Chapter 115: Don’t choose her

“Maybe,” she said, her voice very soft.

“I’ve always needed it. I just didn’t know.”

Grandfather fell silent.

Lyra set down her bowl and looked at Freya.

A grain of rice still clung to the corner of her mouth, but those red eyes were filled with earnest, focused light.

“Boss.”

“Mm.”

“What your mother left you must have been meant to help you.”

Lyra’s voice was very soft.

“You don’t need to know what it does right now. You just need to know that she’s in your heart. That’s enough.”

Freya looked at her. At those serious, sincere red eyes.

Suddenly, she felt the seed buried deep in the pathway of her heart stir slightly.

Very gently, as gently as a flower petal falling onto the surface of water.

But it did move.

“You’re right,” she said softly.

Lyra grinned, lowered her head, and continued drinking her porridge.

Outside the window, sunlight finally pierced through the mist, bathing the entire dining room in warm brightness.

In the distance, the orange cat crouched on the windowsill, squinting its eyes and licking its paw.

Freya set down her porridge bowl.

“Finish up and pack your things. We need to go back.”

Lyra’s movements froze. The spoon in her hand hung suspended in midair.

“Go back? Back to the Academy?”

“Mm.”

“But we’ve only been here a few days…”

Lyra’s voice dropped, her red eyes filled with reluctance. She looked at Grandfather, then back at Freya. “Can’t we stay a little longer?”

Freya stood up.

“No.”

Lyra put down her spoon, about to say something else, but then she saw a light in Freya’s pale purple eyes that she had never seen before.

Not coldness, not aloofness, but something more complicated. A calm that seemed to come before making a decision.

She swallowed the words that had risen to her lips and obediently stood up.

“Then I’ll go pack.”

She ran out.

Her footsteps thumped up the stairs and quickly disappeared down the hallway.

In the dining room, only Freya and Grandfather remained.

Sunlight streamed in through the window, falling onto the table between them, making the empty bowls and plates gleam.

Grandfather sat there, quietly watching Freya. His eyes, the same Calanso-colored eyes as hers, churned with complex emotions.

“Have you decided?” he asked.

Freya nodded.

“I have.”

“No regrets?”

Freya was silent for a moment.

“I don’t know. But I have to go back.”

Grandfather looked at her for a long time. Then he stood up, walked over to her, reached out, and gently patted her shoulder.

His hand was very light, as light as a falling leaf, yet it carried a heavy, indescribable weight.

“Go on,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

“Grandfather will be waiting for you at home.”

Freya lowered her head.

“Mm.”

She turned and walked toward the door. After a few steps, she suddenly stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“Grandfather.”

“Mm.”

“Did Mother do this too, back then?”

Grandfather was silent.

Freya stood there with her back to him, her pale purple hair shimmering faintly in the sunlight.

She didn’t wait for Grandfather’s answer. She pushed open the door and walked out.

Grandfather stood in place, staring at the closed door for a long time.

Then he lowered his head and looked at the hand that had just patted Freya’s shoulder.

That hand was trembling slightly.

He remembered many years ago, Cecilia had been just like this—

Standing at the door, back to him, asking, “Father, will you blame me?”

He said no.

Cecilia had smiled. That smile was very light, as light as a flower petal falling onto the surface of water.

Then she left and never came back.

He closed his eyes.

“No.”

He said softly.

His voice was very soft, as if talking to himself. No one heard him.

Upstairs, Lyra was frantically packing her things. She didn’t have much—

a few changes of clothes, the almost dog-eared Monster Illustration, and the purple crystal stone.

She stuffed them all into her bundle, pulled the drawstring tight, and tied a knot.

Then she turned around and saw Freya standing at the door.

“Boss, I’m all packed!”

“Mm.”

“Are we leaving now?”

“Mm.”

Clutching her bundle, Lyra walked up to Freya and looked up at her.

“Boss, what are you going to do when we get back?”

Freya was silent for a moment.

“Do what I have to do.”

Lyra blinked.

“Then what can I do to help?”

Freya looked down at those red eyes, filled with determination and anticipation.

“Stay by my side.”

Lyra stiffened for a moment, then grinned.

The little wolf fang shone brightly in the sunlight.

“Okay! That’s what I’m best at!”

The carriage was already waiting at the gate.

Grandfather stood on the steps. He didn’t come down, just stood there like a statue.

The morning wind stirred his graying hair, blurring his aged face.

Freya walked to the carriage, stopped, and turned back.

“Grandfather, I’m going.”

Grandfather nodded.

“Go on.”

Freya got into the carriage.

Lyra followed behind her, climbed up, leaned out the window, and waved at Grandfather.

“Grandfather, goodbye! We’ll come back often!”

Grandfather stood there, watching the carriage gradually recede, watching the little hand waving endlessly from the window, watching the pale purple figure grow fainter and fainter.

He didn’t wave. He just stood there until the carriage disappeared at the end of the road.

Inside the carriage, Lyra shrank back into her seat, hugging her bundle. Her red eyes gazed at the scenery flying past the window.

“Boss, does Grandfather get lonely living in such a big house all by himself?”

Freya was silent for a moment. “Yes.”

“Then we should come back to see him more often.”

“Mm.”

“And bring him good food.”

“Mm.”

“And bring the little dried fish that cat likes best.”

Freya turned her head and looked at her.

“That cat won’t let you pet it.”

Lyra pouted.

“One day it will.”

The carriage continued forward, passing through fields, through villages, through the golden wheat fields.

In the distance, the towers of the Central Magic Academy gradually emerged in the twilight, like a hand reaching toward the sky.

Freya stared in that direction, her fingers slowly tightening.

She thought of her previous life. Thought of the light of the Holy Sword in Ross’s hand. Thought of the smug smile on Irina’s face as she stood beside him.

In that life, she had done nothing.

In this life, she was going to do more than just survive.

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

Freya snapped back to reality.

“No matter what happens,” Lyra said, her voice very soft.

“I’ll be with you.”

Freya looked at her, at those sincere red eyes.

She reached out and gently ruffled the fluffy head.

“Mm.”

Late at night. The temple was plunged into a dead silence.

Moonlight poured down from the high windows, shrouding the Holy Sword Platform in a silvery white glow.

The legendary Holy Sword lay quietly there, its blade faintly glowing, like a lamp that never went out.

A slender figure slipped out from behind a corridor pillar.

Irina wore a dark gray cloak, her hood pulled low, revealing only a face that looked especially pale in the moonlight.

She stood before the Holy Sword Platform, looking up at the sword suspended in midair. Her pink eyes churned with complex light.

She remembered the day of the Test. The Holy Sword had swept over her head, not pausing, not even reacting.

It had stopped above Freya’s head. Golden light poured down, illuminating the girl with pale purple hair like a deity.

Everyone was looking at her. Everyone was talking about her—

“The Sword Holder,” “The Decider,” “The one chosen by the Holy Sword.”

All the glory that should have been hers had been snatched away by Freya.

“Why didn’t you choose me?”

Her voice was very soft, as if asking a sleeping person.

“What is she that I’m not?”

The Holy Sword did not answer.

It just hung there quietly, the light on its blade brightening and dimming like breathing.

Irina lowered her head and looked at her chest.

There, the black-purple mark was burning hot.

Ever since that mass of black mist had burrowed into her body, this mark had been throbbing with a dull pain.

Like a greedy infant, it kept devouring her mana, her life force, everything she had.

But it also gave her power—

A power different from any magic, older, darker.

That power told her that the Holy Sword was not invincible.

As long as enough darkness was used to corrode it, even the strongest light would dim.

She reached out her hand toward the hilt of the Holy Sword.

The moment her fingertips touched the hilt, light exploded.

Not warm golden light. Instead, it was a piercing, scorching white light filled with destructive power.

That light pierced into her skin like countless needles, burrowed into her blood vessels, rampaged through her body.

She heard a voice—not coming from outside, but from deep within the mark inside her body: “Run!”

The voice was sharp and terrified, like an animal with its tail caught in a trap.

She wanted to let go, but her fingers were no longer under her control. They were firmly stuck to the Holy Sword, as if clamped by iron pincers.

The white light grew stronger and stronger, swallowing her whole. She felt her skin burning, her blood boiling, her bones melting.

Finally, she jerked her hand back.

Her body flew backward like a kite with a broken string, slammed into a corridor pillar, and then crashed heavily to the floor.

She gasped for air. Every inch of her skin was in excruciating pain.

She looked down at her hand—

The palm was a charred black. Fingernails were shattered. Blood oozed from the wounds, dripping onto the white marble floor.

The black-purple mark on her chest pounded violently, like a frightened infant crying.

“You… won’t choose me,” she struggled to her feet, looking at the Holy Sword still hanging there peacefully, her voice hoarse to the point of being almost inaudible.

“And you won’t let anyone else choose me… What… do you want?”

The Holy Sword did not answer.

The light gradually subsided, returning to the earlier rhythm of brightening and dimming, like breathing. As if nothing had happened.

Irina stood there, trembling all over, blood dripping from her fingertips.

She turned and staggered toward the door. Every step felt like walking on a blade’s edge.

She couldn’t be discovered. No one could know she had been here. No one could see her in this state.

She still had a use. She couldn’t fall.

She disappeared into the darkness of the night.

The moonlight shone coldly down, falling onto the pool of blood, turning those dark red droplets into a dark, black stain.