Chapter 655 The Name That Cannot Be Burned

The sky above Stones was no longer overcast—it did not reflect the weather, only the absence of it. The clouds had lost their structure. Time no longer bounced off the roots. And Proto-Speech, the first language that ever named the world, was now just formless shards, falling like a rain of letters that never had the chance to be spoken.

Fitran stood in the midst of the emptiness. The ground beneath him was no longer part of the world, just an unknown layer that still retained its form because it refused to forget. His breath was heavy, his body nearly shattered. But his gaze remained steady. He was no longer a hero or a guardian. He was neither a connector nor a challenger. He was just one thing:

As Fitran became aware of the silence enveloping him, a subtle vibration seeped into the wind, like a legendary whisper mentioning the names of those who had once fought here. In the shadows of time, Stones began to tremble. The skin of the earth peeled away, revealing a glimmering layer like shattered glass, radiating a brilliance that spoke of buried pasts. A magical aura danced above it, marking a transformation that made it not just a place, but a living, pulsing entity, preserving memory—a threatened identity.

The remnants of a world that still wanted to know who it was.

And before him stood Althur, taller than before. His body was cloaked in a robe that merged with the sky. Excalibur shone in its full form, not emitting light, but absorbing meaning. Each swing of the sword not only erased opponents—but history, bloodlines, even possibilities.

The wind howled, creating a wild sound like nature's cry wanting to warn, signaling that this battle was more than just a duel; it was a clash between a tumultuous identity and names that wished to be forgotten. Every fiber of Althur's robe trembled, reflecting the crimson hues of dusk, as if the sky itself was awed by his presence.

"You cannot save the world with wounds, Fitran," Althur's voice echoed in all directions.

"Because the world... has chosen judgment."

Fitran gazed at the shattered ground. He did not respond. He did not deny. But within him, something began to ignite—not magic, not anger.

One name.

Not the name of someone he loved. Not Rinoa, not Sheena, not Iris. Not Joanna.

Not even his own name.

But the first name he saw in a dream that never existed.

A name that even Proto-Speech could not write down.

A name that the world tried to bury within the system.

A name... that could not be burned.

As if hearing the call of that name, the ground around Fitran began to tremble. Small stones leaped from the surface, emitting a faint light from within. The physical changes of Stones around him depicted an evolution of power—before shifting into a more primal, stronger form—yet still retaining the memory of their presence. Without warning, the orbit of Stones spun, creating a glowing vortex, connecting the power of the lost name with the essence of the impending battle.

Althur raised Excalibur, forming the final formation of the Codex Spiral. In that moment, the golden light from the sword shone, creating an illusion like thousands of stars vibrating in the endless night sky.

Final Law — Zero Inheritance

"From now on, there will be no more inheritance. No roots. No names.

The world... will only live from what I allow to exist."

With one swing of Excalibur, the Tree of Scars exploded into mist. The roar of sound shattered, the wind whirled around, like an ancient creature awakening from its long slumber.

The spirits that had once been called by Rinoa screamed and then vanished. They ran in shadows, their loss like fragments of memories scattered in the void.

Rivers, magic, and songs of harmony... vanished as if they had never existed. The masterpiece that had once been vibrant was now muted, as if the earth held its breath, awaiting the decree to come.

Yet as Althur was about to swing the final judgment, Fitran whispered:

"I remember her name."

Althur froze. In the silence, it was as if time stopped spinning; the flow of energy and power vibrated in the air, filled with tension that shattered the stillness.

"Who?"

"I don't know," Fitran smiled weakly. "But I... still remember her."

And from Fitran's chest, it was not magic that emerged—but a small spark, like the voice of a child calling for her mother in a marketplace that had been burned. A moment of hope and loss blended into one, touching the heart of the ocean of souls trapped in darkness.

One small song.

One whisper.

And one word that had never been spoken:

"Vernashael."

Rinoa, who had nearly been forgotten by the roots of the world, now opened her eyes again. But she no longer stood in the world. She stood outside the root system. Her body was transparent, yet the names she had kept all this time gathered around her:

Behind her, the shadows of the forsaken world floated like smoke, giving the impression that every word spoken was a fragment of a trapped soul. A soft light shimmered around Rinoa, illuminating these names with new life, as if they were stars lost from the sky.

Names of babies who died before being given identities.

Names of soldiers buried without monuments.

Names of poets whose poems were burned for being deemed heretical.

She opened a new path.

Under the harmonization of a lamenting song, Rinoa felt each name vibrate, as if they filled the empty space that could only be seen by the heart and not by the eyes. The voice of nostalgia awakened the guarded identity, creating waves that flowed from her soul.

"This world does not need intact roots. It only needs one path... for a name that will not be burned."

And from outside the root system, Rinoa's voice called to Fitran, not as a lover or fellow warrior, but as a witness to the wounds of the world.

As Rinoa's voice echoed, the light around her body trembled, creating an image of Stones transforming: the surface that had once been hard and unyielding now softened, glowing, a situation that evoked a mystical aura, as if they were ready to merge with the universe.

Althur swung Excalibur:

"Judgment of the Final Root: Erase everything!"

Fitran looked up at the sky, then raised his hand, unarmed. But the voice of Vernashael came from his mouth,

and with that, the air refused to be split. The system of reality ceased to obey. Not because of power. But because the world chose not to forget.

Two forces collided:

Excalibur in Zero Inheritance mode.

The voice of a world that could not be burned.

Around them, the air vibrated as if staggered by the weight of the moment, igniting a blazing spirit in the heart of every warrior. The flash of light from Excalibur seemed to merge with the hum of Vernashael, forming a symphony that filled the atmosphere with the power of eternity.

And Stones... began to reshape from the particles of names, sparkling like stars unraveling in the night sky; each call etched added dimension to their forms, revealing visual fragments that seemed to vibrate within the emptiness.

The sky was no longer cracked. But it was not healed. It transformed into a canvas. Not white. Not black. But filled with unknown lines—new names.

Proto-Speech could no longer write. But from the sky came one voice:

"What cannot be burned... will become the new foundation of the world."

And under the new light that did not come from magic, Fitran and Althur still stood—but the world... was no longer the same.

In the sky, dark and bright hues blended, creating a palette of colors never seen before. Every line that appeared carried messages from those who had been lost, emphasizing the importance of every name in the history etched within Stones. Slowly, that light began to seep into the ground, giving new life to the reborn world.