Under the dark sky of Stones, Fitran stood in the midst of a circle of thirteen Dark Knights, the black Excalibur glowing in his right hand—an aura of darkness enveloping him. In his heart, Fitran felt the rising tension, like a heartbeat echoing in the silence, as if waiting for an answer from an uncertain fate.

  The Knights formed a semi-circle, each figure radiating waves of regret and emptiness. His mind was filled with questions, “Is this all that remains?”—a longing for a past that could not be relived and hope for a future that was dim.

  The roots of the Tree of Scars writhed, struggling to contain the wave of dark magic that nearly split the altar, while the spirits, the Knights, and Rinoa held their breath at the edge of the altar, wondering whether the world would choose forgiveness or destroy its own history. In the silence, he could feel fear and hope wrestling with each other—“If forgiveness comes, am I worthy of receiving it?”

  One by one, the Dark Knights stepped forward, confessing their sins and pleas: Each voice that spoke seemed to give birth to a new burden for the souls present there.

  Dark Gawain: “The sun of Stones has long died within me. I seek forgiveness, not to live again, but so that the world remembers that even light can fall into the deepest night.”

  In his words, there was a profound sense of loss—an aura of sorrow enveloping his speech, as if expressing his yearning for the light that once was.

  Dark Lancelot: “I betrayed love, betrayed my oath. If my death tonight is redemption, I will welcome it without tears.” As he spoke, his inner voice whispered, “Can redemption truly be achieved through death?”—in his despair, he challenged his own fate.

  Dark Galahad: “I failed to save anyone—myself, my lord, and my people. Release the chains of my sins, or let me perish with this oath.” Each of his sentences sounded like a soul's scream, demanding justice for all wrongs, while he felt waves of guilt drowning him, wondering if there was a way out of this darkness.

  Dark Percival: “I walk aimlessly, searching for a truth I never found. Let me disappear, so the world can have a new direction.” In my aimless steps, this heart is torn, battling the whispers of a soul spinning in the dark. Truth, like a shadow, always lies at the edge of sight, and here I am, wounded, letting go of hope that is fading.

  Dark Bedivere: “The mirror of my sins has shattered; I only wish to reflect a glimmer of hope, even in the final ruin.” A piece of me that is lost trembles within my heart, hoping a ray of light finds its way. In the emptiness, I feel like dust swirling, trying to attach meaning to the void around me.

  Dark Tristan: “I only have a lament. Allow my voice to be the last sorrow, so the world can write a new song without my burden.” This lament, oh, carries a thousand fragments of feeling, trying to soar in the silence of the night, as if every lost note makes my world lonelier. In the remnants of hope, I seek new meaning for every drop of sweat that falls.

  Dark Mordred: “Son of the rebel, heir of hatred—I want to be known, even if only as one who finally accepted her sins.” In the midst of a fierce storm of feelings, I struggle with my own identity. A recognition I never wanted has become a burden; and in the search for acceptance, my heart trembles, waiting for an uncertain answer.

  Dark Bors: “I am tired of bearing it all. If there is forgiveness, I am willing to give everything up tonight.” This burden grows heavier, as if the world binds me with unending chains. Every second feels like a year, and time increasingly separates my hopes from reality. Tonight, in my confession, I seek relief that may only flow through forgiveness.

  Dark Kay: “My tongue has sown doubt. Kill me, or forgive me—I no longer know which is lighter.” This doubt feels like a dagger continuously stabbing my soul, stirring a decision that increasingly traps me in indecision. In my shattered heart, I hope to hear another voice; to feel freedom even in emptiness.

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  Dark Gareth: “The flower on my head has wilted. Please, grow a new bud in my name, if forgiveness still exists.” The wilting of this hope marks the end of an old story that has rusted. In my despair, I hope that the morning dew can erase this wound, giving a new chance to be reborn, like a fresh bud amidst the harsh ground that has been burned to ashes.

  Dark Geraint: “My arrows have slain much love. I only wish for new memories to grow in the land I have burned.”

  Each arrow released creates a deeply sorrowful tale; every lost love is a shadow that follows me. In this fire, I hope the ruins can produce new beauty ready to spread the lost love.

  Dark Palamedes: “I am lost in faces and names. Let me rest, so I can stop searching for myself in the dark.”

  This alienation is like an endless shadow. In the silence of the night, I long for my buried identity. If I could, I would like to attach this soul to a ray of light, so I am no longer trapped in a search that has no end.

  Dark Lamorak: “I burned the world for a hollow victory. Let my ashes become fertilizer for the roots that will grow tomorrow.”

  Fitran looked at each one, listening to their sins and their longing for redemption. In his mind, every face and story spun like waves, haunting and igniting the desire to correct wrongs. The aura of the black Excalibur trembled, ready to cleave the entire army or… forgive them as the pinnacle of an old cycle.

  In his heart, the voice of the Monarch whispered: “You can kill them all and end this chapter… or you can let the world learn that forgiveness is indeed costly, but perhaps better than eternal hatred.” That cry echoed within him, creating doubt amidst the clear decision. Would he allow the vengeance to be more powerful than the hope for change?

  Rinoa looked on with a pleading face, as if her soul was tied to every passing second; it was not just for sorrow, but also for fragile hope. Yet, her gaze pleaded, “Do not kill again, Fitran. Let one generation be the victim of the oath.” Those words echoed in the silence, waiting for an answer from Fitran's pounding heart, caught between love and responsibility.

  Fitran raised the black Excalibur, the energy of darkness dancing at the tip of the sword, yet at the same time, the blue mana from Rinoa flowed through the ground, binding his feet with gentle threads of light.

  “Sundering of the Last Oath” Above the altar, two forces battled: the black aura of the Monarch wanting to burn. The blue light of Rinoa that washed and calmed.

  Every passing second felt like a year. In Fitran's mind, he struggled against the dark whispers that continually tried to persuade him to use the power of Excalibur for purposes he might never want. Is this true? Am I worthy to decide their fate? The question lingered, creating a heavy burden in his chest.

  Fitran recited the incantation, the voices of the Monarch and humanity blending:

  “The old oath ends here. The names that bear sins, be free from the chains of history, and let the world choose its own path.”

  Rinoa felt every word Fitran spoke penetrate her soul. At that moment, the pain of the past and the hope of the future united as one. Is there life after this alienation? Is forgiveness truly possible? She prayed in her heart, hoping that her promise for goodness would come to fruition.

  Around them, the aura of the Dark Knights seemed to tremble in response. In their dilemma, there was a form of unspoken regret, and as Fitran recited the incantation, a sense of emotion enveloped them. This was a second chance, or the final mistake? they wondered in silence, their empty gazes yet full of meaning.

  The black clouds in the sky of Stones broke, morning light fell upon the altar. Paying homage, the thirteen Dark Knights felt the weight of the past pressing down. Is this the end of all mistakes? They glanced at each other, seeking strength from one another, their shadows evaporating one by one, leaving behind blue, white, and purple wildflowers in the places they vanished.

  The aura of Excalibur changed: its black surface cracked, from the fissures, white light flowed slowly, as if bringing new hope, erasing the glyph of the curse, leaving a symbol of new hope on the altar—not a curse anymore, but a “new oath” to not repeat history. In their hearts, the question surged: Will this oath be enough? Will we be able to resist temptation in the future?

  When all was done, the altar of Stones was no longer shrouded in the fog of curses, but rather in the calm morning dew, a symbol that hope can be born from emptiness.

  Fitran bowed his head, allowing tears to fall onto the ground, not out of loss, but because he and the world finally knew: forgiveness is indeed costly, but every wound received is a seed for hope that grows stronger. In his mind, the dark shadows began to fade, replaced by a desire to rebuild, even as fear still enveloped his heart.

  And the Tree of Genesis finally trembled—a new bud blossomed, opening a new chapter for the world of Stones, ready to receive the light of tomorrow, a ray of hope that touches, bringing a promise not only to survive but also to thrive in a new awakening.