Chapter 648 The Last Veil — Althur and the Echo of Kings

Sibylla has made her choice. The bell of time has been shattered. The Tree of Life has now become the Tree of Scars, pulsing with wounds and courage.

Around them, dark fog slowly envelops Stones, like a desperate net embracing something unseen. The sound of the wind adds to the tension, as if signaling the emptiness that cloaks everything. Hidden creatures clearly sense the change, waiting for the right moment to slip out from the shadows.

But the sky over Stones has not calmed.

Like a heart beating rapidly, the Tree of Scars echoes in its silence, indicating that all that was severed is now reconnected with an unexpected power. An uncertain feeling fills the air, spreading tension that can be felt down to the bones. Fragments of magic melt within it, creating a distorted illusion between darkness and light.

In the midst of that broken altar, Althur stands alone, silent. His hands hang limply at his sides. But his eyes… It's as if they read the secrets of the universe, glowing with a determination that vibrates. He may be alone, but the collective shadows of hope and fear lurk in his past.

His gaze no longer looks at them—he stares into the world.

"You think I only bring a spiral contract…"

"You think I only bring emptiness…"

He looks at Fitran, Rinoa, and Sheena. The tension is evident on their faces, as if every passing second amplifies the shadows of darkness around them.

"But even emptiness needs its voice. And I have contained that voice…"

In a soft yet threatening vibration, Althur's voice seems to awaken all the creatures trapped in darkness, releasing the pent-up despair. The voice becomes a bridge, calling back the long-lost energy, as the magic within him begins to blaze. Among them, the heat grows, igniting a heartbeat that quickens. A cold wind whispers through the cracks in the Stones, creating a gentle murmur that vanishes as quickly as it appears, like the wailing of souls trapped in silence.

He raises his hand.

From beneath the ground of Stones—from the cracks of roots, from nameless graves, from pillars of history hidden by harmony—black mist emerges, taking the shape of a crown.

King Gallan of the First Era, who erased all names except his own. Behind every forgotten name lies a bitter story waiting to be revealed, longing to rise from the darkness.

Queen Yulisse of the Copper Dynasty, who bound all her people to a single will. Her haughty voice commands, binding every soul around her in colossal obedience.

Emperor Murhael, the author of 100 absolute laws that must not be defied. Each law set, like chains that grip souls, separating freedom from the embrace of fate; terrifying yet alluring.

And dozens more—those buried beneath Stones not because of death, but because history refuses to remember them. In the dark, they line up to be reborn, like shadows that never fade.

They rise as Echoes of Kings—spirits of rulers who have lost context but still carry the strength of structure. Their voices, like thunder shaking the ground, add a terrifying atmosphere to Stones, as if the objects around tremble from their presence.

Their voices form shadows among the roots of the Tree of Scars, painting the scars of a buried era. Every whisper, every echo, seems to remind the world of the power hidden within the earth. The emptiness of history is filled with the repressed vengeance of every forgotten name. In the suffocating darkness, the atmosphere of pressure seems to await something that will shake. The sounds echo like the roar of a storm, making Stones a silent witness to a forgotten era, waiting to rise again with a blazing fury.

"They do not need love."

"They do not seek recognition."

"They only want the final victory."

The spirits merge into Althur's body. But not as guardian spirits. Their whispers grow louder, echoing within him. The presence of each spirit brings him to dark memories, a history so rich yet neglected. A sense of curse envelops his soul, demanding him to change the fate that has been set.

They become pillars of absolute logic, channeling a one-way will into his blood. The power flowing is not just strength; it is a legacy, a surrender from those who have passed. Each heartbeat grows stronger, as if merging with every layer of repressed soul that cannot be redeemed.

As if the will is an electric current, flowing with a burning intensity, ready to explode in a form of power never seen before. Through his body, a flash of light suddenly darts, signaling that this power can no longer be contained. He feels the pressure, as if the world around him is waiting for a moment of destruction or a long-buried resurrection.

From behind his back, six empty crowns of magic appear, floating in an inverted spiral.

His hands form a symbol without roots.

In the chilling silence, the air around him begins to vibrate, as if the universe awaits his command. Each crown serves as a reminder of unfulfilled promises, lost power, and hopes that once existed. Waves of energy dance around him, evoking both respect and fear in every soul that bears witness.

And from his chest, the Dark Capsule is born, containing the phrase:

Regnum Ultima: Codex of the Forgotten Thrones

"If the world rejects them," Althur says,

"then I… will rewrite this world so that only the thrones can speak." Around him, the shadows of movement seem to respond, indicating that this struggle will be poured into a new history, where every truth will be revealed and become a sword for those who dare to move forward.

Fitran immediately realizes:

"If you succeed… then free will will become anarchy within the system. And every decision will revert to 'the kings'…" In his mind, the image of the battle between the individual and power is etched. He knows that if Althur goes further, everything that has been known will be destroyed and rebuilt from the ashes of history.

As those words are spoken, a cold sensation creeps over Fitran, as if fate is playing dice with his life. A sense of emptiness surges, as if a dark shadow begins to lurk in the corners of his mind, igniting a deep fear of the unpredictable power. There are whispers unheard, the pain of the past uniting in one voice, demanding attention.

Rinoa adds:

"…who no longer even remember who they are."

Her hand clenches tightly, anxious, feeling the magical vibrations around them, as if the Tree of Scars is ready to summon unexpected power. Her gaze is fixed on the trembling ground, creating a terrifying illusion of ripples, as if these creeping roots possess a will greater than all of them.

Althur points toward the Tree of Scars.

"Do you want a world that can cry? A world that can fail? A world that can choose to be imperfect?"

He smiles coldly, his smile full of confidence in the darkness. Behind his eyes lies a flash of danger, a reminder that power can change everything, including their very essence.

"I want a world that can stand without needing a soul."

Sheena grips a root, calling for resonance.

"That is not a world. That is a ruin forced to smile."

Black smoke billows around them, enveloping every step in a threatening aura. In a faint light, the Tree of Scars beats, as if alive and holding deep secrets. The strange whispers echo, reminding them of the dark history embedded in the roots of that tree, reviving bitter memories that cannot be erased.

One by one, the Echoes of Kings begin to chant their mantras:

The Law of Centralization: reversing every harmony magic into a single will.

The Golden Code: making every root a chain.

The Symphony of Power: silencing Rinoa's song and turning it into an echo of worship.

The sky transforms into a scroll of laws.

Every letter is the names of the people they oppressed.

As if responding to three mantras at once, the wind rages and carries shards of dark blue light, enveloping every corner. Each vibration strikes their hearts, signaling that time is running out. Behind every word, there is a threatening power, very real and almost palpable on their skin. In the push of that empty wind, shadows dance, as if challenging their courage.

Fitran stands in the midst of it all.

And says:

"We will not respond with rejection. But with an acknowledgment that power cannot swallow."

In the midst of the chilling silence, Fitran's voice echoes, piercing through the ancient wood fog of the Tree of Scars. Every word spoken seems to ignite magnetic energy, igniting the brocade of repressed emotions. As he speaks, shadows of the past seem to dance in the dim light radiating from the split sky. The tense atmosphere envelops them, occasionally broken by heavy breaths and eyes filled with conviction.

The sky over Stones forms a new spiral—golden red. Not destruction. But a battle of meaning.

A mix of panic and hope swirls, as if the energy from the Tree of Scars flows through them, granting strength to fight. Every passing second feels rooted in reality, creating a bond between them and the journey they must undertake. And behind the shadows, the pain of the past becomes a sharp weapon. Between hope and uncertainty, the whispers of history echo, calling them to choose between the fire of power and the essence of truth.

Proto-Speech writes:

ꦤꦱꦼꦒꦶ ꦏꦤ꧀ꦢꦺꦭ꧀ ꦱꦸꦩ꧀ꦧꦼꦱꦼꦤ꧀ ꦱꦶꦤ꧀ꦠꦺ —

"Nasegi Kandel Sumbesen Sinte"

(The truth that was once hidden... now will challenge the throne.)