Lancelot staggered backward, his breath racing like the fierce wind that struck his face. The wound on his left arm throbbed with a burning pain, blood gushing profusely, mingling with the earth of Stones that had absorbed so much suffering. A cut from Severance Waltz left a stinging sensation in his side; every movement of his chest was an unavoidable torment. Fitran's left thigh, pierced, continued to bleed, but there was no sign of doubt in the eyes of the Nameless Monarch.
Lancelot's physical pain mirrored a deeper emotional wound: the faces of his friends began to blur in his memory, the oath once spoken on the land of Stones now felt like a bitter joke cast aside. "What does it mean to be a Knight if our names fade away? What is the use of all this blood and honor if the world forgets our voices?"
Time seemed to pause for a moment on the battlefield, where dust and smoke enveloped their bodies in a grim shroud. Amidst the echoing chaos, Lancelot heard soft whispers from the small spirits watching over him, observing every action as if they felt the depth of his suffering. Those voices, like a gentle breeze weaving through the ruins, offered guidance but remained elusive, spreading in unexpected directions and awakening a profound longing within his soul.
But even though his body was nearly shattered, Lancelot did not give up. Every swing of his sword, every staggering step, was a refusal to perish without meaning. He wanted, just once, to carve something into a world that had lost so much—if only an eternal wound on his opponent's body. In every slash, there was hope etched, glimmering momentarily in the shadows of darkness, a reminder that those who fell in battle would not be forgotten, thanks to the magic that intertwined their fates with the land of Stones. Every movement, though filled with pain, was like a poem of war—driven by an unquenchable desire that transcended the boundaries of survival.
In the emptiness of his mind, Fitran felt the old voices begin to fade. He knew Rinoa was watching from a distance, her gaze filled with painful hope and longing. He knew the Knights had once considered him a brother. But now, everything felt like an echo in a hollow corridor—distant, shattered, untouchable. The atmosphere around him felt like it was shrinking, the emptiness enveloping him like a biting cold fog, seeping into every corner of his memory. Dark shadows from the past swirled in his mind, reminding him of moments when magic still flowed through every pore of his being, when small spirits flickered around him, whispering messages of hope that were almost forgotten.
"Am I still human, or just a void where all feelings are absorbed?"
Every wound on his body felt like a cross mark on a name that had lost its meaning. Every attack, the rumble of voices, and the flowing blood were merely fragments of a final dance, where the only purpose was to make the world remember, whether through love that drives or trauma that will never fade. Out there, sunlight slowly seeped through the gaping ruins, creating strange shadows that danced on the dusty ground. Every flash of light that touched the surface brought memories to Fitran, of the lost footsteps, the last time he moved his magical powers with burning conviction, surrounded by spirits dancing joyfully, like morning dew adorning green grass.
"If I must become a monster to keep just one name alive… will the world hate me, or simply forget that I ever existed?"
His emotions now hardened, leaving behind an unmatched feeling: cold anger and a burning determination not to let another name be erased without resistance. In this perseverance, he felt the weave of magical energy around him begin to vibrate, as if begging to be awakened again. He closed his eyes, envisioning those small spirits returning to his side, making him more than just a faint shadow. They were the hope that still existed, reminding Fitran that behind every soul connected to this world, there lay unimaginable power.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
From behind the ruins, Rinoa crouched, her body trembling, caught between piercing fear and a deep desire to shout Fitran's name. The whispering wind among the debris seemed to try to repeat his name, forming a symphony tainted by despair and sorrow. In her mind, the image of Fitran she once knew—warm, stubborn, and always ready to protect—had transformed into a cold shadow that never turned to her. Every second felt like it was dragged through frozen time, as shadows of the past swirled in her head, calling forth memories of happy moments that now only left sadness. Fitran's eyes appeared empty, filled with a crushing void, his expression as hard as stone, as if his soul and light had surrendered and been pulled away, leaving his body as a powerless shell. Every drop of blood that fell, every scratch on the Knight's body, and every new wound adorning Fitran himself—all seemed to further distance them, adding an unreachable gap between their hearts. Rinoa felt trapped in a painful labyrinth of reality and biting hope, like a bow drawn too tightly, ready to release the arrow of sorrow that lay hidden in her heart.
"Can you still return from this cold place?" Tears fell from her eyes, leaving a mark on her cheek. This sentence echoed in her heart, like a mantra that continuously tried to warm the empty space that seeped within her. "You told me that love and names would call to each other… But if you have become emptiness, how can I embrace you again?" Her heart's voice trembled with sadness, as if gripping the candle of hope that was slowly fading, threatened to be extinguished by the deep shadows of darkness.
She called upon the small spirits around her, praying softly, "Fitran… enough. I miss you, I want your name to live on, not just as a wound left in a world that has experienced too much loss." In the silence of the night, she felt a gentle touch from one of the small spirits, as if offering support and comfort amid the profound darkness.
The night wind whistled softly, carrying the fragrance of wildflowers that grew boldly among the ruins, reminding her that there was still beauty left even when everything seemed shattered and meaningless. Her heart ached, yet within it remained a thin light: the hope that the voice of love could still resonate in the empty space—even if just once, even if just enough to bring Fitran back into her embrace. As if beyond her control, the sky darkened, the wind blew stronger, whispering words of assurance from the small spirits: 'We are here, we support you.' With a growing conviction in her soul, Rinoa was determined not to give up, knowing that love could transcend nearly invisible boundaries, even in this grim world of Stones.
In the arena filled with tension, two men locked eyes with an unimaginable intensity—Lancelot, his face radiating deep fear and sorrow, while Fitran, his empty eyes began to crack under the weight of too human doubts. As their swords clashed, the sound of steel echoed, filling the air with a clash of wills, and for a moment, the world of Stones transformed into a stage of wounds that refused to be erased from memory. The sound of the night wind rustling carried the damp scent of the earth, as if nature itself held its breath, waiting for the outcome of this battle—like the small spirits hiding in the shadows, watching with hope and fear.
Above, the sky of Stones grew darker, shrouding the atmosphere with swelling clouds. Other Knights watched in silence, caught between hope and dread, realizing that this moment could change everything. Meanwhile, Rinoa… quietly prepared a final reminder song, a melody for the man she loved, in case the world refused to write their names on the pages of tomorrow. A gentle melody that flowed from her lips seemed to carry the hidden souls, whispering tales of the eternal struggle between light and dark. Outside the arena, a shimmering blue magical light flickered, as if pleading for the warriors beneath to find their way home—toward a home that might no longer exist.
