The moment Haruto's body met the throne, the chamber trembled.
Not from violence—from remembrance.
Crystalline strands of light wove through the walls, casting images into the air like memories resurrected. They swirled around him—flashes of battles fought, people loved, worlds lost.
Serenya gasped as a vision passed through her: Haruto standing before a burning city, shield raised to protect thousands. Not a tyrant.
A savior.
"This throne," Lucien said, voice barely a whisper, "wasn't made to rule over others… it was built to bear the weight of fate."
The Nullblade pulsed once, then dissolved into pure light, its form merging with the crystalline armrest. Haruto didn't resist. It was no longer just a weapon.
It was a key.
The throne accepted him—and in doing so, it unlocked the sealed knowledge once carved into his soul.
He saw it all.
The truth behind the world's magic. The factions that had conspired to split him. The gods who feared his name. The choice he had made to sacrifice memory for peace.
Haruto closed his eyes.
"I remember now."
Serenya approached the base of the throne, unsure whether to bow or speak.
"You're different," she said softly. "Stronger… but sadder."
Haruto opened his eyes.
"No one becomes whole without grieving the parts they lost."
Lucien grinned faintly. "Well, good news—now you're officially the most powerful piece of forbidden history sitting in a chair."
Haruto smirked. "Then let's not waste it."
He raised his hand, and a map of Arcavelle unfolded before them—etched in floating light. Cities blinked, each one linked to another by threads of power—most of them dim, some flickering dangerously.
"The balance of the world is fracturing," he said. "Because it was built on lies. If we don't fix the leyline roots before they collapse…"
"It's not just one world at risk," Serenya finished. "It's every world connected through the Rift."
Haruto stood, eyes fierce.
"Then we start with the one place they tried hardest to bury."
Lucien raised a brow. "Where?"
Haruto pointed to a dark, blinking glyph—one that pulsed at the very edge of the world.
"Valenhar. The First Cradle of Magic."