In the midst of the altar of Stones, still reverberating with the remnants of Monarch's magic, Fitran stood with a face that had become gaunt and lifeless, his aura resembling a moonless night abyss. Shadows danced around him in the dim light, creating an illusion as if time had come to a standstill. The scent of metal and dampness mingled, permeating the air and adding weight to the atmosphere that pressed upon the chests of every living being present.

  From the cracks of the altar, Excalibur—the sacred sword that once symbolized hope—slowly emerged. Its surface was no longer pure silver but a glossy black, surrounded by a thick smoky aura that enveloped the space around it. Every passing second felt grasped in the silence, dispelling hope and replacing it with doubt. The rumbling resonated not only in the air but also echoed within Fitran's soul, calling him to delve into the forgotten secrets of the sword.

  Fitran gazed at it without hesitation, reaching for the sword's hilt, sensing a tremendous vibration as if the entire history of Stones cried out within the tainted metal. As his fingers touched the hilt, his vision was colored by a series of dark scenes; tales of warfare, betrayal, and sacrifice carved the winding path of his life. His heart stirred, caught between fear and steadfastness as he realized that every step he took now treaded upon an indelible imprint of history.

  As Excalibur was raised high into the air, the sky above Stones darkened, with deep red streaks painting the clouds on the horizon, heralding an impending battle that sought not forgiveness but an end. The wind sliced through the air sharply, gently sweeping away the last breaths remaining, as if the universe whispered a plea for no further wounds to be inflicted. In the silence of the night, the sound of soldiers' footsteps began to resonate in the shadows, contemplating what would happen next; they united in their desire to fight, regardless of the price they would have to pay.

  ***

  Fitran plunged the black Excalibur into the altar's ground, resonating the mantra Monarch in an ancient tongue:

  “Hear, souls bound by failed oaths. Return from the dark abyss, face the final judgment under the banner of the forgotten name!”

  The altar trembled, the black glyph radiated sharply, and one by one, the shadows of knights emerged from the vortex of darkness—thirteen Knights of the Round, yet this time, their forms haunted like nightmares from the dark history of Stones.

  This ritual reminded Fitran of the hollows of his soul, harboring deep wounds. Each incantation seemed to tear through the fabric of time, resurrecting dark memories, where hope clashed against emptiness. The wind blowing past carried whispers from the past, stirring a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.

  Sekeliling altar, bayangan bergerak lincah, seolah menari di batas antara dunia hidup dan mati. Aroma tanah basah bercampur darah purba melangkahi batas kesadaran. Di tempat itu, setiap detak jantung terdengar seperti guntur, setiap napas membawa beban sejarah yang mencekam.

  ***

  Satu persatu, sosok ksatria muncul dalam lingkaran altar:

  Dark Gawain — baju zirah retak, Solar Blade hitam bersinar merah, matanya hampa, sorotnya seperti matahari mati.

  Dark Lancelot — perisai terbelah, jubah penuh darah, membawa pedang dua sisi yang berpendar kelam.

  Dark Galahad — tubuh dililit rantai hitam, simbol pengampunan di dadanya berubah glyph kutukan.

  Bayangan demi bayangan muncul, memberi Fitran sensasi dingin yang menusuk, seolah setiap ksatria membawa jiwa yang tertinggal di medan perang. Mata mereka, yang dulunya bersinar lincah, kini meredup dalam kesedihan dan kemarahan, menciptakan nuansa gelap yang menyesakkan dada. Hawa yang melingkupi altar terasa berat, seolah memanggil dahaga menginginkan darah dan keadilan. Masing-masing ksatria dengan kisahnya sendiri terjebak dalam lingkaran waktu yang tak berujung. Di dalam keheningan, nyali Fitran bergetar, menyaksikan jiwa-jiwa yang seharusnya abadi, kini terjebak dalam siklus kegelapan.

  Dark Percival — a blunt spear, an aura of emptiness, stepping with a trembling shadow beneath his feet. Each step seemed to disturb the void, the sound of his footfall spreading like the darkness of night that devours the light. He lifted his gaze, observing the grim sky as if hoping for a ray that would never pierce the darkness of his heart. The tranquility that enveloped him was an illusion, and in the corner of his eye, a simmering sadness threatened to spill forth as tears he wished to conceal from everyone.

  Dark Bedivere — one hand vanished, holding a shattered mirror shield that reflected broken faces. His incompleteness created a haunting impression, as if a piece of him had been lost alongside the hopes that once existed. As he walked, the whisper of shattered glass echoed in his ears, reminding him of the battles that had left him this way. In a brief silence, he murmured to his distorted shadow, ignoring the pain that sliced through his heart.

  Dark Tristan — torn cloak, carrying a broken violin, each stroke producing a lamenting note. The sound of the violin seems to echo through the silent forest, evoking a heavy nostalgia that burdens her soul. Her melancholic presence becomes a rhythm of sorrow traversing the wind, as if inviting the spirits to join in her unbearable grief. At the tips of her fingers, pain intertwines with beauty, creating a tragic harmony that reflects her long journey through darkness.

  Dark Mordred — a broken crown, his gaze igniting purple, filled with wrath and betrayal. Behind that piercing look lies a dark story embedded—an aura of disappointment that envelops him like a storm raging within the ocean of his soul. Every decision he makes is influenced by profound emotional scars, guiding him along a path laden with the fire of vengeance. Like a stormy sky threatening rain, he navigates the labyrinth of swirling thoughts, seeking not just answers, but an understanding of the darkness that binds him.

  Dark Bors — her helmet marred by scratches, a spear and a cross-stitched banner on her back like a heavy cross. Each scratch serves as a reminder of the battles she's endured, and the weight of those memories gnaws at her spirit, forging an identity steeped in uncertainty. Amid the bustling forest, the creaking of metal echoes her struggle, as if crying out for refuge from the encroaching darkness. She takes a deep breath, striving to find strength beneath the burdens she bears, hoping that one day, God will grant clarity in this bitter journey.

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  Dark Kay — clad in serpent-scaled armor, wielding twin short swords infused with ancient oaths. In the shadows, their faint humming beckons the onlookers to listen closely; the whispers emanating from the blades weave an aura of fear that lingers in the air. Everywhere one looks, something shies away from the bright light, creating a tension-filled and mysterious atmosphere.

  Dark Gareth — her hair entwined with wilted flowers, her prayers transformed into a haunting silence. Though the flowers are faded, they symbolize wisdom and a lost resurgence, adding depth to her figure that emerges burdened with dark memories from the past. As she lifts her gaze, her anxious eyes tremble like ripples on the surface of a still lake, revealing an inner struggle that seems endless.

  Dark Geraint — a silver cloak splattered with black stains, a poisoned arrow coiled at his waist. The stains served as indelible marks of a battle-scarred past, narrating a tale of conflict that had wounded his soul. Beneath his cold fa?ade lies a longing for a lost justice, as if each thread of his cloak were a silent witness to his tumultuous fate.

  Dark Palamedes — his face ever-changing, an aura of unease without a definitive form. On a journey that leads to self-denial, doubts continually dance around his heart. Each time he strives to present a resolute visage, shadows from his past push him back to this state, as if compelling him to confront the darkness dwelling within his soul.

  Dark Lamorak — a body adorned with burn scars, wielding a massive axe that spills cold blood upon the earth. This axe symbolizes both strength and suffering; each clash upon the ground resonates like a melancholic song that touches the heart. The soft sound, nearly resembling the wail of the night wind, seems to convey the story that transformed him into a being shaped by wounds and wrath.

  Each Knight bowed to Fitran, yet their gazes were filled with defiance, as if they submitted only to power, not to devotion. Tension thickened the air, forming an invisible bridge between dissatisfaction and the desire to resist. They were trapped between two worlds—one structured by rules and the other ablaze with fervent passion. Deep within their hearts lay a yearning to break free from shackles and to affirm their true identities.

  ***

  Fitran felt a resonance within his soul—a vibration of thirteen curses, each name once longing for forgiveness, but now could only utter broken oaths:

  “We return not for victory, but to complete the final chapter—so the world knows, there is no sacrifice without wounds that demand retribution.”

  As the sound of the oath echoed in the air, the rumble of the wind seemed to respond, carrying the scent of damp earth drenched in sorrow. The dark synopsis of the night enveloped the altar, creating a heavy atmosphere that burdened each Knight's breath. In the silence, Fitran's heartbeat grew louder, akin to a bell tolling for souls trapped between this world and the next.

  The dark aura of the Knights formed a circle around the altar, shielding Fitran but also shackling his steps—as if the world of Stones now lay entirely beneath the shadow of the Nameless Monarch and her dark forces. The circle of darkness pulsed, as if responding to the tension permeating the space. A subtle hissing and heartfelt whispers flowed among them, heightening the anxiety within him. Each Knight surrounding him fell silent, trapped in a moment that seemed unwilling to pass, harboring a tumult of hope and fear intertwined.

  ***

  Rinoa gazed at Fitran and the Knights, her heart weighed down by profound sorrow. To her, Fitran was no longer merely the man she loved; he had become a curse burdening the entire world. That heavy load was etched into the faces of every Knight around her, reflecting the sadness and despair that enveloped the atmosphere, plunging her into an ocean of endless grief.

  In the suffocating silence, her eyes scanned the room, searching for a glimmer of hope in Fitran's face. Yet, all she found were shadows distorted by sorrow and emptiness. A deep ache spread within her heart, infiltrating every fiber of her being, making her want to scream, but the sound got stuck in her throat. This was a battle larger than mere winners and losers; it was a struggle between the essence of life and death, grappling in the endless shadows.

  Thalia stood at the edge of the altar, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, caught between the joy of witnessing a true Monarch and the sorrow of knowing that every victory in darkness only birthed a new history fraught with pain. A wave of nostalgia surged within her, recalling moments when they could still smile despite the impending darkness. The other side of this darkness was their forsaken existence; each name and face flowed through her memory, weaving an inseparable web of a past filled with wounds.

  The remaining Knights in the real world trembled, their souls half-drawn into a black vortex, as if their names were ready to become part of that dark oath. One by one, they felt a profound force pushing them to the brink of the abyss, and with each passing second, the unseen voices grew louder, enticing them to surrender to fate. In this despair, a faint hope flickered—could they possibly create light even in the darkest of times?

  Every word spoken flowed forth like a broken stream, each tone resonating into the void, echoing amid the ruins of dreams. The dim light from the darkened sky seemed to bear witness to this call, ready to guide the way toward something new, or perhaps back into the valley of sorrow.

  Dark Gawain took a step forward, his voice like the sound of cracking metal:

  “If this is our end, let it be determined by our own hands—not by a world that knows nothing of forgiveness.”

  His feelings were akin to a downpour drenching a parched heart, peace was hoped for but often vanished amidst chaos. Tears long held back now mingled with the emotional rain, creating a flooded sea of vulnerability that overwhelmed the spaces of hope.

  ***

  Thirteen Dark Knights stood in formation, weapons raised to the darkened sky, awaiting the final command from the Monarch.

  With that anticipation, tension hung like dark clouds ready to drench the earth with a storm. The scenery around them felt so bleak, yet within each heart, there burned a flicker of resistance struggling to shine, even if faint.

  Below the altar Stones, the roots of the Tree of Scars shivered, attempting to withstand the encroaching darkness. Yet the world understood: tonight, no name was truly free from history until someone dared to shatter and conclude the final oath.

  In the midst of all that darkness, Rinoa—still clutching the shadow of Fitran with unwavering hope—

  whispered softly, her voice almost like a gentle song that touched the depths of the heart:

  “You are not alone, even when the world chooses darkness to close its chapter.”

  Rinoa's voice flowed tenderly like music penetrating the walls of despair, awakening the warmth that had faded away. In the silence that enveloped them, the embrace was not just a shield, but an unspoken promise that every soul fighting would always hold onto hope, no matter how dim it may seem.

  As they stood united, hope and trust transformed into an unexpected strength—a harmonious composition even amidst sorrow, guiding them toward an unseen future. As the night grew darker, all inner hearts gathered strength, preparing for the final confrontation. They knew, no matter how dark the path may be, the light of honesty and courage would always shine.