After Mammon vanished along with the shadows of the book and contract, the shattered crystal released waves of dark magic across the Stones altar. The Monarch's aura—once clear and almost peaceful—suddenly transformed into something far wilder, ancient, and feral.

  From the side of the altar, a blue-black light flickered slowly, forming the silhouette of a woman: a black dress, golden eyes, short golden hair.

  She is Beelzebub—or her real name, Thalia.

  Fitran turned without a smile. His eyes—usually full of hope—now turned to icy glass: cold, deep, and merciless.

  "What remains of me?" he thought, delving into the darkness creeping in the corners of his heart. Only shadows of the past waited, lurking like figures in a cracked mirror reflecting forgotten parts.

  Thalia's shadow walked slowly to the center of the altar. Her voice trembled between the dark pillars:

  "You have kept your promise, Monarch. But the world is not done demanding your blood."

  Fitran stared at Thalia—as if challenging her, but also searching for meaning behind old memories. "What is that promise made of? Just empty words among dust and blood?" he thought, the struggle between the past and the future swirling in his mind.

  "None of it matters to me," Fitran said, his voice flat yet filled with a profound emptiness.

  "I miss you," he added, with a softer tone, as if revealing the pain buried deep within his heart.

  Thalia Beelzebub merely smiled, her expression a mix of happiness and sadness. She longed to express her feelings, but the contract binding her prevented her from doing so, like shackles that kept her soul from freely reaching for happiness.

  In a low, emotionless voice, Fitran uttered: "Thalia."

  That name echoed among the shattered roots and the air vibrating with dark magic. And at that moment, something within Fitran broke—the thin boundary that had long held back his darkest side shattered, and the Monarch's long-locked blood now flowed wildly. "Am I ready to accept the remnants of my shattered self?" regret and anticipation merged in the ocean of his emotions.

  The aura around Fitran transformed: the air that was once warm now felt piercingly cold, while flashes of red and black light enveloped his body like a dark shroud, creating a terrifying illusion. A long shadow, as if born from the darkness itself, followed him with arrogant steps, in sync with every movement he made.

  In his mind, a voice whispered—tearing apart the reality he once held, "What are you doing, Fitran? Are you willing to become this creature?" Yet, the growing urge answered, "Why not? This power is mine—this history is part of me!"

  Fitran smiled faintly, a smile that once held tenderness, now like a thin line over an old wound—cruel, unforgiving.

  In the chaos that engulfed his soul, he felt anger and desire merge into one. He was the shadow of what he had once avoided, and in an instant, that darkness became an inseparable companion. "My lost side... now returns," he murmured, his voice no more than a sigh of the night wind.

  Blood dripped from his palms, but not the blood of wounds—rather, the blood of desire, the urge to fight, to kill, to destroy anyone who opposed him.

  In that moment, Fitran felt the weight of his past dissolve, like sand flowing between fingers. "This is the path I must take, to find my true self," he thought, as dark light enveloped his soul.

  The glyph on the altar glowed crimson, reflecting the symbols of the Monarch's past: not a symbol of hope, but a warning to all who dared to approach.

  Each flash of light reminded Fitran of the fate he had chosen, "Is this what I want? Or just an illusion of the power that drives me?" In the tearing doubt, he knew he would not retreat.

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  Rinoa watched Fitran from a distance, her heart shattered. She knew this was the price the world had to pay—not just for the Monarch's power, but also for the boundless darkness now free to roam.

  In her heart, a voice echoed, "Is this what you want, Fitran? Power snatched from the darkness? Or have you sold your soul to the shadow waiting to devour you?"

  Fitran walked slowly, each step leaving dark shadows on the stone floor. His eyes searched for enemies, ready to slash anyone who dared stand before him.

  Though that power flowed within him, a fear gripped his heart. He wondered, "Am I still myself? Or am I just darkness walking?"

  Thalia, Beelzebub, merely smiled wryly, enjoying the drama she had hoped for from the beginning: the true resurrection of the Monarch—not a hero, but a punisher.

  "Fitran..."

  Fitran's aura now surged like a raging storm: dark magic flowed from his body, as if piercing through space and time. The air around him felt heavy and suffocating, enveloping the Knights in helplessness. Quickly, they crouched, trapped in a chilling fear, while the spirits of the altar, unable to face the terrifying power, hid deep within the earth's roots.

  In his heart, he felt thousands of trapped souls screaming, "What will happen if I release all this? Will I become the monster they fear?"

  Fitran raised his hand, Voidlight in his palm glowing pitch black—ready to slash anyone who challenged the Monarch.

  But at that moment—at the peak of darkness, Rinoa ran from the side of the altar, embracing Fitran from behind.

  Her arms wrapped around Fitran's waist, resting her cheek against his cold back. No words were spoken, only tears and heartbeats trying to penetrate the walls of death.

  In her mind, a nearly extinguished hope flickered, "If only you could see me, perhaps there is a little light in this darkness." Yet, she knew that hope often lay hidden among the fingers of shadows surrounding him.

  In the midst of the swirling dark aura, only Rinoa's gentle voice could be heard:

  "No matter what happens, you will always be Fitran to me. Your darkness, your anger, everything you hate about yourself—I am still here."

  The dark aura around Fitran roiled, as if wanting to break free and devour Rinoa. Yet that embrace held firm, and gradually, a small gap in the darkness appeared—the blue light from Rinoa's eyes, creeping toward the red glyphs on the altar.

  In the darkness of his soul, Fitran felt an unending struggle; all despair and anger continuously pushed him toward the pitch-black abyss. "Do I deserve to be loved in this state?" his inner voice screamed, a heart's cry echoing among the dancing shadows. All the burning hatred felt trapped between his desire to survive and the urge to destroy.

  The red glyph turned purple, then blue. The shadows on the altar floor moved, following the silhouettes of Fitran and Rinoa, then slowly faded like morning mist. The remaining roots of the Tree of Scars trembled, sprouting small purple flowers around their feet.

  Thalia watched silently, her smile fading, as if understanding that this was the true price of sacrifice: not killing, but accepting, and staying by the side of the monster loved by the world.

  "I miss you, Fitran," Thalia said in her heart, recalling her journey some time ago in the labyrinth of temptations, Narthrador and Philistines.

  Fitran felt every second pass, as if time stopped in the darkness. He knew, amidst the chaos, peace would not come unless he faced all he had avoided until now. "Impossible," he thought, yet in every word from Rinoa, he found a glimmer of hope—a valley between mountains of sorrow.

  In his mind, now like an abyss, Fitran heard Rinoa's voice piercing through layers of blood and curses:

  "Why are you here, Rinoa? Aren't you afraid of me—a creature who no longer knows mercy, ready to burn all hope?"

  Yet the gentle voice replied, "I never chose to love only your light side. I fell in love with everything—including the wounds, madness, and darkness."

  Fitran grasped Rinoa's hand wrapped around his waist, for a moment… all the desires to kill and destroy faded—only a man wanting to be accepted as he is remained.

  In that fleeting peace, all shadows of the past passed before his eyes—memories of laughter and tears that once separated them. He was ensnared in his own emotional web, as if his mind was a labyrinth without an end, where every corner held fragments of a wounded soul. "Will she understand," he murmured to himself, "that my despair is also a form of love? Does she know how shattered my world is, that behind the darkness, there is a light struggling not to go out?"

  The Stones altar remained shattered, the world remained chaotic, but in the midst of the blood and darkness of the Monarch, Rinoa never released her embrace.

  The shadow of Beelzebub—Thalia—stood between light and shadow, observing, realizing that sometimes, true love is the oldest contract in the world—and can never truly be canceled, no matter how much blood is spilled.

  Fitran—with all the darkness and cruelty of the Monarch now no longer hidden—stood in the center of the altar, embraced by the only name he could never kill: Rinoa.

  There, he felt her presence, like morning dew bringing hope amidst the storm. His thoughts and feelings battled in silence, "Is this love enough to atone for my mistakes and fears? Will I become a monster in Rinoa's eyes? Or will she see into the darkness and find something worthy of love?" All those questions hung unanswered, while he remained trapped in the web of love and regret.