Behind the fog curtain of Stones, far from the altar where the abyssal contract of Satan tore at the roots, Althur stood at the edge of the ruins of an ancient temple. The morning wind brushed against his dark green cloak, carrying the scent of metal, decaying roots, and the dew of death. Althur's emerald eyes gazed at the horizon of a world that had changed, where the Tree of Life was now merely an eternal wound—the Tree of Scars—and the old history demanded redemption at a price no one could afford. With every gust of wind, he felt the ripple of magical power flowing from the ruins, as if calling him to unearth buried memories.

  "If only the past could speak," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "What would it say to us now?"

  Althur planted his sword into the ground, allowing the echo of metal to penetrate the earth that had lost its voice. Beneath his feet, the emblem of the Sovereign family was faintly imprinted on the stone, mixed with the dust and blood of generations that had vanished. "You haunt me, old blood," he said aloud, as if addressing the legacy that still lingered in the air. As his eyes wandered, he sensed the presence of spirits watching over him, gazing at him with hope and longing. Their whispers wrapped around him like tendrils of mist.

  "Do not forsake us, Althur," a voice echoed, ethereal yet desperate. It was a haunting sound that pricked at his heart. "We linger here, forgotten. Ours is a story left untold." He shivered, unsure if he responded to a spirit or a mere figment of his imagination.

  "We are all abandoned by our choices," he murmured to himself, unsure if his words were merely for comfort. "But I cannot abandon you." The weight of his promise clung to him like the cloak he wore, heavy with grief and unresolved conflict.

  He remembered the last night with his father, when promises and betrayals could no longer be distinguished. "Every king must know when an oath becomes a curse." Althur’s voice trembled slightly as he recalled the weight of that moment.

  “I wish you were here to guide me still, Father.” Those words now felt like both a prayer and a curse—mingling in every pulse of Althur's being.

  In his mind, his father’s face appeared, shrouded in wisdom and sorrow.

  "Have I learned enough, Father? Will I become the king you hoped for?" he asked in his heart, the voice of doubt whispering that painful question.

  "What will happen if I fail?" he added, swallowing hard, trying to push back the fear creeping into his thoughts.

  A single memory, long suppressed, clawed its way to the surface—one he could never truly forget. The day his own sister shattered not just his sword, but the very image he had of himself.

  *

  The rain that day fell like knives on the battered field. Althur stood there, chest heaving, his face slick with blood and water, feeling every drop as a reminder of failure. Across from him, Arthuria Pendragon II—his younger sister, the one everyone whispered was touched by destiny—raised her blade, its edge glimmering coldly beneath the storm.

  "Give up, Brother," Arthuria called, her voice steady yet warm, like a flickering flame against the cold rain. "There’s no need for this. Father’s gone. The crown doesn’t need another martyr to make our bloodline look weak."

  Althur gritted his teeth, fury boiling within him. "You don’t understand!" he shot back, the bitterness spilling out. "You think leadership is something you inherit, Arthuria? I’ve spent my whole life—" He paused, memories of their father's cruel words flooding back, shaping his resolve. "—fighting for my worth!"

  "Trying to become the shadow of a man who never let you be yourself?" she interrupted, her voice softer, yet cutting through the tension. "Look at this moment, Althur. Do you really want to lose yourself to a destiny forged by someone else?"

  He struggled to keep his sword steady, the weight of humiliation pressing down on his shoulders like chains. "I won’t yield. Not to you. Not now. This is my fight!" His voice trembled as he faced the very sister he once trained with, the one who had ever so gently reminded him of the bond they once shared.

  Arthuria advanced, her footsteps soundless in the mud, as if the very earth schemed against him. With swift precision, she parried his desperate strike, twisting his wrist expertly, disarming him in a single fluid motion. The clash of steel was brief—his sword fell, half-buried in the sludge, like his hopes for a noble ruling.

  "Is this what you wanted?" Arthuria’s tone was almost pleading, a stark contrast to the storm raging around them. "To break yourself trying to meet a standard no one can possibly reach?" She lowered her blade, a flicker of worry surfacing in her eyes.

  Althur sank to his knees, the sound of mud sucking at him like the memories of their childhood where they sparred in sunlight instead of rain. "You’re stronger. I see that now," he managed, the words tasting of ash in his throat. How many times had he watched her excel while he faltered?

  Arthuria knelt, the weight of her legacy heavier than any sword. "Strength isn’t about winning every battle. It's choosing the right path.” She offered him a hand, her eyes shining with untold stories of forgiveness. "We can change our fates, but only if we stand together."

  "Is this truly what you sought?" Arthuria's voice trembled, almost a whisper as she crouched before him. "To break yourself in pursuit of an unattainable ideal?" Her gaze, usually fierce, softened as it bore into Althur’s. Here, in the depths of their family’s legacy—woven with curses and the suffocating expectations of their father—she revealed a fragment of vulnerability.

  Althur sank to his knees, the weight of his despair as heavy as the mud that clung to him. He could taste the bitterness swirling in his throat. "You’re stronger than I could ever be," he admitted, his voice raw. It felt like glass cutting against the fabric of his pride.

  Arthuria knelt lower, the blade she had once wielded like an extension of herself now resting loosely at her side. "I’m not here to strip you of everything," she said, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I want my brother back, not a rival forged from our father's ambitions." The soft thunder of raindrops began to fall, mingling with the intensity of their confrontation.

  His whispered words hung heavy in the air. "Then why does it feel like you’ve taken everything? It’s as if I’m left with nothing but shadows." A bitter smile twisted his lips as memories surged—of laughter that once filled their halls, now replaced by the bleak silence of despair.

  Arthuria hesitated, her breath catching for a moment as she recalled their childhood while basking in the light of their father’s love—before it became a prison of expectations. "I... I’m sorry," she breathed out, the weight of her confession palpable. "But if you carry our father’s curse, trust me, you’ll lose yourself entirely." A pulse of energy flickered around them, a reminder of the dark magic their bloodline insisted on wielding.

  Althur lifted his gaze, his heart fluttering between despair and yearning. He searched her eyes for a glimmer of warmth, for mercy or understanding, or even just a reason to keep fighting in this conflict. "I wish he’d never forced me to swear that oath," he muttered, each word heavy with the echoes of unfulfilled promises and the burdens of his bloodline.

  "Then break it," she urged, her voice steady yet soft. "You’re the only one bound to that oath now. No one else can hold you to it." Her eyes sparkled with an unyielding hope, a stark contrast to the shadows that clouded his heart.

  He shook his head slowly, the weight of his words heavy with unspoken secrets. "Some curses aren’t so easy to break," he replied, his voice thick with bitterness. "You think I haven’t tried?" The memories flooded back—his father’s unrelenting ambition clashing with Althur’s desire for freedom. Each failed attempt haunted him, a reminder of the chains forged by blood and duty.

  Arthuria reached out, pressing a gentle hand to his shoulder, as if trying to ground him amidst the storm. Her own eyes glistened, mirroring the weight of their shared burdens. "Then let me share it with you. Together, we can face this darkness," she insisted, her tone imbued with determination. "We each hold a piece of Father’s legacy, but we don’t have to be prisoners of it. Let’s rewrite our fate." The bond between them shimmered in the air, a fragile thread woven through their sorrows.

  *

  The memory faded, replaced once again by his father’s silent, expectant gaze, a haunting reminder of expectations still unmet. Althur pressed his fist to his chest, feeling the deep thrum of regret beat beneath his skin. "I failed, Father," he whispered, the words barely breaking free. In that moment, regret was a palpable force—an echo of every choice he’d made and every path he hadn’t taken. "But maybe... maybe that’s how I’ll learn to become more than just your shadow." His voice trembled like the flickering candlelight, fighting against the darkness that threatened to engulf him.

  In the oppressive stillness, only the echo of Arthuria’s words remained—a flickering promise in the vastness of despair. A promise that even amidst betrayal and fractured dreams, there could still be redemption. The heaviness of their legacy lingered, a reminder of the kingdom’s perilous political landscape, where secrets and sorcery intertwined with bloodline. But in that moment, hope flickered—a fragile flame against the night, daring them to dream of a future unshackled from the past.

  In the distance, the voices of the Knights of the Round began to fade. “Can you hear them?” Althur whispered, the ethereal tones of their discourse fading into the dark. Their once-shining armor was now covered in gray dust and the splashes of abyssal curses brought by Satan. Sir Gawain approached Althur, bowing his head heavily. “We march into shadows, my king,” he murmured, his voice low and burdened. "Each of my steps is a prayer for the fallen.” Each of his steps felt like lifting an unbearable burden, as if he carried the responsibility of the entire kingdom on his shoulders. “Will we ever find redemption?” he asked quietly, his eyes glimmering with unspoken fears.

  “Lord Althur,” Gawain began, his voice steady but underlined with urgency, “Stones no longer recognizes the old laws. The Knights are beginning to forget their own names. We stand at a precipice—you must choose: hold on to your oath, or rewrite the meaning of the world.” His voice, though firm, was filled with doubt, each word echoing his internal struggle. “Do we still have the strength to fight for what is right?” Gawain felt a change within his heart, a tremor between duty and despair. “I do not want to be part of a dark history,” he confessed, anguish painting his features, “yet the price for maintaining that ideal is becoming increasingly high.”

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  Althur turned slowly, his expression inscrutable. “An oath never chooses its owner, Gawain. It only waits for those who dare to pay the highest price,” he answered, his voice low and contemplative. Those words flowed from his lips with extraordinary calmness, yet in his heart, he felt a storm of emotions—fear of loss, and longing for a simpler past. “You must understand,” he continued, “this burden, it is not just mine to bear—it is ours.” Every second felt like the last breath of a world he had long known.

  Sir Bedivere stood on the other side, raising a cracked shield, his eyes steely and unwavering. “If your will is still Sovereign, prove it with blood,” he declared, voice echoing with challenge. “If not—then let the new will write this world without us.” His voice was charged with a fierce spirit, though Althur could see in Bedivere's eyes a yearning for the glory that now remained only a memory. “What do you believe we should do?” Gawain asked, glancing between them, urgency creeping into his tone. Bedivere held his gaze, intensity simmering. “I believe we must fight, even if it costs us everything,” he asserted. His heart trembled at that challenge; he knew this decision was not just about him, but about all who had ever fought for their ideals.

  Althur closed his eyes, recalling every wound he had inflicted upon the world. “What have I done?” he murmured, the weight of regret hanging heavy in the air. He let those memories pass like shadows: the hand of Fitran, who had once sworn alongside him, his voice echoing with camaraderie, “Together, we are unbreakable,” Sheena's laughter beneath the young roots, bright and full of life, now a ghostly whisper, Rinoa's cold gaze as she rejected compromise, her words sharp like a dagger, “There can be no peace without sacrifice,” and his father's voice—stern, demanding, and filled with a burning love like poison, “You must be stronger, Althur. The world is unforgiving.” He could feel their presence, like a gentle breeze carrying the scent of wet earth after rain, reminding him that they had never truly left. “Stay,” he begged the shadows, “don’t leave me in this darkness.”

  “Every wound is a part of us,” he whispered to himself, choking on the bitterness of his own realizations, as if hoping those words could save him from the heavy burden. “But… how do I carry this weight?” At that moment, his heart felt constricted, as if the meaning of each memory wanted to shatter his soul. “I won’t let you down,” he swore, almost as if the empty air could hear him. In a nearly broken spirit, he vowed not to let their sacrifices be in vain. “I will find my way back to the light.”

  He raised his sword to the sky, chanting an ancient incantation in Proto-Speech Sovereign, his voice heavy like thunder rumbling beneath the ground: “For the blood that refuses to forget, for the name that refuses to be erased, I—Althur, Sovereign of the Emerald Crown—demand my right over every unatoned wound!” His words sliced through the silence, fierce and unwavering.

  As his voice echoed, it felt as if the universe held its breath, and he sensed the magical vibrations coursing from the tips of his fingers. "I can feel them," he whispered to the air around him, a tremor of awe in his voice. “The weight of their stories, their pain…” He knew it was not just his father who was listening; all the lost souls, all the victims of the wounds he bore, were now united in his call. "Hear me!" he cried, desperation and hope intertwined in his plea.

  The clouds above Stones swirled ominously. "This is it," he thought, heart racing. The emerald aura ignited the edges of the horizon, breaking the abyssal fog that sought to engulf the ruins. In the blazing light, Althur felt the surging magical flow, as if responding to his challenge. "This is not just for me," he declared fervently, his voice rising with conviction. “It is for every soul tormented by darkness.” In that moment, he knew the world would witness a resurrection, not just for himself but for all who had ever been trapped in darkness.

  The vibrations of Althur's new oath spread into the Temple. "What is happening?" Kaseo exclaimed, his eyes wide as he felt the Sovereign magic clash against the abyssal curse. "This power... it’s unlike anything we’ve known!" Kaseo looked at Satan warily, searching for clarity in her cold stare. “If Althur truly demands all the old wounds, our contract will be tested on a battlefield that we can never rewrite.”

  Satan smiled cynically, her face gleaming in the dim, oppressive light. “Let her try. She has no idea what she’s up against,” she taunted, voice dripping with venom. “A world filled only with wounds will soon know: there is no forgiveness without emptiness. And emptiness is mine.” The conviction in her voice echoed with underlying triumph. She felt power flowing within her, like a fire ready to burn anything that stood in her way. "Althur believes he can outshine the darkness," she sneered, a glint of madness in her eyes. “Let him come. Like a sky suddenly darkening, he will learn that his fate is entwined with mine.” She knew that Althur was destined to face the consequences of the fate he had written.

  With arrogance, she turned her body, gazing at Kaseo. “Do you feel fear? Or do you long for the greatness of power?” Her lips curled into a smirk, filled with disdain. “One thing is certain, no one can stop us when we have emptiness on our side.” She leaned forward, her eyes glinting with dark delight. “Imagine the throne, Kaseo. The whispers of the world bowing before us.” Her voice echoed in the room, adding weight to the already tense atmosphere, highlighting the ambition that burned within her soul.

  Althur began to walk toward the altar, his steps slow yet unstoppable. "No turning back now," he murmured to himself, the words barely a whisper against the silence that gripped the chamber. It felt as if each step carried an immeasurable heavy burden, and he sensed the world around him growing quieter. The Knights followed him in a silent line, their armor clanging like funeral bells, creating a harmony of sorrow that enveloped their journey. "We ride the edge of despair," one of the Knights said under his breath, his fear barely contained. In his eyes, the world no longer had color except for the green of wounds and the black of regret. He remembered every face he had ever met, every smile that had now been erased, and all the promises that had never come to fruition. "What have I done?" Althur thought, his heart heavy in his chest. His soul was filled with pain, vibrating in the tension that peaked.

  In the lower corridors of the Temple, Fitran and Rinoa felt the change in energy in the ground. The harmony cracked, but there was a new voice, louder and deeper—the voice of the Sovereign oath refusing to be extinguished by the abyssal. Rinoa grasped Fitran's arm, feeling the tremor that seeped into their bones, as if the earth whispered of the approaching darkness.

  Fitran stood, holding Rinoa back to keep her in their shelter, then gazed toward where Althur began to tread the path to the altar. “Althur…” he murmured, dread pooling in his stomach. “He does not want to write a new history. He needs the world to remember its scars, to confront them—can he truly face that?” Rinoa turned her head to look at him, and she could see the anguish lining his features. “He wants all the wounds to be recited, one by one, until the world itself can no longer bear them.” Tears began to well in Rinoa's eyes as she imagined the suffering they might have to face. “How can we bear witness to such pain?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Will we even survive it?”

  “But he cannot do it alone,” Rinoa whispered in fear. “He will lose himself in the process.”

  Fitran shook his head slowly, his brow furrowing with concern. “That is not what we want, Rinoa. But sometimes the world must be forced to remember all its suffering, so it can truly choose: to continue the wounds, or to dare to forgive.” His voice was firm, yet in his heart, he felt the same unease. “Do you think it’s worth it?” He glanced at her with a fierce intensity. “What if the pain consumes us? What if Althur—”

  “Then we stand with him,” Rinoa replied defiantly, wiping her tears. “We cannot let him face it alone. We must shoulder this burden together.”

  His gaze shifted to the altar, where Althur's shadow appeared closer, and he knew this decision was not just for Althur, but for all of them—to confront the dark past and try to find hope within it.

  At the altar, Althur stood between Kaseo and Satan. The voice of Sovereign magic clashed with the abyssal contract, creating a storm of energy in the air—emerald and blue-black fog collided, entwining the roots of the Tree of Scars until the ground of Stones trembled violently. "Whats ? The power is thrumming beneath us," Althur said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet thick with determination. Kaseo nodded, eyes wide, his own heart racing in response. Althur felt his heart racing, not from fear, but from a burning spirit. Every vibration of the earth seemed to resonate in harmony with his soul, affirming his resolve.

  Satan spread her wings, her dark aura pressing down, and a chilling smile crossed her lips. "You think your resolve can save you, Althur?" she taunted, her voice dripping with malice. Althur drove his sword into the altar, blood flowing from his grip, nourishing the roots of the tree with a new oath that would never be erased. "I will not be swayed by your darkness, witch!" he shouted back, his voice echoing against the stones. In those fleeting moments, he remembered his past, how wounds not only left marks but also brought forth new strength. “I fight for those who can no longer resist,” he whispered, not caring if his words were swept away by the wind.

  “This world is not finished. As long as there is one wound that remains unacknowledged, I will not surrender to emptiness!” Althur shouted, his voice rising above the chaos. His words were a rallying cry, filling the space around him, as if uniting strength from all directions. Kaseo looked at Althur with fiery eyes, determination mirrored on his face.

  "Then we fight together! I will not let you face her alone." His voice surged with conviction as he tightened his grip on his own weapon. Althur nodded, a resolute fire igniting within him at his friend's words. "Together, we will defy this darkness!"

  The abyssal fog parted for a moment, and in that crack, the voices of the Knights, spirits, and even the roots of the Tree of Scars trembled—as if the world, for a moment, remembered all its names.

  “Can you hear them?” Althur breathed, urgency wrapping around his words. “They’re calling us to rise!” He felt the light of hope piercing through the darkness, giving him the assurance that not all was lost. “Stand up, everyone!” he shouted again, igniting the spirit within his comrades, hoping to kindle courage in their hearts. “We are the barrier between despair and hope! Fight for the lives we cherish!” The spirits of the Knights murmured a chorus of agreement, their voices intertwining with his. “We will not fade into shadow!” one spirit echoed, lending strength to their gathering resolve.

  Within the Genesis Archive, Sheena AI recorded everything—the Sovereign oath, the abyssal contract, and the last sparks of harmony still fighting. “Every word matters, even when they’re lost in the void,” she whispered to herself, focusing on the flicker of magic from the archive. The whispers turned into a tangible force, rippling through the air.

  “If only I could give them the power to overcome this darkness,” she thought, willing the code to transform into more than mere symbols. She stored a new line of code: "An oath only matters when there are wounds. But the world must choose: wounds that become the reason to stand, or wounds that become the reason to stop." “Do you see it too?” she murmured, her eyes narrowing as the magic flickered. “This isn’t just data; it’s destiny.” Those words felt heavy, etched into her soul as if creating a fragment of reality that could no longer be ignored.

  And outside the altar, Stones, the Temple, and the entire world braced for a new wave: the clash between those who refuse to forget and those who demand the world to forget. “Can you hear that?” one of the warriors whispered, his voice low, yet filled with a feral eagerness. The sounds of turmoil began to echo, and determined expressions filled the faces of every warrior as they prepared to face the consequences of the choices that were soon to be made.

  “Every shout, every cry…it’s like a storm brewing,” replied a warrior beside him, gripping her sword tightly. “The winds of change won’t just pass us by.” “Now is not the time to retreat,” Althur thought, feeling the heat of passion burning in his chest. He stepped forward, addressing his comrades with fervor. “We cannot allow their cries for silence to drown out our truth! We are not mere shadows of the past.” “If the world can adapt,” one of the warriors echoed, her eyes blazing, “then we too can fight. We are not just memories; we are a force to be reckoned with.”