Chapter 109: On the eve of the selection

The clamor of arguments rose and fell. Saelis rubbed his brow, remaining silent.

When the voices gradually subsided, he spoke.

“By my decree, a Holy Sword Bearer test shall be held across the entire empire. All those with mana, regardless of birth, age, or gender, may participate.”

He paused.

“I will find the one in this continent who can draw the Holy Sword.”

News spread like wildfire, reaching every corner of the empire that very day.

The reaction at the Academy was the most intense—

Students gathered in groups, discussing animatedly.

A Holy Sword Bearer meant supreme glory, becoming the hero to save the continent, and earning a place in history.

Almost everyone wanted to try, even those who usually showed no interest in magic.

“Boss, what kind of person do you think the Holy Sword Bearer will be?”

Lyra was lying on the table, her red eyes looking at Freya.

Freya was reading a book. At the question, she turned a page.

“I don’t know.”

“Could it be someone like Serar?”

“Maybe.”

“Could it be someone like Ross?”

Freya’s movement paused.

“I don’t know.”

Lyra tilted her head in thought.

“I don’t think it’ll be someone like Crybaby.”

Freya finally looked up at her.

“Why?”

“Because the Holy Sword is a symbol of light. Crybaby’s heart is so dark, how could he gain the Holy Sword’s approval?”

Lyra said it matter-of-factly, as if it were only natural. Freya stared at her for a few seconds, then averted her gaze.

“You’re right.”

Lyra grinned, that little wolf fang glittering in the sunlight.

The test was scheduled for half a month later, at the grand plaza in the center of the Academy.

Theocrats from across the empire would gather there, set up an ancient magic array, and summon a projection of the Holy Sword.

The real Holy Sword remained sealed deep within the temple; only the chosen one could make it resonate.

During those two weeks, the atmosphere at the Academy grew unusually restless.

Some trained harder, hoping to shine during the test.

Others hunted for information, wanting to know the selection criteria for the Holy Sword Bearer.

A few even started forming factions, scheming behind the scenes.

The Mutual Aid Society was the most active—though Irina never showed herself publicly, the light pink armbands multiplied until nearly every commoner student wore one.

“She’s definitely planning something.”

Anke lowered her voice, her brown eyes full of worry.

“Freya, don’t you think it’s strange? Staying out of sight for so many days means she’s cooking up something big.”

Freya said nothing. She knew what Irina was doing.

That night, when she passed by Irina’s dormitory, she sensed an unusual mana fluctuation—not Light, not Shadow, but something older, darker.

She didn’t know what it was, but she knew Irina was preparing something.

“Boss,” came Lyra’s voice from beside her.

“Should I participate in the test?”

Freya looked at her, at the light shining in those red eyes.

“You want to?”

Lyra nodded emphatically.

“I want to try. Not to become the Holy Sword Bearer or anything.” She paused.

“I just want to see if I can make that sword move even a little.”

Freya was silent for a moment.

“Then try.”

Lyra grinned, her eyes crinkling into crescent moons.

“All right!”

Outside, the sun was setting. In the distance, toward the Imperial Palace, a single lamp lit up.

Saelis stood by the window, gazing at the heavy twilight, his brow furrowed.

He hadn’t told anyone—last night, the Holy Sword had stirred again.

The violent tremor was so strong that even the temple’s seal could barely contain it.

The Theocrat said this was a sign of the Evil God’s awakening.

He also said that if they didn’t find the Holy Sword Bearer this time, there would be no more chances.

Saelis closed his eyes.

“Freya,” he whispered her name softly.

“Will it be you?”

No one answered him. Only the night breeze passed by, sweeping up a few fallen leaves.

The test was set for mid-month.

When the news spread, the entire empire erupted.

From the snowy mountains of the Northern Frontier to the Southern Coast, from the Eastern Plains to the Western Forest, countless people poured into the Central Magic Academy.

Among them were noble children, commoners, white-haired elders, and children who had just awakened their mana.

Everyone carried the same dream—to become the Holy Sword Bearer, the hero who would save the continent.

The Academy had never been so lively.

Huge tents were set up in the plaza to house testers who had traveled far.

The canteen was packed from dawn till dusk, and even the training ground was temporarily used to manage the registration queue.

Freya stood by the library window, looking down at the vast sea of people below.

Lyra crouched at her feet, her red eyes also gazing outward.

“Boss, so many people.”

“Mm.”

“Where did they all come from?”

“Everywhere.”

Lyra was quiet for a moment.

“Boss, what kind of person do you think the Holy Sword will choose?”

Freya didn’t answer.

She thought of her previous life—that time, the Holy Sword had chosen Ross.

Not because he was powerful, but because he was the only one who stood before the Holy Sword with unwavering conviction. Irina controlled everything from behind; Ross was merely a sword in her hand.

But this life was different. Ross had been charmed and then freed; his conviction was shaken.

Though Irina still plotted in the shadows, her charm magic had been broken, and her mana was far from what it used to be.

So, who would the Holy Sword choose?

“Boss, what are you thinking?” Lyra’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

Freya looked away.

“Nothing.”

Lyra blinked, then didn’t press further. She stood up and stretched.

“Boss, let’s go to the training ground! I want to practice Shadow magic again—my wall-penetration form was still off yesterday.”

Freya looked at her, at those sparkling red eyes, at that little wolf fang barely peeking out from her excitement.

“All right.”

The training ground was more crowded than usual.

Many out-of-town testers were also using the facilities to practice.

Streams of magic in all colors interwove, illuminating the entire space like daylight.

Lyra found a corner and began practicing the Wall-Passing Technique—melting into a shadow and emerging from another.

She tried several times, each time only half-succeeding: either she disappeared completely into the shadow but couldn’t find the exit, or she popped out from the wrong spot, knocking her head.

Freya stood nearby, occasionally giving pointers.

“Don’t rush to come out. Stay in the shadow for a while. Feel the darkness around you. Find another exit, then move.”

Lyra closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her form began to blur, like a drop of ink dispersing into water, slowly fading away.

This time, she didn’t rush to emerge.

She let herself sink into that warm darkness, as peaceful as returning to the womb.

She felt it—every corner of the training ground had shadows breathing.

They were waiting for her, waiting for her to choose an exit.

She chose the shadow behind Freya.

The next second, she popped out of Freya’s shadow and smacked right into Freya’s lower back.

“Boss! I made it out!” she shouted excitedly.

Freya turned around and looked at that silly, beaming face.

“…Mm.”

Lyra rubbed her stinging forehead and smiled even more brightly.

“Next time, I’ll pick a farther spot!”

In the distance, a pair of eyes landed on them.

Serar stood at the entrance to the training ground, his ice-blue hair swaying gently in the evening breeze.

He watched Lyra emerge from Freya’s shadow, a complex glint passing through his deep blue eyes.

“The symbiosis of light and dark,” he murmured to himself.

“It really is her.”

He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

The night before the test, Freya received a letter. It was written in the Emperor’s own hand, the strokes vigorous and powerful.

“Freya, give your all in tomorrow’s test. The blood of House Dale flows in your veins. No matter the outcome, I am proud of you.”

Below that, there was a line added later in smaller script: “Be wary of Irina. There is an ominous aura about her.”

Freya folded the letter and put it in the drawer.

Lyra, lying on her floor mat, watched her secretly.

“Boss, what did the Emperor write?”

“Nothing. Just telling us to do well on the test tomorrow.”

Lyra nodded and snuggled back into her blanket. “Boss, I’ll do my best tomorrow.”

“Mm.”

“Will Boss do her best too?”

Freya paused for a heartbeat.

“Yes.”

Lyra grinned, satisfied, and closed her eyes. Soon, even breathing came from her side—she was asleep.

Freya sat at the desk, gazing at the heavy night outside.

Tomorrow, everything would be revealed.

She closed her eyes. In her mind, she saw the Holy Sword—that blade she had seen in her previous life, in Ross’s hands, radiating golden light.

That time, it had chosen Ross.

This time?

She opened her eyes.

Moonlight filtered through the curtain gap, falling on her light purple hair.

She stood up, walked back to her bed, and lay down.

Tomorrow, everything would be revealed.

Late that night, a light was still on in the temple hall at the Academy.

Candle flames flickered in the quiet air, making the ancient mythological murals on the walls shift between light and shadow.

When Serar pushed the door open, the Theocrat was already waiting.

The old man sat in an armchair by the window, wearing his signature pure-white robes. His hair and beard were white, and his face was as withered as a weathered stone statue.

Hearing footsteps, he didn’t turn around. He only said softly, “You’re here.”

Serar walked over and sat across from him.

“Why did you come early? Weren’t we supposed to meet tomorrow morning?”

The Theocrat didn’t answer.

He gazed at the heavy night outside, the few scattered lights reflected in his murky eyes.

“The Holy Sword stirred again last night.”

His voice was very soft, as if talking to himself.

“More violently than last time. The temple’s seal can barely hold it.”

Serar’s brow furrowed.

“How much time do we have?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a month, maybe half a month, maybe—” The Theocrat paused.

“Tomorrow.”

Silence stretched between them.

The candle flame jumped, casting wavering shadows on the wall.

“Lord Priest,” Serar began.

“Who do you think the Holy Sword Bearer will be?”

The Theocrat finally turned to look at him.

In those murky eyes, something shimmered faintly—not the reflection of the candlelight, but something more ancient, more profound.

“You already have an answer in your heart, don’t you?”

Serar was silent.

He did have an answer.