Stones lay frozen in silence. After the swirling void of the Nameless Monarch, Fitran stood in the middle of the ruins like a shadow from a past that had lost its color. His face was hard, and his red eyes appeared empty—no longer holding any softness, only a stark line separating anger from irredeemable disappointment. With every gust of wind that blew, the scent of death and evaporating hope filled the space between them, carrying an unspoken weight.

  The Knights, still in a circle, sensed the change. They had once seen Fitran as a friend, an enemy, even a legend. Now, all they could do was stare at his back and feel the cold air that seemed to reject all sympathy. How they longed for the version of him that used to smile brightly and radiate uncontainable spirit. But now, all they saw were the shadows of struggles that had transformed him into something darker.

  Sir Lancelot stood across from Fitran, his blue eyes blazing beneath his helmet. He knew this duel was not just about the Knight's oath—it was a call of blood, a remnant of pride for the old warriors. In his heart, he felt the tension, as if thunder rumbled in the cloudy sky, signaling an inevitable storm. Each heartbeat resonated with hope and fear for what was to come.

  “Nameless Monarch…,” Lancelot spoke softly, “are you still human, or just a hollow will waiting for the final destruction?” With those words, his hope of finding his friend again stirred, even as he felt the emptiness that filled the space between them. His voice echoed, piercing the silence as if inviting back memories of their beautiful days together.

  Fitran turned, his voice hoarse and almost mechanical. “Will does not need forgiveness. Are you here to atone for sins, or merely to see who can endure the longest?” Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, recalling promises once made. Pain and anger intertwined in every word, creating a wave of emotion that felt heavy in the air. He just wanted to know if Lancelot could see into the remnants of his heart.

  They nodded to each other—and the world froze, waiting for the sound of swords that would mark the beginning of a new chapter. The tension gradually filled the space, as if all living beings had paused to witness this declaration of duality, anticipating the moment when honor and betrayal would unite in a deadly dance.

  Voidlight in Fitran's hand now glowed with a bluish-black hue,

  and Regret’s Anthem in Lancelot's hand, a pure steel blade with lyrical engravings on the left side— a Knight's sword that only sang when stained with the blood of sorrow.

  With a single breath, they began to dance in a battle that knew only real wounds. Darkness crept between them, the suffocating silence seeming to wait for the outcome of this confrontation. There was no conceptual magic, no soul-protecting spells—only steel against steel, flesh against flesh, blood against pride.

  Fitran swung Voidlight, slicing through the air with impossible speed. Each swing left a trail of wounds on the ground and the walls of the ruins, wounds that rotted instantly, spreading the scent of iron and destruction around the arena. Behind him, the shadows of the spectators stood in awe, witnessing a fight that turned hope into panic. The spirit of the night seeped into their souls, demanding to witness either victory or death.

  Lancelot parried, but his blade was cut at the side, his left arm grazed, and blood gushed—real, red, without illusion. The pain pierced him, making Lancelot realize: this was not a battle of honor, but about enduring wounds that would never fade. He felt every drop of his blood was a reminder of the mistakes he had made. Torn between fear and determination, he struggled against the despair that began to grip him.

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  Lancelot turned, retaliating with a vertical slash. Regret’s Anthem emitted a piercing sound—a kind of mournful song that made the air tremble. As his blade swept through the space, the wind passing the edge of the sword seemed to wave, as if lamenting this unavoidable battle.

  The slash split the air, creating a wave of physical pressure that shattered stone, cut tree roots, and toppled parts of the old wall. Fitran was pulled back, a long gash on his shoulder, blood flowing freely, staining his cloak. The pain seemed to remind them of the price to be paid in this fight, keeping both awake in the terrifying reality of inevitable rage.

  Two bleeding wounds marked the ground. These wounds could not be healed by magic; the torn flesh remained open, signifying that this duel could only end with one side falling or dying. In the chilling silence, Lancelot felt the vibrations of uncertainty within him, questions about what would happen next shaking his soul, adding to the tension as the battle approached its climax.

  Fitran leaped forward, twisting his body like a dark whirlpool, Voidlight creating dozens of thin slices in the air. Every movement he made expressed determination and desperation—especially as the darkness surrounded him, making him appear not human, but an embodiment of endless pain.

  Each slice not only wounded the body but also cleaved the lifeless objects around them—walls crumbled, trees split, even altar stone slabs were cut in two. The sounds of thuds and cracks echoed the impact of each slash, singing in a harmony of chaos.

  Lancelot tried to evade, but one slice grazed his rib, his breath caught by the real and burning pain. Sadness and anger intertwined in his mind as he realized how close death was every time Fitran's sword flew. He retaliated with a piercing thrust, his sword penetrating Fitran's thigh—a deep wound, blood soaking the ground. As blood flowed, Lancelot felt the burden of this fight grow heavier, with each attack becoming more than just a battle; it was a clash of two souls trapped in opposing fates.

  Lancelot, pressed, unleashed the Knight's ultimate technique. He raised Regret’s Anthem to the sky, allowing the last light of the Solar Blade to merge at the tip of his blade, then slashed down with all his might. In an instant, all sounds around him faded, leaving only the pounding of his heart echoing in his ears. Golden light exploded, creating a tremendous shockwave—hot energy burning Fitran's skin, creating a wide wound on his chest and singeing part of his hair. In the midst of the explosion, he felt every second slow down, knowing that this decision would determine their fates.

  Fitran was thrown back, but in an instant, he stood again, Voidlight embedded in the ground. The tension in the air felt increasingly suffocating, like the moment before a storm. He smiled coldly, blood dripping from his lips. “Good, Lancelot. I will remember that wound… until the last name in this world is erased.” In his words, there was a power and hatred that burned, highlighting his determination to endure even in the face of death.

  The Knights and all who watched fell silent, horrified by the intensity of the duel. In the center of the arena, blood flowed freely, the scent of iron filling the air. The sound of their breaths seemed to unite, creating a symphony of tension that rivaled the clash of weapons. Both still stood, panting, covered in wounds, yet neither retreated.

  In the distance, Rinoa watched with tears and prayers—uncertain whether she wanted Fitran to win or simply wished for this battle to end. Every second felt like an eternity, hope and anxiety mingling in her mind, as she felt the endless burden of the decisions that the warriors before her had to make.

  Fitran stepped forward again, Voidlight now trembling, ready to end the fight. The whispers of the wind seemed to carry the spirits of fallen heroes, and his steps felt like a tremor amidst the dust of battle. Lancelot also advanced, Regret’s Anthem singing ever softer, as if the sword knew: the final wound would become the last song of the old world. The desire to win and the weight of the past seemed to clash within their souls.

  And the world of Stones, for one second, held its breath—waiting to see who would remain standing after all wounds were wagered without names, without hope. In the tension that enveloped them, one thought flowed through the minds of many: amidst the darkness, the light of hope seemed to fade, making anyone who witnessed feel as if they too were in that arena, fighting for their own destinies.