In the early hours, Stones fell like a gray curtain, enveloping the altar that had just become a battlefield for the Avatars, Monarchs, and entities of darkness. Thin smoke curled from the cracked ground, mingling with the scent of blood, ash, and charred roots. The silence that enveloped the place seemed to swallow the sounds of nature, only the rustling of leaves could be heard, swept by the cold wind, as if mourning the destruction that had occurred. The dark atmosphere of the night crept into the soul, making every remaining figure feel alien in a world that once was eternal.

  In the midst of the heavy silence, a man stepped from the ruins: Althur. It seemed that each of his steps echoed in the empty heart, as if seeping into sadness and regret. With his tattered cloak, he was a symbol of the battle that had destroyed everything, yet his dust-covered face hinted at resilience. However, in his eyes still etched the will of the Sovereign—stubborn, scarred, and refusing to be forgotten. In both of his hands, he carried the oldest legacy of Stones: the Emerald Crown. This crown, a symbol of power and the curse of the Sovereign family, reflected a green light under the pale sky. So striking, the crown seemed to symbolize hope and the burden inseparable from Althur's fate.

  Althur gazed at the crown as if weighing the entire history of the world, then bowed his head. In his heart, he was trapped in an inner battle; for what was all this struggle, if in the end, it only brought more loss? "How many wounds must I pay for the world to stop demanding blood from every king?" That question echoed among the roots, carried across the land of Stones. Amidst his thoughts, the urge to end the cycle of violence felt so strong, yet was hindered by a sense of responsibility and hope buried in chaos.

  The remaining Knights—Sir Gawain, Galahad, Bedivere—gathered around the altar, keeping their distance from Althur. They watched their old friend and lord stand amidst the destruction. In the dim light illuminating the cracked altar, each heartbeat seemed to merge with the whispering wind among the ruins. The aroma, a mixture of clay and sorrow, took them deep into memories of the past filled with hope and heroism. Their faces were now filled with suspicion, fatigue, and bitterness.

  Sir Bedivere stepped forward, his voice trembling with suppressed anger. "You once rejected that crown, Althur. You said no Sovereign deserved to stand in a world full of wounds. Why do you wear it again, after all this destruction?" In his heart, Bedivere felt crushed; he valued the friendship built on trust, yet now felt betrayed. The pain was reflected in his eyes, almost shedding tears, as if indicating that they were all still struggling to face the bitter memories that remained.

  Althur bowed his head, weighing the crown, then replied softly, "Because I am tired of being a coward waiting for forgiveness from a world that has never been willing to forgive. Because after all the sacrifices, someone must stand—or the world will only become a silent land that remembers nothing but suffering." In that moment, Althur felt the pressure of the tumultuous voices of history haunting him, as if the world and everything around him were silently judging his choices in a terrifying silence.

  Sir Gawain, with the Solar Blade in hand, spoke up. "Do you want to be a king of redemption, or the next king of curses?" Gawain's words flowed, imbued with a deep sense of responsibility to maintain the sustainability of their world. Each heartbeat of his almost echoed among the ruins, questioning the wisdom behind every sacrifice; his question was clear, testing Althur's commitment amidst doubt.

  Althur smiled bitterly, placing the Emerald Crown on his head. The emerald aura spread from his body, awakening the ancient glyphs embedded in the altar. A lump of hope and uncertainty flowed together at that moment, seemingly creating a bridge between his desire to rule and his fear of failure. He realized, in this moment of awakening, that destiny could not be achieved without defeating the demons within himself.

  Althur stood tall, gazing over the shattered Stones. Among the horrific ruins, shadows of the past materialized; as if every stone and shard told a forgotten tale. The voice within him buzzed: the voice of his father, the voices of the ancient Sovereigns, the voice of the oath once sworn and betrayed. At that moment, he felt the heavy burden of history, as if all the struggles and sacrifices of previous generations were intertwined in his heart and mind. "You are not just a name; you are a legacy. A legacy is a burden that cannot be chosen—it must be accepted, or the world itself will reject you." He knew well, as he held the crown, that there was more than just a symbol of power; there was a responsibility to save or destroy.

  The crown began to feel heavy on his head, pressing down with the weight of nostalgia and hope intertwined. He walked to the center of the altar, planted his sword, and in his heart, he gathered determination; a resolve to face a future full of uncertainty. Was there a way for him to make Stones rise again from the darkness that engulfed it and restore the lost honor? The sky above him was gray, reflecting the turmoil in his heart, signaling the beginning of a bold yet risky step. In that moment of stillness, he closed his eyes and envisioned the lost generations, hoping their figures could provide strength in these difficult times.

  He announced to the sky and anyone still alive in Stones: "I, Althur Sovereign, inherit the Emerald Crown not to add wounds, but to ensure that no wound is left to fester without meaning! From this day forth, anyone who wishes to make peace or fight, come to this altar. I will be the last witness of Stones." His words flowed freely, filling the air with a desperate yet spirited hope. Could he convince the waiting Knights, who in their hearts, doubt and trust battled each other? In his gaze, there was longing, not only to erase the dark history but also to create a piece of a better future.

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  The voice pierced the fog, shaking the Knights, and calling the small spirits still remaining in the roots of the Tree of Scars. Behind that voice, glimpses of the past emerged: those who once stood tall against the world, now swept away by fate. Gawain stepped slowly, gazing at Althur with doubt, as if a shadow of the future threatened his spirited demeanor.

  "You know, that crown is a curse, not a blessing. Every Sovereign king falls under the weight of a history they never chose." In his breath, the damp aroma of the earth filled with memories reminded them of the inevitable battles. As if God Himself mocked them, Althur felt that burden creeping through his entire body.

  Althur looked into Gawain's eyes. "Maybe, but someone must choose to endure, even if the world rejects. And if I must fall, let me fall as one who tries to forgive the world—even if the world never forgives me." His mind was filled with fading images of hope, but its light refused to extinguish. That courage lay dormant within him, waiting for its moment to emerge.

  Sir Galahad held Bedivere's arm, whispering, "We cannot keep holding onto old oaths. But can we trust again in a crown that has brought destruction time and again?" Cold sweat dripped from Galahad's temples as he felt trapped between dark choices. It was not just a battle, but their inner selves were tumultuous with deeper questions.

  Bedivere shook his head, "A new world must choose, not inherit blindly." In the tension that enveloped them, a gentle breeze from the north wafted in, carrying remnants of the past in the spices of eternity, as if the universe was trying to tell them that hope still existed amidst the void.

  Althur crouched, pressing his palm to the ground of Stones. As his fingers touched the cold surface, a wave of sadness surged from the depths of his soul. The roots of the Tree of Scars, already dying, responded—a green glow emerged among the cracks, forming a circle of magic beneath the altar. Every line and pattern around it seemed to vibrate, as if trying to rise against the wave of pain that assailed them.

  The ancient Sovereign glyphs, full of wounds and memories, rose to the surface of the stone. In the profound silence, the voices of the past emerged, whispers of kings filled with hope and regret. "You are no longer just part of history. You are the wounds that must be told so that the world does not repeat." That prayer, half spell and half confession, flowed into the roots, merging with the threads of fate that had long been severed.

  As the incantation enveloped them, Althur's vision flashed—of a future where the Knights were no longer trapped in the same despair. Leaving behind the traitors of history, they would weave a new tale rooted in regret and hope. May the strength found in this beloved place give them a chance to rewrite the future, not just as rulers, but as part of a shared hope.

  The Knights bowed their heads, some crying, some angry—because they knew: a new world must begin with the acknowledgment of sins, not victories. And Althur, with the Emerald Crown on his head, chose to be a king who suffers with his people, not above them. The eyes filled with doubt sparkled in the dim light of the altar, as if reflecting the hope buried within them. The sound of breath and a sudden heaviness in the chest filled the atmosphere, seeping into weary joints. The commitment to the future felt so close, yet still out of reach.

  However, not everyone accepted that decision. Some young Knights whispered, "We must write our own history, not live in the shadows of the old Sovereigns."

  Some turned to Rinoa, others to Fitran, who still grappled with wounds and hope. In the dim light, their faces were filled with tension; every second seemed to hang, waiting for a decision that could change everything. Among the crowd, some felt the tremors of uncertainty, memories of lessons once taught from a dark history.

  One of them, Sir Eirian, shouted loudly, "Althur, I reject your old crown! The new world does not need redemption through blood, but through genuine hope. If you want to be a king, you must fight again, not just atone for old sins!" Every word spoken by Eirian echoed in Althur's heart, touching the deepest side of his doubts and burdens he had long hidden. Could he free all his predecessors from the terrifying shadows that always loomed, or would he be trapped in this endless cycle?

  Althur looked at Eirian, nodding. "Then let the world decide who is worthy to lead. But one thing: every wound must be acknowledged first, before it can be forgiven." Althur's voice was calm yet fiery, as if calling all the Knights to bravely acknowledge the unspoken pain. In their hearts, a flicker of courage emerged, slowly dispelling the fear that had long shackled them. Every finger pointed at him was an invitation to together seek a new path, to take new steps over the gaping wounds.

  Stones fell silent again. The crown on Althur's head felt heavier, but for a moment, the world felt more honest—no holy heroes, no perfect kings, just humans trying to survive among the ruins of history and new aspirations.

  In the biting silence, Althur could feel the morning breeze, as if reminding him of all the sacrifices made. Every drop of blood on the ground not only marked death but also the hope that rose and fell between battles. In his heart, he wondered if he truly had the strength to lead, or if he was merely a throne heir born from an old story that kept repeating itself.

  In the distance, Rinoa—still bleeding—looked at Althur with eyes full of doubt. Fitran, in the emptiness of the Nameless Monarch, watched from afar, questioning in his heart: "Is the world truly ready to accept a leader who acknowledges all its wounds?"

  Though Rinoa's pain was still evident, there was a glimmer of hope shining in her eyes, as if waiting for him to share the burden. "Althur, if you are truly brave enough to face the truth, then take us with you. We can be more than just defeated soldiers," she said softly, her voice nearly swallowed by the wind. A tension enveloped the atmosphere, as if the world awaited an answer from the king that had yet to come.

  The Emerald Crown glimmered under the first dawn after the war, and a new chapter for Stones began—not with victory, but with the regrets and hopes finally proclaimed at the altar of the world.

  Althur felt his heart racing. Between courage and fear, he realized that the path ahead was not about winning battles, but about gathering the fragments of hope amidst the dust. The Knights beside him seemed to struggle with their own dilemmas—should they continue to fight for the souls that had been lost, or was it enough to acknowledge that behind every victory lay a price to be paid?