The Langit Stones darkened again as Fitran stood before Satan. The tension felt suffocating, as if the breath of the entire world had stopped. The air vibrated with the tension of magic—not just a duel, but a trial of souls that had borne the scars of the world. The ships of hope, tossed about, reluctant to sink, seemed to converge on this moment.

  The roots of the Tree of Scars, which had just bloomed, now bowed down, as if afraid of the collision between two powers that had once nearly brought the world to ruin: the Nameless Monarch, a ruler without a name, and Satan, an ancient contractor, the source of despair and downfall. A chill and uncertainty enveloped every soul present, leaving shadows of worry about what would happen next.

  Satan stepped forward, her eyes shining a bluish-red, a light that seemed capable of burning away the remaining spirit. Behind her, abyssal mist formed thorny wings and an inverted glyph circle, creating an atmosphere that was eerie and biting. Satan's voice echoed—sharp and belittling, like a knife gnawing at the hearts of her listeners.

  “Do you think the wounds of the world can be erased with love, Monarch? You and Rinoa are merely postponing the apocalypse with tears and embraces. The world does not need forgiveness, but a new master ready to swallow all sins without hesitation!”

  Fitran looked at Satan with cold eyes, no longer fragile but also not the man he once was. There was courage radiating from his gaze, even though his heart trembled, stirred by anger and despair. His voice was flat, but every word he uttered was heavy with the burdens hidden within his soul, “Perhaps that is true. But I choose to bear the curse of the world rather than become a servant of emptiness like you.”

  Within those words lay a desire to fight, a hope that even though the burden was heavy, there was still a light to be preserved.

  The first magic exploded in the air,

  Magic: “Abyssal Rapture”

  Satan waved her hand, creating a wave of black energy that swallowed light and sound, making the sky above the Stones swirl like a vortex of ink. The abyssal aura devoured the entire altar, trapping Fitran within walls of deadly magic. The sound of dark growls spread around him, instilling a paralyzing fear, as if the universe conspired against his existence.

  Fitran drew his sword—Voidlight—which now shone with an ancient silver hue at its blackened tip. He leaped through the vortex,

  Magic: “Nullblade Severance”

  With a single slash, Fitran cleaved through the abyss mist, restoring some light and severing Satan's energy path, creating a loud bang that cracked the pillars of the altar. In that moment, Fitran's heart raced, growing amidst uncertainty and hope, as if his courage fought against the dark shadows threatening to consume him.

  Satan spun quickly, swinging her magic whip from her wings:

  Magic: “Infernal Chain of Resentment”

  Red chains of fire shot forth, wrapping around Fitran's legs, burning his skin and sending dark memories into the Monarch's mind—memories of betrayal, failed love, and the destruction of the Stones he had once witnessed. The pain seeped into him, awakening fragments of sorrow long hidden, making him feel the sadness for all that was lost.

  Fitran grimaced, but with a deep breath, he recited the Monarch's incantation: A decision wavering between pain and hope, affirming his resolve to fight even though the world was too heavy to bear. His spirit blazed, illuminating the darkness within him, offering a glimpse of resurrection amidst the threatening shadows.

  Magic: “Oblivion’s Benediction”

  A pale blue light enveloped Fitran's body, releasing Satan's magical chains, transforming the flames into delicate falling flower petals on the altar. Each petal was a memory that had been forgiven, weakening the abyssal attack with the acknowledgment of the wounds accepted. Fitran felt warmth along with a gentle aroma, as if each petal was pleading to be remembered, reminding him of all the beautiful and dark times. The history of his life felt like it traversed space and time, making him lost in that reflection as if those memories connected him to this world.

  Satan's anger reached its peak. She raised both hands to the sky:

  Magic: “Cataclysmic Thornfall”

  Hundreds of thorny black spears fell from the clouds, piercing the ground, shattering the roots of the Tree of Scars, splattering black blood across the altar. Each spear was a symbol of unexpressed anger and suffering, piercing the earth with a sound of terror that shook the soul. Fitran swallowed hard, feeling fear creep up his throat.

  Fitran ran in a zig-zag pattern, Voidlight slashing and deflecting the spears. However, some still struck, opening deep wounds on his shoulder, causing blood to flow profusely. The pain stung deeper, reminding him of all he had fought for. In an instant, he recalled the laughter of lost friends, now only shadows in his mind as he struggled to survive. The night wind seemed to whisper to him, calling his name and reminding him of the hope still left.

  The environment of the Stones turned wild. The altar was destroyed, the pillars shattered and collapsed, purple-black mist rose in the air, and the roots of the tree writhed on the surface of the ground, as if the world itself wanted to scream to stop this duel. The rumble of the explosions resonated in Fitran's heart, shaking every millimeter of his existence. This moment was a test, not only for his body but also for the resilience of his soul. He felt an immense pressure, as if the entire universe awaited the outcome of this battle, placing all hopes, fears, and love into a single focal point that crushed his spirit.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Fitran did not retreat. He endured the wounds, his inner monologue sounding almost like a prayer:

  “Satan terrifies the world with emptiness, but what I fear most is losing all reasons to return. As long as there is something I love, I will bear as many wounds as it takes.”

  Each word was spoken with deep sorrow, as if a split soul yearned for its voice to be heard. In the swirling purple-black mist, he felt the presence of love enveloping his heart, giving him strength even as his body was scarred by the darkness that was nearly terrifying.

  Fitran leaped, raising Voidlight high, absorbing the surrounding energy:

  Magic: “Eclipse Monarchia”

  The Voidlight sword glowed black and gold, a sweeping slash that pierced Satan's shield, creating a real wound on her abyssal wing, making Satan scream for the first time—not from pain, but from fear: fear of the determination that darkness could not consume. The sound of that scream created an echo among the ruins, a reminder that fear could also conquer resurrection.

  In that moment, Fitran felt something far greater than his desire to win; he felt the flow of energy connecting him to all he had ever loved. He inhaled the scent of sweat and wet earth, as determination and vulnerability united within his soul, challenging every possibility. He was hope, and it was that hope that propelled him forward into the darkness.

  Satan staggered back a few steps, black blood dripping from her back, forming a small shimmering pool in the dim light. Her pain was something palpable, gripping her soul like a cold claw in the darkness. She breathed heavily, how difficult each breath felt like the exhaust from embers. Each heartbeat vibrated with a threat, reminding her that her life hung by a thread.

  Yet, despite her shaken body, her gaze grew more dangerous, like a cat's eyes glowing in the night. There was a boiling anger, a resurrection from the fear that tried to bury her spirit.

  “Foolish Monarch, you will never be able to burn away all the wounds of the world. One wound will call forth another, and in the end, you will only become an empty creature, without a name and love,” Satan said in a threatening tone, her words like poison spreading in the thick air. Each of her sentences was a barrier, revealing how deep her view of this dark world was.

  Fitran smiled coldly, his expression suggesting that he knew more than he revealed. “It is better to be empty for bearing love than to be full for swallowing emptiness,” he replied, his voice soft yet firm, carrying the bitter realization of what might happen if hope were extinguished. His words flowed like a calm river, yet they struck sharply at Satan's heart.

  There was a brief pause, as the air felt heavier with the opposing soul struggle. Satan gathered her remaining strength, searching for light in the darkness surrounding her, calling forth her ultimate magic:

  Magic: “Tenebris Regalia.”

  A thorny black cloak appeared on Satan's body, casting a terrifying shadow of anxiety. She lunged toward Fitran, each step burning the ground, leaving marks that reflected her rage. Each breath exhaled poison magic, as if dangerous light was born from the blazing darkness within her.

  Fitran countered, using the remaining energy of the Monarch swiftly: in panic, he found strength.

  Magic: “Nameless Ultima”

  Voidlight now shone blue-white, like the sparkle of stars on the darkest night. Fitran pierced the heart of Satan's attack, shattering the abyss cloak and slashing her body diagonally, leaving a horrific bruise and a stream of blood flowing profusely.

  The explosion of magic collapsed the altar with a deafening sound, its vibrations shaking the souls of those witnessing. All creatures around them were thrown back by the impact of energy, trapped in an endless dance between light and darkness, forced to reflect on the reality of their existence. There was silence in the noise, as if time paused to ponder for a moment before total destruction.

  The altar stones crumbled to dust, spiraling into the air before falling back down. In that moment, Fitran's heart trembled, as if every fragment that fell was a symbol of shattered hope. The black mist slowly evaporated, leaving fresh air, though the scent of iron and blood still lingered, creating a perfect contradiction between life and death. The Tree of Scars lost many roots, but from the remaining remnants, thin white shoots emerged: a sign that the world was not yet fully dead. The flowers emitted a soft light, as if trying to call back the souls that had departed.

  Satan lay on the ground, her breath heavy, her eyes staring at Fitran, who still stood despite being bloodied. In that gaze, the entire struggle and pain were etched, as if words no longer needed to be spoken.

  “Why… don’t you just kill me, Monarch?” Her voice was hoarse, each word interrupted by gasps, revealing a vulnerability that shook.

  Fitran, with a hoarse yet calm voice, replied, “Because the world does not need more death. If wounds must be inherited, let me be the one to carry them—as long as there is one voice willing to call me by name, I will remain here.” Those words flowed from his heart, full of empathy and deep responsibility. Behind each sentence was a firm promise not only to fight but also to protect.

  Satan closed her eyes, slowly her body transformed into a shadow and vanished with the last mist. In that second, a profound sadness was born, as if the entire battle was not just about strength, but also about sacrifices that could not be expressed in words.

  Rinoa watched with tear-filled eyes. Her heart trembled, torn between the pain of loss and the hope that had just emerged. The aura of the Monarch still enveloped the Stones, but now not as a threat, but as a promise: that even in a world full of wounds, there is still room for forgiveness, for endurance, and for writing a new name on the altar of a world that is not yet finished. They felt that in every passing second, this love and hope were the forces that would carry them through the darkness.