Chapter 120: Penetration

“Why? Why do you always win? Why are you always stronger than me?”

Her voice roared, tears streaming from those dark purple eyes, sliding down her cheeks.

“I clearly work harder than you, I’m smarter than you, I deserve those things more! But everyone chooses you! The Holy Sword chooses you, Ross chooses you, even that white-haired fool chooses you! Why!”

Freya stopped in front of her.

“Because,” her voice was very soft. “What you want was never something you earned yourself. What you wanted was all taken by force.”

Irina’s pupils contracted sharply.

“Ross is not yours. The Holy Sword is not yours. Those who follow you are not yours.”

Freya looked at her.

“You just treated them as your possessions. But they are not possessions. They are people.”

Irina stood there, trembling, tears blurring her vision. She looked at Freya, at the Holy Sword, at that golden, dazzling light that made her unable to open her eyes.

“I hate you,” her voice was very soft, soft as if telling a secret. “I have hated you since the first day I met you.”

Freya said nothing. She just looked at Irina, at that face twisted by tears and hatred.

“I know,” she said softly.

The Holy Sword in her hand emitted a dazzling light. That light was warm and pure, like sunlight, like hope, like all the beautiful things Irina had never possessed. It illuminated the figures floating in the air, the walls wrapped in vines, and Irina’s pale, tear-streaked face.

She closed her eyes.

“You lost.”

Freya’s voice was very soft.

You lost.

Those three words exploded like a bomb in Irina’s mind. Her pupils contracted sharply, those dark purple eyes churning with madness and uncontrollable light.

Then she screamed—not an ordinary scream, but a tearing roar erupting from the depths of her soul, so sharp that the whole space trembled.

Black aura exploded from her body like countless freed venomous snakes, rushing in all directions. The members of the Mutual Aid Society who had been floating quietly suddenly opened their eyes—their eyes were no longer eyes, but two dim, burning dark purple flames.

They fell from the air and rushed toward Freya. Their movements were stiff and swift, like marionettes pulled by invisible strings.

Lyra stepped in front of Freya and kicked the first one who charged.

“The boss said we can’t hurt them!”

She gritted her teeth and punched the second one in the abdomen, sending him flying like a kite with a broken string, crashing into the wall, then struggling to get up. They felt no pain, no fear, only knew to move forward, only knew to attack.

“Boss, think of something fast!” Lyra shouted while kicking.

Freya didn’t answer. Her hands trembled, the Holy Sword vibrating violently in her palm like a beast trying to break free from its reins.

That power rampaged inside her, mixing with her mana, her bloodline, her heartbeat, making her almost unable to hold the sword. Her heart pounded abnormally fast, the Mana Heart Crystal beating wildly deep in her heart meridian, as if responding to the Holy Sword’s hum, or as if warning of something.

The black mist grew thicker, so thick that one could barely see their hand in front of their face. That mist writhed with life, wrapping around her ankles, climbing up her calves, trying to drag her into the abyss.

Freya clenched her teeth, searching through the thick darkness—then she saw it.

On Irina’s chest, that abnormal black mass. Not a mark, not a pattern, but a living, writhing black core that beat like a heart. That was the main body of the Remnant of Evil God, the source of Irina’s loss of control, the root of all this.

“Lyra!” she called.

Lyra kicked over the last charging Mutual Aid Society member, then ran to Freya’s side, her silver-white hair tousled by the black mist, her red eyes bright like two burning flames.

“Boss, I’m here!”

“Put your hands on the Holy Sword.”

Lyra didn’t hesitate, placing both hands on the Holy Sword’s blade. Golden Light Magic poured from her palms, warm and pure, like fire in a winter fireplace. The black mist hissed when it touched the light, like snow meeting sunlight.

Freya closed her eyes, mobilizing the Mana Heart Crystal in her heart. The power left by her mother surged from the depths of her heart meridian, intertwining with Lyra’s Light Magic. The two powers merged on the Holy Sword’s blade—not conflict, not opposition, but a more harmonious light, winding like Yin-Yang Fish.

The Holy Sword let out a low, long hum, like a dragon finally awakened after a thousand years of slumber.

Together, they thrust the Holy Sword forward. The sword tip cut through the black mist, cut through space, and precisely pierced the beating black core on Irina’s chest.

Irina screamed—a sound not humanly possible, sharp and piercing, mixed with pain, anger, fear, and resentment.

Black aura gushed wildly from her chest like a punctured airbag, fleeing in all directions. The Holy Sword’s light eroded the black aura, purifying it bit by bit. The light grew brighter and brighter, illuminating the entire space like daylight.

Then—

Freya felt a sharp pain in her heart. Not the backlash of the Holy Sword, not mana depletion, but a sharper, more direct pain, as if something had pierced her chest and stabbed into her heart.

She looked down and saw a black crystal shard embedded in her chest. That shard was small, only the size of a fingernail, but carried an ice-cold, despair-inducing power.

“Boss!”

Lyra’s voice came from far away.

Freya felt her soul tremble, as if an invisible hand had pulled it from her body and then forcefully shoved it back. Her hand released the sword hilt, her body lost support, and she fell backward. Light purple hair scattered on the ground.

The Holy Sword was still stuck in Irina’s chest, golden light still purifying the black aura.

Lyra rushed over, knelt beside her, pressing on the spot where the black crystal had entered.

“Boss! Boss, wake up! Don’t scare me!”

Freya’s eyes were half-open, looking at Lyra’s tear-streaked face. She wanted to say something, her lips moved, but no sound came out.

Darkness surged from all sides, devouring her consciousness. She closed her eyes.

Lyra knelt there, holding Freya’s gradually cooling body, tears falling one by one onto her pale face.

“Boss…”

The space was shattering, the black mist dissipating, the Mutual Aid Society members collapsing one by one, as if all strength had been drained.

Irina knelt on the ground, the Holy Sword stuck in her chest, trembling all over, muttering incoherently.

“I won… I won… No… I didn’t… Why…”

No one answered her.

In the distance, the sky finally brightened. The first rays of morning light penetrated the cracks of the shattered space, falling on Freya’s light purple hair, on her pale face, on Lyra’s tear-streaked face.

Freya felt herself sinking into very deep water. Not cold seawater, not warm lake water, but a void with no temperature, no sensation. She heard no sound, saw no light, felt no body. Only consciousness remained, like a dim lamp shining alone in endless darkness.

Then she heard a voice, coming from very far away, like wind through a valley, like water over stones.

“Freya…”

She opened her eyes.

The ceiling was white—not a harsh white, but a soft white like moonlight. The air smelled of herbs, mixed with some faint incense. She lay on a soft bed, the blanket covering her chest, light purple hair scattered on the pillow. Sunlight streamed through the window, falling on her face, warm.

“Boss!”

Lyra’s face appeared in her view, silver-white hair messy, eyes red, nose red, as if she had just been crying.

“You’re awake! You’re finally awake!”

Her tears fell again, one by one onto Freya’s hand.

Freya tried to speak, but her throat was as dry as sandpaper. She moved her lips, only managing a hoarse syllable.

Lyra quickly picked up the cup of water on the low table and carefully fed her a few sips. The water was warm, with a faint sweetness.

“Drink slowly, don’t choke.”

Lyra’s voice was still trembling.

Freya drank a few sips, moistening her throat.

“How long was I out?”

“Three days.”

Lyra’s tears welled up again.

“You were unconscious for three days. I was so afraid you wouldn’t wake up.”

Three days.

Freya closed her eyes, the last scene before fainting flashing in her mind—that black crystal shard piercing her chest, the cold, despairing power exploding inside her.

She raised her hand and pressed it to her chest. Her heart still beat, the Mana Heart Crystal still there. But something was different. Like an undercurrent beneath a calm lake—invisible, intangible, yet truly present.

“What about that shard?”

Lyra’s expression changed.

“Shard? What shard?”

Freya was silent for a moment.

“Nothing.”

She didn’t tell Lyra about the black crystal, not wanting to worry her. But she knew it was still inside her. She could feel it—like a cold, sleeping seed buried deep in her heart meridian, entangled with the Mana Heart Crystal her mother left her. It was waiting, waiting for the right time to sprout.

“What about Irina?” Freya asked.

Lyra’s expression became complicated.

“She didn’t die. The Holy Sword pierced her chest and purified that black thing. She was severely injured and is locked in a cell beneath the Temple. The Theocrat said that when she wakes up, she will face trial.”

“What about the Holy Sword?”

“Still in the Temple. After you fell unconscious, it flew out of Irina’s chest and returned to the Holy Sword Platform.”