Chapter 658 The Inheritance Ends Here

The sky is colorless. It neither stretches nor narrows. It simply hangs—like the soul of the world waiting for a decision. Stones have vanished. Roots have turned to ash. Time, which once flowed like an ancient mantra, now only pulses faintly from a void that cannot be named.

As if echoing from the past, every gust of wind carries a faint memory of what once was. Sneaking through the emptiness, anyone who listens might feel the traces of hope buried in that silence.

And in the midst of that emptiness, two figures still stand.

Fitran—his body smeared with blood and unfinished magic. In his hand, Voidlight, now in a form even the world hesitates to touch: neither sword nor energy, but a reflection of all that reality has rejected.

In his gaze, there is a shadow of the past that shines—a memory of fingers that once grasped hope, and voices now submerged in silence. He wonders if every wound left behind will slowly forget the faces he loved.

Althur—no longer human, no longer a king.

His face has lost its shape. The spiral crown floating behind him has shattered, leaving only empty light, and Excalibur in his hand is no longer an instrument of law, but the last defense of the ego of the old world.

Within Althur's heart, waves of loss crash, as if the voices of memories continue to confront him, seeping into his consciousness amidst the solitude and silence that envelop him.

They do not move. But the air, the silence, and time… slowly crack.

There is no magic. There is no music. Only breath that is almost cut off—and one lingering feeling: Who will write the end of the wounds?

Althur bows his head. He feels the unspoken weight in his heart, a longing for what is lost, as if that beautiful memory is hidden between the cracks of time.

He does not speak, but from the glint in his eyes, the emptiness reveals the final question that can only arise at the edge of existence:

"Is the wound worth remembering… if all it will leave behind is destruction?"

Fitran lifts his head. He does not answer with words.

Tears fall down his cheeks, marking the strokes of unspoken feelings; a reminder of the fragments of souls that have been neglected.

He simply opens his palm, and Voidlight melts upward, becoming a transparent whirl of unwritten names.

No more slashes.

No more explosions of magic.

What remains is only a rejection of forgetfulness.

Voidlight explodes his memories across all dimensions:

The voice of a child who never had the chance to be born.

The aroma of old books burned for being deemed heretical.

The notes of a song sung only in the hearts of those who lost the war.

In that moment of silence, Fitran feels the unspoken burden—a deep pain, as if the footprints of his past have been erased by the mountain winds. He realizes how every memory is a shard of the soul trapped in time, creating an invisible painting that can never be offered back to the world.

And Excalibur—in its final despair—forms a single law:

✦ Final Enforcement: No One Will Remember You

A law that erases a person's existence from the timeline, roots, and even will. In the chilling silence, Fitran discovers that although the law seems to restrain him, his figure remains trapped in deeper shadows—a circle of blessings left by one or two strong memories.

Fitran should have vanished. Yet the world… refuses to forget.

Amidst the fragments of roots and the nearly lost voices of spirits,

Rinoa stands.

Her hands rest on the path of harmony she once created—now devoid of light.

In the shards of memory, she can feel the gentle touch of music that once flowed, as if an echo that never fades in the recesses of her soul.

But she bows her head and whispers:

"The world does not need to be perfect. It only needs to know that it once… lived."

With that voice, the remaining roots tremble softly. Not because of magic. But because of memories that choose to stay. In Rinoa's heart, every vibration becomes a reminder of everything lost; a melancholic symphony, yet one that strengthens the soul amidst the emptiness.

Fitran gazes at Althur.

In an instant, they both stand in a space beyond reality.

Their thoughts drift, trapped between what once was and what may never be again—like shadows unable to reach the sunlight.

There is no light. There is no ground. Only memories pulsing like the last heartbeat of the world. Each beat feels like a memorial for all that has been lost, a reminder that even though everything feels empty, something remains alive in the absence.

Fitran raises Voidlight, no longer in the form of a blade.

But as droplets of existence floating.

Each drop carries the weight of history, a narrative waiting to be written even though pen and paper are no longer present.

"I will not kill you, Althur.

Because this wound is not mine alone.

But belongs to all of us."

He swings Voidlight…

not to attack. But to split the path of inheritance.

In that act, he feels a profound sense of responsibility; not merely to destroy, but to create space for something new to emerge from the ruins.

And from that crack, one name emerges.

A name that has always been held back in silence, waiting for the right moment to be found, as if it is a buried hope, ready to fight against the darkness.

"Avel."

One word.

Not the name of a god.

Not a blood legacy.

Just a name… that has long been trapped in the will of a world afraid of losing its order.

As if that name is a hidden light, hinting at hope in the darkness, as if wanting to scream even though silenced by fear.

That name touches Althur.

And Excalibur… cracks.

One by one, pieces of the sword fall as shards of dead light. The system that bound it opens. And Althur… kneels. Not because he has been defeated.

But because for the first time… he hears the world say "no."

The last crown explodes slowly. Not like an explosion of magic, but like the sound of a prayer being canceled.

The sky, for the first time in thousands of years, writes something without command.

"ꦲꦶꦤꦼꦩꦺꦴ ꦤꦶꦏ꧀ꦤꦺꦤ꧀ ꦲꦶꦏꦸ ꦥꦼꦮꦫꦶꦱ꧀"

Inemo Niknen Iku Pewaris

(Your name is not written by legacy. But by the courage to not remain silent.)

Behind those words, there is an echo of lost souls, creating an indelible trace—clarifying what humanity has always feared: loss can be a path to rediscovering oneself.

Althur falls to the ground. His body returns to its original state—without a crown, without law. The wind whispers, carrying a glimmer of memories of a lost past, each breath reminding him that he once stood on the stage of the world, wearing the crown of power.

"Am I… wrong?" he whispers.

Fitran crouches beside him. He looks with an empathetic gaze, as if trying to absorb every doubt that clouds Althur's mind, bridging the chasm between loss and hope.

"No. You were just too afraid… that the world could choose something other than you."

Althur closes his eyes. He is not dead. But he will not rise either. In that silence, he feels all the pain piled up; every memory seems to float, filling the space in his mind like shadows that do not want to be forgotten.

New roots grow. But they do not spread. They gather, a small knot in the midst of destruction, forming a circle of new harmony—not born from Proto-Speech, but from rejected memories. Within that circle lies forgotten treasure, buried hope, and pain that has become part of them.

Rinoa walks closer, touching the knot, and sings one note: a melodious voice that flows, as if awakening the souls trapped in their limbo, revealing stories buried in the hearts of every being that hears.

"A name that cannot be burned… now becomes the seed of the coming world."