Chapter 660 Knights of the Final Silence

In the emptiness, thirteen Knights of the Round descended from the throne of Excalibur—not as humans, nor as spirits, but as an architecture of will that refused to be denied. One by one, they set foot on the ground that had lost its direction.

In the suffocating silence, the wind carried whispers of forgotten history, as if every stone and tree bore witness to their arrival. Fragments of light reflected off their gleaming armor, creating shadows that seemed alive, intertwining between life and death.

Bedivere, Gawain, Galahad…

Mordred, Agravaine, Tristan…

They all stepped forward not to wage war, but to re-lock the world.

Among them, Bedivere stood tall, his deep gaze seemingly recalling every battle he had ever fought, feeling the weight of the responsibility borne by all who had struggled alongside him. Gawain, with his flowing hair and aura of courage, seeped into the souls of his opponents, ready to embrace everything that stood in his way.

Fitran gripped Voidlight, but he knew—his sword would not be enough to face thirteen ancient wills at once. Rinoa stood beside him, the song of harmony within her beginning to merge into a new path, yet still unstable. The soft whispers of the wind surrounded them, as if reminding them that each heartbeat carried new hope, but also unspoken fears.

"They are not an army. They are decisions," Fitran said softly.

"And the world is being tested to choose… not who will win, but who is allowed to survive."

Rinoa replied quietly:

In her eyes, light began to swell, creating an image of an uncertain future. In her heart, anxiety mixed with determination, realizing that the key to survival lay in the fall and rise of all involved in this struggle. Each breath flowed in the rhythm of a song, reminding them of memories, giving meaning to every decision made.

"So do not face them as enemies. Confront them as mirrors of the wounds we have ignored."

Sir Gawain surged ahead. The swing of his sword carried shards of sunlight blazing three times the strength. In an instant, the rustling wind created a soft sound, as if the universe cried out to witness this battle. Fitran parried with Voidlight, but his body was thrown back, as if struck by a wave of unseen power.

The scent of rusted metal reached his nose, reminding him that every fight left a mark on his soul. Sir Lancelot and Tristan attacked simultaneously, two twin swords dancing like a symphony of broken love, slicing through the air and disrupting Rinoa's magical rhythm. Their movements were so harmonious, as if two ghosts from the past still bound by sorrow, symbolizing a friendship severed by fate.

Galahad stood in the center of the arena, opening a book of light that rejected all forms of sin. As the pages trembled, light radiated from his body with blinding intensity, making the roots of harmony fragile. The power of the book felt like the breath of God flowing, and Galahad, with a calm face, heard the voices of trapped souls, pleading to be freed.

Rinoa called back her spirits, but their voices could not penetrate the sacred wills of the knights. Amidst the clamor of battle, a whisper full of longing could be heard, like their breaths unraveling in the darkness. Rinoa felt her soul bound by invisible ties, struggling against the wind that sought to snatch away all her hopes.

Fitran began to use Voidlight Form III: Fragmented Flame, summoning energy from the unborn world, and managed to wound Sir Bors, freezing him in the midst of his attack.

Rinoa touched the ground and called the name of the baby that never got to be born, creating a wave of harmony that tore through Sir Palamedes' shield.

Yet their wounds were small. And the knights pressed on. As if pain was not a limit… but fuel.

In the midst of this chaos, Fitran felt his heartbeat thunder, as if in a grand dance between life and death. Each breath contained hope and fear, the two elements that shaped the soul of a warrior. He gazed at Sir Bors, his sharp eyes signaling courage even as his body trembled from the cutting pain.

Mordred did not speak. He did not shout. He simply walked straight toward Fitran, wielding an unbroken sword—because he himself was a shard that refused to heal.

One swing of his sword pierced through the layers of Voidlight and nearly severed Fitran's pulse.

Rinoa protected Fitran with her song, but her voice shattered mid-note. She fell.

The ground beneath Rinoa trembled, as if sensing the sorrow in her voice. She envisioned the flow of energy streaming from a severed fate, calling forth shadows from a world that never was. In her pain, she prayed, asking that the remaining power of harmony could save them from the creeping emptiness. She remembered the smile of the baby that never was, and her pain became an unspoken poem.

Voidlight began to wane. His sword no longer absorbed existence… for there was not enough world to absorb.

And when Gawain and Galahad raised their swords together, and the light of two laws prepared to close the field— the world felt frozen.

As Fitran's soul trembled in the darkness, he felt each heartbeat grow heavy, as if thousands of invisible burdens hung above him. With each passing second, his despair merged with the silence that enveloped him, voicing a muted call from within.

"Forgive me, Rinoa…"

"I cannot…"

"—speak the last name…"

But before those two strikes fell…

The sky cracked in a deep blue light and black flames ignited.

The air trembled. Proto-Speech screamed without writing. And voices came from two opposing directions.

In the midst of the turmoil, waves of energy vibrated like a sharp gust of wind, splitting the silence and creating a resonance that raised the hairs on their arms. As the light tore through the sky, shadows of the past trembled in the minds of the warriors, awakening aspirations and hopes that seemed erased by darkness.

From the edge of dimensions, a figure stepped forth—a tall, sensual woman with black wings and glowing blue horns. Her eyes burned red like an angry night. Her body was clad in intricately carved black magic clothing that concealed nothing… for her very power was a testament to sin.

With her graceful steps, a chill seemed to accompany her every movement, creating the illusion that she walked upon layers of ice. Her closed lips formed a cynical smile, as if she held the unspoken secrets of the world. With each breath she took, the aroma of cold, dark morning dew spread, marking her unwelcome presence.

"Satan," she declared her own name.

"And I did not come for the world. I came for you, Althur. Because you hold the throne that rejects me."

On the other side, from the reflection of the water of reality, emerged a man with long light blue hair, with eyes as clear as ice and a wound on his neck forming an unreadable symbol. His body was open, graceful and full of passive fire yet to explode. His wavy hair danced in rhythm with the gentle wind, as if each strand had a life of its own. The whisper of the wind carried the scent of the heavens—soft and mysterious, as if promising darkness and wisdom in one breath.

"Kaseo," he said lightly.

"You called forth ancient wills, Althur. So we came… to see what you hide from fate." Kaseo's voice trembled, heavy with meaning, as if echoing from layers of lost time. Each word seemed to awaken a longing for answers that might have been forgotten, pulling at the depths of a soul striving to endure amidst the turmoil of destiny.

The Knights of the Round… stopped. Not because they were defeated. But because the aura of these two entities did not belong to the world. They were tremors from outside the root system—manifestations of sin and wills that had never been given a seat. Each of their appearances radiated vibrations that pierced the nuances of battle, creating waves of uncertainty among the Knights who stood ready. The closer the entities came, the louder their hearts beat, as if they were hearing the final counsel from the apocalypse.

Fitran bowed his head. Rinoa opened her eyes and whispered: The surrounding space felt increasingly suffocating, the weight of reality becoming heavy, and even the light seemed reluctant to break through. Rinoa, who had never hesitated, now released words carried by the wind: as if she had gained access to forbidden knowledge, unveiling another voice from the souls long gone.

"That is not help…"

"That is… the final question."

In that silence, the question hung in the air, accompanied by a growing sense of anxiety. Each figure felt the empty gaze of the world around them, as if everything had prepared to await an answer that could potentially suffocate the soul.