Chapter 101: Bewitchment

“What？”

Anke considered her words carefully.

“She’s really dependent on you. It’s not just… the kind of dependency that comes from being rescued. It’s deeper.”

She paused.

“Haven’t you noticed it yourself? The way she looks at you is different from everyone else.”

Freya’s fingers stopped for a moment.

She didn’t answer. She just picked up her teacup and took another sip.

When Lyra came back, she had that carefree smile plastered on her face again.

She plopped down, grabbed her fork, and continued stabbing at the already cold cut of meat.

“Boss, are we going to the Training Ground today?”

“Yes.”

“Yay!”

Anke looked at her, then at Freya, and tactfully didn’t bring up the earlier topic again.

After eating, the three of them walked out of the Academy Canteen.

The sunlight was nice, warm on their skin.

Anke had a class to go to. She waved at them and hurried off.

Freya and Lyra walked side by side toward the Training Ground. Halfway there, they saw someone.

Serar stood under the Phoenix Tree, his ice-blue hair gently swaying in the wind.

Today he wasn’t smiling. Those deep blue eyes held a rare seriousness.

“Freya.”

He spoke.

“I need to talk to you.”

Freya stopped.

Lyra’s brow immediately furrowed. She unconsciously took half a step forward.

Serar watched her movement, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, but he didn’t laugh.

“It’s nothing bad.”

He looked at Freya.

“The Theocrat sent another message.”

Freya was silent for a moment.

“Say it.”

Serar glanced around.

“It’s not convenient here. The Training Ground? Or the usual place?”

“The Training Ground.”

The three of them headed to the Training Ground.

No one spoke the whole way. Only the sound of footsteps echoed on the stone path.

Lyra walked at Freya’s side, occasionally glancing at Serar, her red eyes full of vigilance.

On the bleachers of the Training Ground, Serar sat down. Freya sat next to him, leaving one seat’s distance between them.

Lyra crouched at Freya’s feet, clutching the Monster Bestiary, her red eyes fixed on Serar.

“The Theocrat said,”

Serar began, his voice low.

“The seal is loosening faster than expected. It might not last half a year.”

Freya’s fingers tightened slightly.

“She also said,”

Serar looked at her.

“The Selection of the Holy Sword Envoy is about to begin. And the key to that selection—”

He paused.

“Is you.”

Lyra looked up, her red eyes wide.

Freya didn’t speak.

She just sat there, staring into the distant sky.

The sunlight was nice. The clouds were white. Everything seemed so peaceful.

But inside her, something was churning.

“How does the selection work?”

She asked.

Serar shook his head.

“I don’t know. The Theocrat only said you’ll know when the time comes.”

Freya was silent for a long time.

Lyra crouched at her feet, reached out, and gently took the hand that hung by Freya’s side.

That hand was a little cold.

Lyra wrapped it in her own, warming it bit by bit.

“Boss,”

she said softly.

“No matter what happens, I’m here.”

Freya lowered her head, looking at the hands holding hers, at those sincere red eyes.

She nodded slightly.

“Yeah.”

Serar watched the scene, a complex light flickering in his deep blue eyes.

He stood up.

“I’ve delivered the message. I’m off.

If anything happens, feel free to find me anytime.”

He left.

Only Freya and Lyra remained in the Training Ground.

The sunlight fell on the empty field, stretching their shadows long.

“Boss.”

“Hmm.”

“That Evil God,”

Lyra hesitated.

“Is it very strong?”

“Very strong.”

“Stronger than you?”

Freya was silent for a moment.

“…Yeah.”

Lyra thought for a bit.

“Then we find someone even stronger to help.

Isn’t there that Holy Sword Envoy or something?”

Freya looked at her, at those earnest red eyes.

“What if we can’t find one?”

Lyra tilted her head, thinking.

“Then we go ourselves.”

Freya was startled for a second, then the corner of her mouth lifted in a very faint arc.

“You?”

“What about me?”

Lyra puffed out her chest.

“I’ll get stronger!

Boss teaches me magic, and I’ll train on my own.

When the Evil God comes, I’ll fight him!”

Freya stared at her determined face for a long time.

Then she reached out and gently ruffled that fluffy head.

“Okay.”

Lyra grinned, her eyes curving into crescent moons.

Far away, in the shadow of the Classroom building, Irina withdrew her gaze. Her expression was grim.

She had seen Serar and Freya talking on the Training Ground bleachers.

She didn’t know what they said, but she knew—

Something was happening where she couldn’t see it.

Her fingers slowly tightened, nails digging into her palms.

She turned and walked deeper into the shadows.

After that, Irina sneaked into the Imperial Palace every day.

Each time she chose the dead of night—when the patrol guards were changing shifts, when the moonlight was hidden by clouds.

She moved like a silent shadow through the Secret Tunnel, across the Corridor, and knocked on that heavy Oak Door.

Ross knew he shouldn’t let her in. He knew his Father Emperor would be furious. He knew the Queen Mother wouldn’t be pleased either.

But every time he heard that knock—three long, two short—he still stood up, walked over, and opened the door.

Irina stood outside, her hood half-covering her face, only revealing a pair of pink eyes full of concern.

“Your Highness, have you eaten today?”

Yes.

Or no.

She always had something to say—

If he had eaten, she would smile and nod, “You’ve been good, Your Highness.”

If he hadn’t, her eyes would redden.

“Your Highness, you can’t treat yourself like this.”

Then she would pull out a small oil-paper package from her chest, containing a few cookies she had baked herself.

“I’m not very good at baking, please don’t mind, Your Highness.”

Ross took a cookie and bit into it. It was sweet.

It had been a long time since he had tasted something sweet.

Every time she came, she would say something.

Those words were light, soft—like the spring breeze, like winter snow. Before he knew it, they settled into his heart.

“Your Highness, do you know the legend of the Holy Sword Hero?”

One time, she sat beside him and asked softly.

Ross nodded. He had heard it as a child—

The Evil God descends, the Holy Sword chooses a Hero, light overcomes darkness.

The Theocrats had told that story for a thousand years. He had heard it so many times he was sick of it.

“But Your Highness, do you know the standard by which the Holy Sword chooses its Hero?”

Irina tilted her head. Those pink eyes looked especially deep in the dim light.

Ross shook his head.

“It’s the heart.”

She reached out and gently tapped his chest.

“The heart of a Hero.

Only the purest, most steadfast, most fearless heart can earn the Holy Sword’s recognition.”

Ross’s eyelashes fluttered slightly.

Irina’s voice grew softer, as if she were telling a secret.

“Your Highness has such a heart.

You’ve had it since you were little.

You’re just… temporarily lost.”

There was a certain magic hidden in her words—

Not the violent, coercive kind of magic. Something gentler, more hidden.

It didn’t force you to believe anything. It just quietly, slowly planted a seed in your heart, then watered it, fertilized it, waiting for it to sprout.

“Once you become the Holy Sword Hero,”

Irina’s voice came from very, very far away.

“Everyone will see you anew.

Your Father Emperor will be proud of you. Those who gossip behind your back will shut up. And…”

She paused, the corner of her lips lifting slightly.

“Your classmate Freya will understand your good intentions too.”

Ross’s eyes flickered faintly.

“She doesn’t talk to you now. It’s not your fault.”

Irina’s voice grew even softer.

“She just doesn’t know how wonderful you are.

When you become the Hero, when you save everyone, she’ll see.”

Ross didn’t speak. He just stared ahead.

Irina looked at him, at his blue eyes that were gradually turning hollow. The smile at the corner of her lips deepened.

“Your Highness, do you want to become the Holy Sword Hero?”

“Yes.”

“You will become it.”

Irina’s voice was like a lullaby.

“You definitely will.”

That night, Ross had a dream.

In the dream, he stood on a Mountain Peak, holding the Holy Sword. The Holy Sword shone with golden light under the moonlight.

At his feet were thousands of subjects, looking up at him, cheering “Long live!”

Freya was also in the crowd. She looked at him, those light purple eyes no longer distant or cold. Only worship, only admiration, only—

Something he had been waiting for for years.

He smiled, like a child.

Then he woke up.

Outside the window, dawn hadn’t broken yet. Moonlight spilled coldly inside.

He sat up and looked at his hands—

There was nothing. No Holy Sword. No light.

But suddenly, he felt that someday, those hands would hold it.

When Irina came again, she brought a book.

The book was very old. The cover was worn, the pages yellowed. On the front, ancient characters read: Examination of the Holy Sword Legend.

Ross took the book and opened the first page—

There was an illustration of the Holy Sword, with ancient runes carved on the blade.

“I searched hard to find this.”

Irina sat beside him, her voice gentle.

“It contains many things about the Holy Sword.

You must be interested, Your Highness.”

Ross was indeed interested.

He flipped through page by page, looking at the ancient texts and pictures. A certain light gradually ignited in his eyes.

Irina watched him, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly.

“Your Highness,”

she said softly.

“Do you know? The last time the Holy Sword appeared was a thousand years ago.

That generation’s Hero was originally just an ordinary person.

He had no special lineage, no amazing talent.

But he had a steadfast heart.”

She paused.

“Exactly like you, Your Highness.”

Ross’s hand, turning the pages, stopped for a moment.

“Your Highness has an advantage over him.”

Irina continued.

“You have noble blood, powerful magic, and the support of the entire Empire.

All you need—”

She paused.

“Is to believe in yourself.”

Those words fell like seeds into Ross’s heart.

He thought of his Father Emperor’s roars, his Queen Mother’s disappointment, Freya’s cold eyes.

He remembered kneeling in the center of the Great Hall, being scolded until he was utterly humiliated.

He remembered lying in bed day after day, staring at the ceiling.