagious courage, was ready to face anything. "Not just for us, but for all who have ever entrusted their hopes to us!" he shouted, his voice piercing the darkness like a banner in the midst of a storm. They walked not for war, but to re-lock a world—a world that had lost its original meaning. As their steps drew closer, a soft rumble like waves created a rhythm, accompanying their mystical and decisive journey.
In front of the main altar, in the darkness of the Temple of Mount, Fitran Fate stood. His robe was covered in dust, the spiral on his chest had faded. His right hand gripped Voidlight, a sword that had once been a source of hope and now felt heavy like an unforgiven sin. The sky outside was dark, lightning occasionally illuminating the gaps between the old bricks, creating dancing shadows on the walls.
There seemed to be a faint voice in the distance, a whisper barely audible. Rinoa stood beside him. Her red hair fell to her shoulders, and the blue of her eyes radiated a vibration of harmony that was beginning to crack amidst the chaos. In her heart, a new song had been born, but its tone was unstable—clashing between hope and fear. She felt the tremor of the earth beneath her feet, as if the ground itself sensed it—the tension filling the air, waiting for a spark to explode.
"They are not an army," Fitran whispered, observing each knight descending into the field. "They are decisions. And the world is being tested, not to choose who wins, but who is allowed to survive." He swallowed hard, the awareness of how fragile the line between life and death pressed against his chest.
Rinoa looked at him. In her eyes, tears did not fall, only gathering at the corners, holding a burden too old to be retold. With a small step, she moved closer, as if trying to draw strength from the boundary between them—between the remaining hope and the threat that loomed. A cold night wind blew, carrying the scent of wet earth, as if signaling that what was about to happen was part of a larger cycle.
"Do not face them as enemies," Rinoa replied softly. "Face them as mirrors of the wounds we have long ignored." Her voice was gentle yet firm, like a mantra trying to calm the storm raging within them. She took Fitran's hand, their fingers intertwining, creating an unbroken bond even as the world around them was about to be torn apart.
Sir Gawain stepped forward first. His sword carried the light of dawn that seemed to burn away all darkness, glowing three times the strength of an ordinary knight. In an instant, the sound of his sword pierced the silence, creating vibrations that traveled to the roots of the Tree of Scars. It was as if all creatures around him felt that vibration—a signal of the coming war. Each of his steps was etched with his soul, creating a noble shadow amidst the twilight that rolled in search of its place.
Fitran raised Voidlight and parried the attack. His body was thrown back, his chest throbbing with pain—not just from the force, but from the realization that this was the consequence of all the wounds he had ever rejected. Around him, dust and smoke swirled, creating an atmosphere mixed with the scent of metal and sweat. "I will not back down!" he shouted with burning spirit, his voice shattering the tense silence.
As Fitran was thrown back, Sir Lancelot and Tristan attacked together, their twin swords dancing like a symphony of broken love. They sliced through the air, shattering the rhythm of Rinoa's magic. Each of their movements was a lament for an unfinished past. Waves of energy surged with a vibrating rhythm, while the light of their swords shone brightly in the darkness, creating an illusion of hope amidst a crowd thirsty for victory. "Together, we will never be separated!" Lancelot shouted with conviction.
In the center of the arena, Galahad opened the book of light. The pages of the book trembled, white light spreading throughout the room. A sacred aura pressed against the roots of harmony, making it fragile. Galahad, with a face as calm as dawn, heard the cries of souls trapped beneath the Tree of Scars. In an instant, the panorama around him changed—the light became brighter, yet shadows of darkness still haunted the corners of his vision. "Every soul deserves justice," he whispered, determined to free them from the shackles of suffering. "I will do everything to change this fate."
Rinoa bowed her head, her hand touching the hard ground of Stones. She called upon the spirits that had long been protectors, but their voices were now blocked by the will of the knights. Only whispers of longing could be heard—soft, almost like a sob in the midst of a storm. The wind that blew carried the scent of wet earth, as if reminding Rinoa of her distant home. "Return, my protectors," she sighed, her voice hoarse with trembling hope.
Rinoa tried to summon the song of harmony again, but the sound did not penetrate the knights' shield. She felt as if she were imprisoned by ancient oaths, by the burdens of generations that had never received forgiveness. That moment seemed to slow down—like when the battle paused for a moment between the clashing swords, and all that remained was loneliness and helplessness. "Do you not hear? This is not just us who are fighting!" she cried, her voice echoing among the remaining ruins.
In a corner of the battlefield, Fitran activated Voidlight Form III: Fragmented Flame. Energy of a bluish-black hue surrounded his body, giving a mysterious glow amidst the darkness of battle. A smile grew on his face, even as sweat dripped like rain in the midst of the fight. He slashed at Sir Bors, managing to freeze his movement in the midst of the attack. However, the wound Fitran inflicted was not deep enough—the knights continued to advance, as if pain was fuel, not a limit. "Brother, there is still hope!" he shouted when he saw Rinoa downcast, pleading for her spirit to reignite. In that instant, they shared a gaze full of hope, even in the darkness.
In the midst of the battle, Mordred stepped calmly. Not shouting, not speaking—only a vacant stare and a broken sword in his hand. With a single swing, his sword pierced the layers of Voidlight, nearly severing Fitran's life force. Rinoa tried to protect Fitran with her song, but the sound shattered. She fell to the ground, her body trembling as she held back a sorrow too deep to express in words.
The echo of that innocent voice was cut off, as if the wind around them held its breath. Rinoa struggled to rise, her muscles quivering in resistance, but every effort felt like lifting a heavy stone on her shoulders. She remembered the bright days when they laughed under the sunlight, long before this darkness snatched them away. The ground beneath Rinoa trembled. She envisioned the smile of a baby that would never be born, allowing her pain to flow into a silent poem. The vibrations of harmony that once always strengthened her now turned into a laceration in her chest.
For a moment, she recalled the melody she had sung for Fitran, in the quiet moments when they hoped. But now, there was only unspoken pain, echoing between her heartbeat. Meanwhile, the Voidlight in Fitran's grasp began to wane. The energy of the sword refused to absorb further, as the world around him had already lost what could be taken. Fitran held on with the remnants of his will.
Every corner felt cold; the essence of the battle faded like morning dew. In an instant, he envisioned the flow of time seeming to slow down, as if the universe wanted to give them a chance to remember. In the suffocating darkness, a soft whisper echoed, seemingly coming from the poles of their souls. Strong and full of determination, Fitran felt it, not alone even as he faced the direction where everything was shrouded in fog.
As Gawain and Galahad raised their swords together, the light of two laws was ready to close the entire field, and the world felt frozen. Moments passed slowly. In the space between breaths, Fitran heard echoes in his head—regret, betrayal, all the voices of wounds that had never healed.
"Forgive me, Rinoa... I cannot—speak the last name..."
The voice flowed full of emotion, eroded by the emptiness that enveloped him. Rinoa felt every word like the tolling of a bell that hurt. She wanted to shout that they could overcome all this, that hope still existed. But her mind felt heavier, as if the layers of night pressed down even more. The light of the two laws fell, and for a moment, Stones fell silent.
A brief silence hung in the air, giving them time to reflect. Everyone on the battlefield felt trapped in a moment of mutual gaze, caught between doubt and bravery. Their expressions were a painting of sorrow and determination. With trembling bodies, Fitran felt an odd jolt, tightly bound by a fate they could not escape. And as the light drew closer, hope and fear intertwined in his mind.
But suddenly the sky cracked, a deep blue and black light igniting from the peak of the roots of the Tree of Scars. The air trembled violently, Proto-Speech screamed without writing. Voices came from two opposing directions—two auras that did not belong to the world of roots. As if time stopped, every sound around began to fade, as if welcoming a presence that could not be ignored.
From the edge of dimensions, a tall, sensual woman with black wings and glowing blue horns stepped forward—Satan. Her eyes glowed red, her body wrapped in black runes of magic, each step vibrating the roots beneath the Temple. Every breath she took exuded a coldness that stripped away every falsehood the world had ever tried to hide. Dark clouds raced quickly, trying to cover that magical light, but could not withstand the radiance emanating from her figure.
"Do you feel its tremor?" Satan whispered, her voice full of charm and threat. "This world is waiting... waiting for your downfall."
Satan smiled coldly, gazing into the center of the arena. "I did not come for the world," she whispered. "I came for you, Althur. Because the throne you hold... once rejected me."
On the other side, from the shadows of the waters of reality, emerged a man with long blue hair, a sigil-shaped wound on his neck—Kaseo. His blue eyes gazed far, filled with sorrow and cold desire. As if every sigh was the burden of thousands of unfulfilled hopes, Kaseo stepped forward, his atmosphere feeling heavier, like a storm threatening.
"You called upon ancient will, Althur. Thus we come... to finish what fate could never resolve." His voice shook the souls that heard it, bringing back forgotten memories, moments etched in time.
The Knights halted, not because they were defeated, but because the aura of these two entities did not belong to the world that had shattered. Their vibrations penetrated the root system, marking the world's shift into a new phase. Amidst the horror, a single hope emerged; a waiting for resurrection, to awaken the dreams that had slept.
Fitran bowed his head, his body swaying. Rinoa opened her eyes, her whispered words trembling in the air. "That is not help... that is the final question." As if hearing those words, the night wind rustled gently, carrying the scent of wet earth that calmed. Distant lights dimmed, their glow flickering like stars in the dark, creating an increasingly tense atmosphere.
Behind all the silence and the thundering battle, every soul—Fitran, Rinoa, the knights, even the world—felt that something was waiting in the shadows: Unraveling a larger question, urging them to explore the depths of their hearts and their courage. Who would rewrite the throne, and who was brave enough to bear the wounds that had never wanted to be forgiven? In every passing second, shadows of betrayal and hope intertwined, making their hearts beat faster.
Blue and black light danced above Stones, marking a new chapter—the remnants of a throne that now had no owner. Each light seemed to call the warriors to choose, to determine the path they would take, between darkness or towards the light brought by the nearly extinguished hope.