Lyra blinked.
“Backlash? What do you mean?”
“It means that if you use light magic to save those people, the mana and life force that were drained will transfer to you. Your body won’t be able to handle it, and you’ll—”
“Die?”
Lyra finished the sentence.
Freya looked at her, silent for a moment.
“Not necessarily. But it’ll be dangerous.”
Lyra lowered her head, looking at her own hands.
The golden light in her palm was pulsing faintly, like a tiny, restless heart.
She clenched her fist, and the light went out.
“Boss.”
“Mm.”
“I’m not afraid of danger.”
Freya looked at her, at those crimson eyes filled with determination and courage.
“I know. But I won’t let you take that risk.”
Lyra froze.
“But—”
“No buts.”
Freya cut her off and turned toward the door.
“I’ll find a way. Until then, you’re not to act on your own.”
Lyra opened her mouth to argue, but she saw something in Freya’s pale purple eyes that she had never seen before.
Not coldness, not distance—something deeper, heavier.
Like a mountain, pressing down, unshakable.
She swallowed her words and obediently followed.
“Boss, where are we going now?”
“To find someone.”
“Who?”
“Serar.”
Lyra frowned.
“What do we need him for?”
“He has the Winter Order’s collection of books. There might be more detailed records there.”
The two walked out of the library. Dusk had already fallen.
The distant sky was dyed a deep purple, the last traces of afterglow fading away.
Freya walked along the stone path, Lyra at her side, her crimson eyes warily scanning their surroundings.
“Boss, do you think that crybaby knows we’re looking into her?”
“She does.”
“Then will she—”
“Yes. She’ll act soon.”
Lyra’s steps faltered for a moment.
“Do we have enough time?”
Freya didn’t answer.
She didn’t know if they had enough time.
She only knew they had to make it.
In the distance, the light in Serar’s dormitory was still on. Freya walked over and knocked on the door.
The door opened. Serar stood there, his ice-blue hair draped over his shoulders, his deep blue eyes holding a hint of surprise.
“Freya? This late—”
“I need your help.”
Serar looked at her serious, burning pale blue eyes, paused for a moment, then stepped aside.
“Come in.”
Freya walked in, Lyra following behind.
The door closed behind them.
From the Mutual Aid Society’s activity room, Irina stood by the window, watching that lit window.
Her fingers tapped lightly on the window frame, one tap after another.
She knew Freya was investigating her, knew she was looking for a way to counter her, knew she was buying time.
But she was buying time too.
She needed more people, more power, more lives to feed the greedy thing inside her.
She looked down at the purple-black mark on her palm.
It was glowing, pulsing, craving.
“Soon,” she whispered.
“Soon, you won’t be a match for me anymore.”
Outside the window, the moon hid behind the clouds.
The night deepened.
Serar’s dormitory was small, with books stacked everywhere.
Some were piled on the desk, some on the floor, some even stuffed under the bed.
Lyra nearly tripped over a stack when she entered, staggering, her crimson eyes shooting a displeased glare at Serar.
Serar didn’t notice. He was standing in front of the bookshelf, searching for something.
His ice-blue hair fell over half his face, his fingers gliding quickly over the spines like playing an invisible piano.
“Found it.” He pulled a roll of parchment from the top shelf and spread it on the desk.
The paper was very old, edges worn, some places even moth-eaten.
On it was drawn a complex magic array, with ancient runes carved at the array center.
Freya leaned in. She didn’t recognize the runes, but the arrangement—she had seen it before.
On the theocrat’s parchment.
“This is a purification ritual recorded in the Winter Order’s ancient texts.”
Serar’s finger moved across the parchment.
“Specially used to expel remnants of an evil god. It requires two things—sufficiently pure light magic, and the blessing of the Holy Sword.”
He looked up at Freya.
“Lyra has the light magic. The Holy Sword—”
“Has no master yet.”
Freya finished his sentence.
Serar paused for a moment.
“There’s another way.”
He reached out and pointed at Freya’s heart.
The room fell silent. Lyra looked at Serar’s finger, then at Freya’s chest, her crimson eyes full of confusion.
“What’s wrong with Boss’s heart?”
“There’s something inside her heart.”
Serar’s voice was very soft.
“The Mana Heart Crystal that Cecilia left her.”
Lyra’s expression changed.
She remembered what her grandfather had said—
That heart crystal was left to Freya by Cecilia before she died, and no one knew what it was for.
Now Serar was saying it could be used to expel the remnant of the evil god.
“You mean that thing inside my heart?”
Freya’s voice was calm.
Serar nodded.
“That heart crystal contains all of Cecilia’s power. She was the strongest mage on the continent back then. Her power is enough to suppress the evil god’s remnant.”
He paused.
“But it needs to work with the Holy Sword.”
Freya was silent for a long time.
“So, if I want to save people, I have to let someone else become the Holy Sword’s bearer. Or—”
“Or you become the Holy Sword’s bearer yourself.”
Serar finished her sentence, his deep blue eyes fixed on her.
“The Holy Sword is in your hand. The heart crystal is in your body. You are the perfect vessel. You don’t need anyone else. You can complete the purification yourself.”
Lyra’s eyes lit up.
“Then Boss should just become the Holy Sword’s bearer!”
“It’s not that simple.” Serar shook his head.
“The Holy Sword’s power isn’t something just anyone can bear. For a thousand years, countless people have tried to pick it up and were consumed by backlash. Only the one chosen can use it safely.”
“But the Holy Sword stopped above Boss’s head!”
“That wasn’t a choice. That was—”
Serar hesitated.
“That was recognition. The Holy Sword recognized her as qualified to decide who gets chosen. But there’s a gap between recognition and choice.”
Freya looked at him.
“What gap?”
Serar was silent for a long time.
“I don’t know. No one knows. Only the one who picks up the Holy Sword will know.”
The room fell into silence again. Lyra stood there, looking from Freya to Serar, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Boss, what are you going to do?”
Freya didn’t answer.
She looked down at her hands.
Those hands had once held a magic wand, released countless spells, but had never held a sword.
“I need time to think.”
She turned and walked toward the door.
“Freya.”
Serar’s voice came from behind her.
She stopped.
“If the remnant of the evil god inside Irina keeps growing, she’ll lose control soon. By then, it won’t just be the Mutual Aid Society—the whole Academy will suffer.”
He paused.
“You don’t have much time.”
Freya stood there, her back to him, for a long time.
“I know.”
She pushed open the door and walked out. Lyra followed behind her.
The corridor was very dark, only the magic lamp at the end casting a dim yellow light.
Freya walked ahead, her footsteps light, as if treading on cotton.
Lyra watched her back, that pale purple silhouette looking especially frail in the dim light. She quickened her pace to walk beside her.
“Boss.”
“Mm.”
“Whatever you decide, I’ll support you.”
Freya didn’t speak. She just reached out and gently ruffled Lyra’s hair.
Back at the dormitory, Freya didn’t turn on the light.
She walked to the window, pushed it open. The night breeze rushed in, carrying the chill of deep autumn.
Lyra stood behind her, watching her silhouette outlined by the moonlight.
“Boss, what are you thinking about?”
“About my mother.”
Lyra walked over and stood beside her.
“Your mom was amazing.”
“Mm.”
“If you become the Holy Sword’s bearer yourself, would your mom be happy?”
Freya paused for a moment.
“I don’t know. She never told me who she wanted me to become.”
“Then who do you want to become?”
Freya turned to look at Lyra. The moonlight fell on her face, making those crimson eyes especially bright.
She remembered when she was little, her mother asked her.
“Freya, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
“I want to be like Mom, go to lots of places, meet lots of people.”
Her mother smiled. That smile was very gentle, but with a hint of sadness she couldn’t understand at the time.
Now she understood—
It was worry.
Her mother was afraid she would walk the same path, be bound by responsibility, lose her freedom.
“I want to be myself.”
She said softly.
Lyra grinned.
“Then be yourself. Whether you’re the Holy Sword’s bearer or not, whether you have that heart crystal or not, you’re still you.”
Freya looked at her, at that silly smiling face, at that little wolf fang glinting in the moonlight.
She reached out and gently patted that fuzzy head.
“Go to sleep.”
“Mm.”
Lyra curled back into her blanket and closed her eyes.
Soon, the sound of even breathing came.
Freya stood by the window, looking out at the heavy night.
In the direction of the Imperial Palace, the Holy Sword’s light was faintly visible in the darkness, like a lamp that never goes out.
She watched for a long time, then closed the window, walked back to the bed, and lay down.
Tomorrow, she had to make a decision.
A decision that might change her life.
Freya opened her eyes. The room was still dark.
Moonlight seeped through the gap in the curtains, falling on the floor mat.
Lyra was sleeping soundly, her silver-white hair spread across the pillow, her breathing even and light.
She watched for a moment, then gently pushed back the covers, got up, and stepped onto the cool floor, making no sound.
She picked up her robe from the back of the chair, draped it over herself, pushed open the door, and walked out.
The corridor was very quiet, only the magic lamp at the end casting a dim yellow light.
She walked down the long hallway, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.
She descended the stairs, pushed open the side door. The night wind hit her face, carrying the chill of deep autumn, stirring her pale purple hair.
The temple was at the deepest part of the Academy.
She walked along the familiar stone path, past the phoenix tree where she had first met Lyra, past the plaza that was always noisy during the day.