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.

  “Look at this desolate land,” one Knight murmured, his voice tinged with sorrow. “What have we become?”

  “What have they done to our legacy?” another replied, his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, the metal creaking under the pressure. 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.

  “Do you feel it? The weight of our history?” a Knight asked, glancing at the towering trees. “They hold our secrets, our failures.”

  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. “I can almost hear them,” one Knight whispered, eyes scanning the surroundings. “They want us to remember.”

  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." “We must not ignore their call,” a voice echoed, determination filling the air.

  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. "The land cries out for justice. We fought for more than just ourselves," he added, clenching his fists. 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. "We must reclaim what is rightfully ours," he declared, looking each of his comrades in the eye. They walked not for war, but to re-lock a world—a world that had lost its original meaning. "With each step, we draw closer to salvation," murmured Bedivere, his tone grave. "And yet, the shadows linger, waiting for our moment of weakness." As their steps drew closer, a soft rumble like waves created a rhythm, accompanying their mystical and decisive journey. Each footfall felt like a heartbeat, echoing against the silence hanging heavy in the air.

  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. With a steely gaze, he surveyed the empty hall. "The echoes of our past still haunt this place," he whispered, almost to himself. His right hand gripped Voidlight, a sword that had once been a source of hope and now felt heavy like an unforgiven sin. "I must wield you again, or we risk losing everything. Hope must not die in darkness." The sky outside was dark, lightning occasionally illuminating the gaps between the old bricks, creating dancing shadows on the walls. "Every flash reveals what we fear to face," Fitran murmured, preparing himself for what lay ahead.

  "Yet we cannot falter." 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. "We are not alone in this fight," she urged, her voice steady despite the tremors in her heart. "I feel their spirits guiding us." In her heart, a new song had been born, but its tone was uncertain—a melody struggling against despair. "We must be the beacon they need," she said, taking a step closer to Fitran. "We owe it to them to rise, even when our own strength feels like a flicker."

  There seemed to be a faint voice in the distance, a whisper barely audible. Rinoa stood beside him, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "Do you hear that?" she murmured, her fingers trembling slightly. "It's like the world is calling out." 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. "I can feel it," she continued, "a pulse beneath our feet. It knows we’re here, doesn’t it?" 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, his voice low and steady as he observed each knight descending into the field. "They are decisions. What we see here today—this is not a fight for victory, but a trial of survival. 'Survive or perish,'" he quoted grimly. He swallowed hard, the awareness of how fragile the line between life and death pressed against his chest. "And we stand at the edge, waiting to see which side the world favors."

  Rinoa looked at him, her heart aching at the weight of his words. "And what if survival requires us to betray our own spirits?" she asked, her voice trembling as tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, 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. "We can’t let our souls become shadows in this darkness, Fitran. We must remember who we are." 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, her voice steady as a mountain against the storm. "Face them as mirrors of the wounds we have long ignored." She locked eyes with Fitran, a fierce compassion glimmering within her gaze. "We cannot fight shadows without understanding the darkness within ourselves." 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 stature imposing against the encroaching turmoil. "Stand ready, my friends," he commanded, lifting his sword high. The blade carried the light of dawn that seemed to burn away all darkness, glowing three times the strength of an ordinary knight. "We are the light they fear!" 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, his heart pounding against the weight of destiny. "For every wound I've ignored, I now stand to confront!" he declared passionately as he parried the incoming 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. "I won’t let this defeat define me!" 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, echoing against the very essence of despair.

  As Fitran was thrown back, his growl of determination echoed in the battleground. “You think you can defeat me that easily?” he spat, struggling to rise. Sir Lancelot and Tristan attacked together, their twin swords dancing like a symphony of broken love. “Two against one, is that how you fight?” Fitran retorted, though his voice was strained.

  They sliced through the air, shattering the rhythm of Rinoa's magic. “Focus, Tristan!” Lancelot urged, his steel flashing with intent. “We must end this!” 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, his heart pounding like a war drum.

  “Let’s show him the strength of our bond!” In the center of the arena, Galahad opened the book of light, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the sacred pages. “This light… it holds the key,” he murmured, feeling its warmth spread through him. The pages of the book trembled, white light spreading throughout the room like a beacon. “Can you hear that?” he asked softly, the weight of his words heavy in the air. 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. “I will not abandon you,” he vowed, his voice resolute despite the turmoil within him. In an instant, the panorama around him changed—the light became brighter, yet shadows of darkness still haunted the corners of his vision. “You deserve justice,” he whispered, determination igniting within him. “I refuse to let this fate bind you.” "I will do everything to change this fate," he declared, clutching the book tightly as if it could amplify his resolve.

  Rinoa bowed her head, her hand touching the hard ground of Stones. "Spirits of the ancients, hear me!" she called, desperation tinging her voice. She summoned the spirits that had long been protectors, but their voices were now blocked by the will of the knights. "Why do you not answer? We are in need!" 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. "Please, I beg you."

  Rinoa tried to summon the song of harmony again, “Ancients, grant me strength!” but the sound did not penetrate the knights' shield. She felt as if she were imprisoned, shackled by ancient oaths, by the burdens of generations that had never received forgiveness. "This weight! It is unbearable!" 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. "We cannot fight alone! Can’t you see? The struggle is shared, not just ours!"

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  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. "I won’t let them take you!" he shouted, eyes blazing with determination as he slashed at Sir Bors, managing to freeze his movement in the midst of the attack. "You cannot win this fight against the Void!" Sir Bors hissed, the fierce glint in his eyes cutting through the haze of the chaos. 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. "We can still turn this around!" He pleaded, his voice trembling with urgency. "Please, reignite your spirit! We need you!" 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, its edge tainted with the remnants of his last victory. "Do you think pain will stop me?" he asked coldly, raising his sword with resolve. With a single swing, his sword pierced the layers of Voidlight, nearly severing Fitran's life force. "You’re better than this, Mordred!" Rinoa shouted, her heart racing as she tried to protect Fitran with her song, but the haunting melody shattered against the weight of despair. "Fitran, hold on!" She fell to the ground, her body trembling as she held back a sorrow too deep to express in words. "You must fight! We cannot lose!"

  The echo of that innocent voice was cut off, as if the wind around them held its breath. “I can’t let you go, Fitran! We’ve come too far!” Rinoa cried, her voice shaking with desperation. She struggled to rise, her muscles quivering in resistance, but every effort felt like lifting a heavy stone on her shoulders. “Remember the times we laughed in the sun? I refuse to lose that brightness now!” She remembered the bright days when they laughed under the sunlight, long before this darkness snatched them away. The ground beneath Rinoa trembled. “A world without your light… it’s unfathomable!” She envisioned the smile of a baby that would never be born, allowing her pain to flow into a silent poem. “This anguish—it can’t end like this!” she whispered, fighting against the weight of despair, her heart aching with the memories. The vibrations of harmony that once always strengthened her now turned into a laceration in her chest. “Fitran, please! Fight back! Don’t let the Voidlight consume you! We can—together, we can overcome this darkness!”

  For a moment, she recalled the melody she had sung for Fitran, in the quiet moments when they hoped. “Your strength has always been my light,” she murmured, just above a whisper, her voice barely cutting through the heavy silence. “But where are you now, my knight?” But now, there was only unspoken pain, echoing between her heartbeat. Meanwhile, the Voidlight in Fitran's grasp began to wane. “Rinoa,” he gasped, struggling for breath, “I don’t know how much longer I can hold this… it feels like it’s draining my very essence.” The energy of the sword refused to absorb further, as the world around him had already lost what could be taken. "It's like the Voidlight knows the battle is all but lost…" Fitran held on with the remnants of his will. “Just… remember me, Rinoa. If I fall, let my memory light your path!”

  Every corner felt cold; the essence of the battle faded like morning dew. "It feels as though the very air has turned against us," Fitran muttered, his breath a visible fog in the chilling silence. 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. "Why now? Why must we linger in this torment?" he whispered, clenching his fists in defiance. In the suffocating darkness, a soft whisper echoed, seemingly coming from the poles of their souls. "Fight, Fitran," a voice urged, clear despite the encroaching shadows. 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. "We stand as one, Gawain!" Galahad called out, his voice steady and resolute, gripping his sword tightly. "This darkness cannot claim us!" 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. "I should have fought harder. I should have...,” he gasped softly, the weight of his past heavy on his heart.

  "Forgive me, Rinoa... I cannot—speak the last name..." Fitran's voice broke, his anguish spilling over. "They took everything, and I stood by as a coward." The words hung in the air, raw and heavy, casting a pall over the battlefield.

  The voice flowed full of emotion, eroded by the emptiness that enveloped him. "Rinoa, can you feel it? This weight, this despair... It’s suffocating," he said, his voice trembling. Rinoa felt every word like the tolling of a bell that hurt. “We can overcome this together, Fitran! Hope is still out there!” she shouted, her eyes burning with determination. But her mind felt heavier, as if the layers of night pressed down even more, like a dark tide rising to claim them. 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. “We’re trapped,” whispered a nearby knight, his gaze darting between the two. “What choice do we have?” 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. “Do you all feel it?” he said, his voice low but urgent, “It’s as if the light itself is drawing nearer.” And as the light drew closer, hope and fear intertwined in his mind.

  But suddenly the sky cracked. “What in the realms is that?” Rinoa gasped, her eyes widening. 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. “It’s her,” Fitran realized, dread pooling in his stomach. Voices came from two opposing directions—two auras that did not belong to the world of roots. “Prepare yourselves!” he shouted, gripping his weapon tightly. As if time stopped, every sound around began to fade. “Can you feel it?” Rinoa whispered, staring intently into the chaos, as if welcoming a presence that could not be ignored. “Yes,” he replied, forcing himself to breathe as the darkness twisted closer. “We must stand firm.”

  From the edge of dimensions, a tall, sensual woman with black wings and glowing blue horns stepped forward—Satan. "At last, I am here," she declared, her voice resonating like a whispered promise of chaos. Her eyes glowed red, her body wrapped in black runes of magic, each step vibrating the roots beneath the Temple. "Look upon my majesty," she continued, a sly smile curling her lips. "Every breath I take exudes a coldness that strips away every falsehood the world has 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, echoing against the ethereal silence. "This world is waiting... waiting for your downfall." She leaned closer to Althur, a smirk dancing in her eyes. "Can you hear them? The whispers of your imminent demise?"

  Satan smiled coldly, gazing into the center of the arena. "I did not come for the world," she whispered, her tone darkening. "I came for you, Althur. Because the throne you hold... once rejected me." Her gaze sharpened like a blade. "Are you ready to embrace your fate?"

  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. "Althur," he called out, his voice a low rumble filled with sorrow. His blue eyes gazed far, filled with sorrow and cold desire. "Your call has echoed through the realms, drawing us here like moths to an unforgiving flame." As if every sigh was the burden of thousands of unfulfilled hopes, Kaseo stepped forward, his atmosphere feeling heavier, like a storm threatening to break.

  "You called upon ancient will, Althur," Kaseo continued, raising his chin defiantly. "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. "Do you understand the weight of your choice?"

  "I've been waiting for this moment," Althur finally spoke, his voice steady despite the chaos. "But you should know, the past does not define me. I will not fall so easily." He met their gazes, resolute and unyielding. "Prepare yourselves."

  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. “Is this the end?” murmured one of the Knights, glancing at his comrades with fear in his eyes. “Or just the beginning of something darker?”

  Fitran bowed his head, his body swaying. The weight of the moment pressed on him like a heavy mantle. Rinoa opened her eyes, her whispered words trembling in the air. "That is not help... that is the final question," she said, her voice barely above a whisper yet filled with an urgency that pierced the stillness. Fitran turned to her, confusion clouding his gaze. "What do you mean? We cannot abandon hope, can we?"

  As if hearing those words, the night wind rustled gently, carrying the scent of wet earth that calmed. Rinoa shivered, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Hope? In a world like this, it feels like a whisper swallowed by shadows,” she replied, her tone laced with a somber resolve. Distant lights dimmed, their glow flickering like stars in the dark, creating an increasingly tense atmosphere.

  “We must fight back,” Fitran declared, his voice rising, echoing the night’s tension. “If we stand together, we can face the abyss!” His fists clenched at his sides, a fire igniting within him. “Tell me, Rinoa, do you believe in the power we wield?”

  Rinoa’s eyes sparkled with defiance. “Belief, dear Fitran, is born from the ashes of doubt. If we channel that despair into strength, perhaps we could summon something greater.”

  Fitran nodded, determination blooming within him. “Then let us not be silent! Let us awaken our dreams and prepare to reclaim what is ours!”

  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. "What waits for us in the dark?" Fitran murmured, glancing at Rinoa, his voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with urgency. Unraveling a larger question, urging them to explore the depths of their hearts and their courage. "I can feel it," Rinoa replied, her eyes scanning the horizon, "a darkness that knows our fears." Who would rewrite the throne, and who was brave enough to bear the wounds that had never wanted to be forgiven? “We’ve bled for this cause,” one knight declared boldly, clenching his sword tightly. “But are we ready for the cost?” 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. “What will you choose?” another voice rang out from the crowd, emotions raw and desperate. “Will you fight for the light or surrender to the shadows?” 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. “I choose to fight!” Rinoa shouted, her resolve igniting like a spark among the gathered warriors, while Fitran stood beside her, mirroring her fierce determination, “For every scar, for every tear! We will not let our past decide our fate!”