The Atmosphere of Stones were engulfed in a gray mist from Odin's magic, creating an atmosphere filled with tension. Every breath Fitran took was a struggle; his chest felt tight and painful, while his trembling hands gripped Excalibur, which felt heavier than the weight of fate. Wounds on his body bled continuously, adding to his existing suffering. The light emanating from his sword was no longer as bright as before, but it still fought to remain lit, as if clinging to a hope that was nearly extinguished. In an instant, a cold wind brushed against his skin, carrying the scent of sulfur and dampness that cut through him, amplifying the heavy sense of despair that enveloped his heart.
Odin stood tall, her figure exuding effortless strength, her face calm and undisturbed by the chaos around her. The Gungnir spear was raised lightly, encircling her body with glyphs that had existed since the world was created, as if cradling her in an embrace of ancient rituals. The whispers of incantations merged with the wind, creating an increasingly oppressive atmosphere, heightening the tension that pressed against Fitran's chest. “Fitran Fate, your strength is commendable. But the world cannot endure a fleeting light. Only eternal knowledge provides the foundation for everything,” she said, her voice echoing through the mist, seeping into his soul.
Fitran stepped forward, struggling with all his might to slash through the air with “Radiant Sever.” A burst of light shot from his sword, attempting to slice through Odin's thick mist, but ancient runes quickly coiled around and trapped the light, transforming it into fragmented pieces of meaning. Despite the dimness, the light projected shadows that danced on the walls of the mist, as if telling a tale of intertwined sorrow and hope in a touching story. Odin immediately countered with “Alfather’s Edict”—a wave of gray magic that pressed against Fitran's body, forcing him down until his knees touched the ground. The sound of the incantation echoed like thunder, deafening his ears and quickening his heartbeat, while his fingers began to numb from the terrifying pressure of the magic, as if he were trapped in an invisible grip.
In the distance, Rinoa was trapped behind the rubble, screaming in suppressed despair. Her figure appeared faint in the dark shadows, tears falling silently, and her lips trembled with fear, “Enough, Fitran… you will die…!” However, that cry seemed to echo only in the void, not reaching Fitran's ears, which were blocked by the air thick with incantations. Inside his heart, panic and helplessness swirled like a storm, as if the world around him slowed down, while he witnessed the impossible struggle unfolding before him, each second feeling like an eternity.
Yet Fitran refused to give up. With breathless determination, he struggled to rise again, planting his bloodied feet on the hard, dusty ground, forcing Excalibur to ignite: “I… will… not… stop…” With every incantation spoken, he invoked the names of those he had once protected, allowing each name to transform into new shards of shimmering light. Those soft lights flickered and danced in the cold night air, providing a little warmth to his soul, which was writhing in suffering.
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Odin launched Gungnir, calling forth “Runic Sundering”—a veil of glyphs that sliced through Fitran's attack, pushing his body back with astonishing force, as if a storm had suddenly arrived, causing Fitran to fall again, swallowing the dust of the Stones that tickled his throat. The cold wind carried the scent of earth and burning wood, intensifying the pain that struck with every heartbeat. However, even when his body was nearly paralyzed, Fitran continued to crawl with determination, raising his sword and igniting “Lumen Remnant”—a small beam of light, nearly invisible, but still standing against the darkness. His faded smile mixed with pain created a reflection of hope that flickered in his weary eyes.
Each time Fitran fell, he rose again, regardless of how deeply the burning pain pierced him. Each new wound he accepted with a soft voice echoing in the darkness, “For this world… and her…” Rinoa's tears became uncontrollable, her voice seemingly choked in her throat, creating a poignant melody that cut through the tense battle. She covered her face, her shoulders shaking violently, unable to pray any longer, only able to hope, hearing the thunder of her heart beating like distant thunder.
Odin watched, this time not only with the power of the Allfather but also with the tenderness of a mother witnessing a human child too stubborn to give up. Around them, the air felt heavy and tense, as if the entire realm was dominated by the echoes of an unfinished battle, making every breath feel like a tiring effort.
“There’s no shame in surrendering, Fitran. Even the most beautiful light can rest before shining again.” Fitran gazed with unwavering determination, sweat and blood mingling on his face, his eyes glowing even though his voice was nearly broken: “As long as there are those who weep… I have no right to give up…” His voice trembled, unleashing an unquenchable spirit, despite the deep pain that could be felt in every word spoken.
The two figures faced each other, one shining with Fitran's nearly extinguished light, while the other was shrouded in the mist of Odin's eternal and mysterious knowledge. In the corner of the dark world, Rinoa sobbed among the ruins, calling Fitran's name silently, her voice lost to the silence. The cold night wind rustled through the gaps in the stones, carrying the soft sound of her sobs filled with sorrow, gradually coating the surrounding air with profound grief.
As Odin calmly prepared Gungnir for the final, certain attack, Fitran struggled to rise once more—his body nearly collapsing, weary and wounded, but his hand still raised Excalibur, full of hope, searching for a gap among the runes for one last light that might bring victory. A heavy feeling pressed against his chest, as if all remaining hope was gathered at the tip of the shining blade. Its dim light danced, reflecting the soft moonlight, creating sparkling patterns on the dusty ground.
The air of the Stones trembled with a chilling tension, the entire world seemed to hold its breath: would Fitran's light extinguish forever, or would it shine through the oldest night filled with mystery? Around him, everything felt as if it had stopped—his heartbeat building the rhythm of tension, while the starlight in the sky appeared to dim, as if honoring and witnessing this critical moment that would determine his fate.
