Chapter 650 The Blade Beyond All Kings

The sky of Stones had yet to allow light to enter. The magic clouds, torn by explosions, still swirled, creating a mana vortex that made the air feel heavy. The ground was no longer still—it trembled as two human wills refused to yield, cracks in the earth's surface overflowing as if responding to every surging emotion.

In the midst of the destruction, Fitran stood tall atop the shattered altar. His body was bloodied, one shoulder partially burned, but the Excalibur in his hand still glowed, the dazzling blue light reflecting from his determined eyes. His heartbeat thudded, fighting against the rhythm of time that had come to a halt. He gathered his strength, as if every breath was the last incantation he needed to utter, his face etched with the deep concentration that showed just how heavy this burden was.

Althur no longer spoke as a human. The voice that emerged from his mouth was layered: his own voice, the voices of kings, and the echo of a crown that had no tongue. From behind the dim light, darkness danced, inviting terrifying shadows to accompany the decree of hatred. His eyes shone with deep-seated malice, while his cold smile revealed sharp teeth, ready to strike.

"Do you think that sword belongs to you?"

"That sword… was born from the throne that was rejected. And I… am the blood of that throne." Fitran's face was resolute, his jaw clenched, showing that he would not back down.

He raised his hand to the sky. Elemental magic gathered once more, a rumble of energy enveloping the space, shaking the atmosphere with flashes of light. As if waiting, the universe held its breath, ready to affirm who would hold power in this thrilling conflict.

Lava Nova — an explosion from the earth's core, spewing molten red fire that raced down, touching the ground and burning everything in its path.

Thunderfall — a spiral lightning bolt falling from three dimensions, leaving a glowing trail and a thunderous sound that made every fiber in the body vibrate.

Frost Massacre — a sharp mist of ice that sliced before enveloping.

Fitran crossed Excalibur with burning determination. The focus in his eyes seemed to unravel the enemy's strategy with a single sharp glance. Around him, the surge of magic radiated like waves, waiting for the command to combat the threatening arrogance, embers of fire against frozen ice.

He did not form a shield; instead, he stood firm, like an ancient wooden pillar that could not be shaken. He did not retreat, even as the shadow of death loomed intimidatingly before him.

"You can claim blood, Althur. But I carry no one's blood. I carry the choice not to inherit." His voice was firm, clear amidst the chaos of battle, like a bell marking the fight for life and death.

He swung his sword, born from anger and despair. Its sharp light sparkled like a shooting star, cutting through the darkness that enveloped the arena, leaving a glowing trail. With every slash, Fitran's arm trembled, as if channeling strength from the core of his soul.

Excalibur Form II: Aether Rend

This slash was not pure light. It was a conversion of soul pressure into physical waves, splitting Lava Nova in two with a shaking force, wrapping lightning into an elegantly curving inverted spiral. The impact echoed, creating thunder between the warring parties.

With every slash, whispers of souls could be heard, calling forth power from the depths of their past, the tension reflected on the faces of the spectators, captivated by the intensity of the assault.

Yet one explosion of Frost pierced through and struck Fitran right on his left side. This was not just an attack; it was a cold kick from hell that forced his breath to momentarily halt.

Blood spilled, splattering in bright red against the white backdrop, but he did not stop. In his heart, an unquenchable flame of spirit roared, challenging death with extraordinary resilience, his expression now a mix of anger and unwavering determination.

Both advanced, ready to trap each other in the chilling darkness, every step filled with the weight of tension that locked every soul watching.

Althur, with his spiral black stone sword, a reconstruction of the king's will, radiated an aura of suffocating darkness. His face twisted in a grimace, strategizing, as if hunting for a gap in his opponent's defense to strike with full freedom.

Fitran, with Excalibur, now trembling yet still sharp, seemed connected to primordial power. Sweat trickled down his brow, and his eyes blazed, staring intently at his opponent with unwavering resolve. They clashed, igniting waves of energy that spread like the sound of thunder, while light and shadow blended in a deadly dance. Magic fists versus the sword of light, a clash between two realms, darkness against light, as if the world trembled witnessing their conflict. Each attack was launched with a vibrating speed, their body movements like crashing waves, creating a magnificent thud. Elemental magic versus Voidlight dagger techniques, attacks swirling like a storm, full of murderous intent, light dazzling as Excalibur clashed with dark energy, sending sparks that seemed to narrate a battle story already written. Flying, striking, rebounding—then returning again, as if their fates were written by a greater power, as their breaths came in gasps, enduring the alternating assaults with unwavering spirit.

One wave of energy shattered the outer walls of the Stones.

Small mountains crumbled, dust swirling as the structure could no longer withstand the battle. And the ancient roots of the Tree of Life cracked down to its base.

Every crack sounded like the screams of trapped souls, as if marking a profound emptiness. Fitran's expression showed a mix of courage and fear, his eagle-like eyes unblinking as he focused on his opponent. The wind whispered, carrying murmurs from another world, as if warning of the impending disaster, reminding that every second was precious in this battle.

In Fitran's grip, Excalibur began to vibrate more intensely. It voiced not a will. But a source. Its voice awakened forgotten memories, the voices of thousands of warriors that were hard to extinguish, demanding vengeance for the betrayals that had occurred. Full of spirit and emotion, a cynical smile crossed his face, as if signaling that this fight was part of his soul.

A small voice emerged—like a song from afar, from a time before the Stones stood. As if reminding Fitran that the power he held was not ordinary; it was part of a greater destiny. His face furrowed, his eyes narrowed, as if trying to grasp the deep meaning of that voice. In an instant, his gaze locked onto Althur, who now wore a cynical smile, perhaps sensing a change in the air.

"My blood is not yours."

"But you once touched me."

"Time has made you a stranger…

but the legacy still flows."

Fitran staggered, his body trembling, feeling the surge of energy from Excalibur that seemed to resist his will. His muscles tensed, as if a mysterious pull rendered him immobile, and Althur's gaze pierced his back, stabbing with a burning intensity. Althur laughed, his voice filled with delight, his face shining with dominance, challenging Fitran with a sharp gaze that blazed like embers, as if wanting to bite the hero.

"Yes. Finally, the sword speaks."

"Excalibur belongs to no one now—because it was mine first."

"It was forged from the roots of my first crown.

Stored, discarded, stolen. But never truly lost."

He stared at Fitran—full of conviction. The tension in the air grew thicker, like a bubble ready to burst, waiting for the right moment to destroy everything. Every breath felt heavy, every heartbeat quickened, and their movements blended into a deadly dance that was elegant yet lethal.

"Give it back. Because today… I will reshape this world with my own hands. My hands will be the backdrop where power and destruction unite, and you will see who truly holds power."

Fitran gazed at Excalibur with a look of determination. His hand trembled, yet there was a flash of spirit in his eyes. His sword began to resist, not from magic, but from an identity conflict. Each heartbeat echoed in his ears, along with the sound of thunder in the turbulent sky. "If this sword is yours… then let it choose for itself," he hissed, his voice trembling with hope and doubt.

He raised the sword high, with a movement that expressed determination, pointing it to the shattered sky. Excalibur shone as if responding to the call of battle… then fell silent. In the suffocating silence, Althur's shadow loomed with a terrifying aura, feeling like a threatening storm, and every heartbeat of Fitran felt heavier, as if the world was filled with pressure threatening to crush.

In the sky, Proto-Speech ceased to write, as if depicting the tension enveloping the place. "Will this power become a curse?" Fitran thought, as shadows of his past flickered, each memory painting a grim picture between hope and fear. He saw Althur's expression, the uncertainty behind his condescending smile was all too clear, adding to the intensity of this moment.

And from Althur's mouth:

"Welcome back… Excalibur, Blade of the First Throne."

"But, who is its owner now?" Althur's voice echoed, challenging the silence, like thunder breaking the stillness of the night. With a swift movement, Fitran furrowed his brow, his face showing burning anger as he prepared to face whatever was to come. Fitran felt his resolve strengthen; he knew this was more than just a fight, it was a quest for identity that would change everything. Every attack launched was not just physical, but also an inner struggle that shaped who he was and what he wanted to prove.