Her expression didn’t change.
“No.”
A voice came from the crowd.
Irina stood there, face pale, lips trembling.
“It can’t be her… How could the Holy Sword choose her…”
The Theocrat looked at her, his murky eyes devoid of any emotion.
“The Holy Sword did not choose her.”
Irina froze.
“What?”
The Theocrat turned to face everyone present.
“The Holy Sword chose no one. It only stopped above her head—because she is the Decider.”
His voice was soft, yet it reached every ear clearly.
“The one who is chosen will be decided by her.”
The entire hall erupted. Everyone turned to Freya, to the girl with light purple hair enveloped in the Holy Sword’s radiance.
The Decider—this meant that who would become the Bearer of the Holy Sword was up to her.
Anke’s mouth hung open, speechless.
Sophie was also stunned.
Lyra stood in the crowd, her red eyes fixed on that figure bathed in golden light, her lips slightly parted.
Irina stood there, her face turning from white to green, from green to purple.
She stared at Freya, at the dazzling light, at the looks of admiration everyone was casting her way.
Her fingers slowly tightened, nails digging into her palms.
“Impossible…” she murmured.
“This is impossible…”
Freya stood in the center of the Magic Array, feeling the resonance of the Holy Sword above her head.
The light was warm and pure, like sunlight on skin.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them.
She looked at the Theocrat.
“Are you certain?”
The Theocrat nodded.
“The Holy Scripture records: ‘The Holy Sword does not choose its master; the master chooses the sword bearer.’”
He looked at her. “You are that Sword Holder.”
Freya was silent for a long time.
Then she raised her head, looking at the Holy Sword still spinning.
The light flickered in her eyes, illuminating those light purple irises until they were almost translucent.
“I understand,” she said softly.
Freya submitted her leave request the day after the Test.
The Disciplinary Director looked at the note, his brow so furrowed it could crush a fly, but in the end, he signed it—
The daughter of House Dale, the Emperor’s personally acknowledged “Sword Holder”—he couldn’t afford to offend her.
The carriage was waiting at the Academy gates.
Lyra was holding a bulging bag stuffed with dried meat she loved and books Freya liked.
Anke and Sophie stood on the steps to see them off, one with red-rimmed eyes, the other still muttering reminders to “come back soon.”
“Got it.” Freya cut Sophie off and turned to board the carriage.
Lyra waved at them and followed her in.
The wheels rolled, and the Academy gates slowly receded behind them.
Lyra leaned on the window, watching the familiar buildings grow smaller and smaller until they became a blurry outline.
“Boss, when are we coming back?”
“Don’t know.”
Lyra nodded and didn’t ask further.
She sank back into her seat, pulled a strip of dried meat from the bag, and started chewing.
The carriage drove through streets, through markets, past scenes Freya knew yet didn’t.
She leaned against the inner wall, closing her eyes. The moments from the Test still spun in her mind—
The Holy Sword projection stopping above her head, golden light pouring down, everyone’s eyes fixed on her.
“Miss Freya, what does it feel like to be chosen by the Holy Sword?”
“Miss Freya, how did you do it?”
“Miss Freya, who will you choose as the Bearer of the Holy Sword?”
Those questions came like a tide, wave after wave, endless.
She didn’t want to answer, and didn’t know how to.
She wasn’t the one chosen—she was just—
The Holy Sword had stopped above her head. That was all.
“Boss.” Lyra’s voice came from beside her.
Freya opened her eyes.
“Are you unhappy?”
“No.”
“Then why are you always closing your eyes?”
Freya was silent for a moment.
“Thinking.”
Lyra tilted her head, looking at her.
“Thinking about the Holy Sword?”
Freya didn’t answer.
Lyra didn’t mind. She shoved the rest of the dried meat into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
“Boss, I don’t really get all that Holy Sword and Bearer stuff. But I do know that sword stopped above your head for a reason.”
She paused, her red eyes serious as she looked at Freya.
“It must have seen something to choose you.”
Freya looked at her.
“Maybe.”
Lyra grinned, showing that little wolf fang.
“So Boss, don’t worry! Worrying won’t solve anything! Let’s go home and eat first! Grandpa’s place must have prepared lots of good food!”
Freya was silent for a moment, then the corners of her lips lifted slightly.
“You only know how to eat.”
Lyra nodded matter-of-factly.
“Of course! You can only think clearly on a full stomach!”
The carriage moved on, past fields, past villages, past stretches of golden wheat.
Freya watched the scenery fly by outside the window, and her heart gradually calmed.
When the carriage drove up the long slope, Freya saw her grandfather’s figure—
The white-haired old man stood at the door, his back straight as a ramrod, his light purple eyes—identical to hers—fixed on the carriage.
The carriage stopped. Freya jumped out.
“Grandfather.”
Calanso looked at her, looked for a long time, then reached out and gently patted her shoulder.
“It’s good that you’re back.” His voice was a little hoarse.
“I heard you were chosen by the Holy Sword?”
Freya shook her head. “No. It just stopped above my head.”
The Old Duke’s brows furrowed slightly.
“Just stopped above your head?”
“The Theocrat said I am the Decider. The Bearer of the Holy Sword is chosen by me.”
The Old Duke was silent.
He turned and walked into the house.
“Come in. It’s cold outside.”
Freya followed him, and Lyra hopped along behind with the bag.
Dinner was lavish.
Though the Old Duke lived alone, the cooks were still the same ones from years ago, their skills unchanged.
Lyra ate with grease all over her mouth, her eyes squinting into crescent moons. “Grandpa’s cooking is so good!”
The Old Duke looked at her enthusiastic eating and even cracked a rare smile.
“If it’s good, eat more.”
He added a spare rib to Lyra’s bowl, then turned to Freya.
“What do you plan to do?”
Freya put down her chopsticks.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t want to be the Decider. I don’t want to choose any Bearer of the Holy Sword.” She paused.
“I just want to study quietly, train, and graduate.”
The Old Duke looked at her for a long time.
“Your mother said something similar back then. She said she didn’t want to marry into the Imperial Family or the Nobles, didn’t want to be the Crown Princess, just wanted to paint quietly, ride horses, and live her days.”
His voice was very soft. “But in the end, she still married.”
Freya lowered her head.
“I’m not forcing you.” The Old Duke stood up.
“I’m just saying, sometimes, destiny doesn’t give you a choice.”
He walked out. The dining room was left with only Freya and Lyra.
Lyra put down her chopsticks and looked at Freya.
“Boss.”
“Hm.”
“Grandpa is right. Destiny doesn’t give you a choice.” She paused.
“But you can choose how to face it.”
Freya raised her head and looked at her.
Those red eyes shone especially bright in the candlelight, like two burning stars.
“When did you learn to talk like that?”
Lyra grinned.
“Learned from Boss!”
That night, Freya lay in her room, staring at the ceiling.
Moonlight seeped through the curtains, falling on her light purple hair.
She thought of her previous life, of the light the Holy Sword had emitted in Ross’s hands, of him standing in the midst of thousands, receiving everyone’s cheers.
In that life, the Holy Sword hadn’t chosen her, hadn’t even paused above her head.
In this life, everything had changed—
The Holy Sword had stopped above her head, the Theocrat said she was the Decider, and everyone looked at her, waiting for her to make a choice.
But she didn’t want to choose.
She didn’t want to be the Decider, didn’t want to bear the fate of the entire continent.
She just wanted—to be Freya.
An ordinary, quiet Magic Academy student who didn’t need to make decisions for anyone.
But was that possible?
She closed her eyes.
The next morning, when Freya woke up, she heard a strange sound outside the window.
She walked to the window, pushed it open, and looked down.
Lyra was standing in the empty space downstairs, her silver-white hair fluttering in the morning breeze, a golden light dancing in her palm.
Not the faint light from before, but a ball of light the size of a fist, bright as a small sun.
It spun in her palm, radiating a warm glow.
“Boss!” Lyra looked up and saw her, waving excitedly.
“Look! I can control it now! It won’t explode!”
The light pulsed steadily in her palm, like a living heart.
Freya looked at that light, at her silly, grinning face, and the corners of her lips lifted slightly.
“Come down! I’ll teach you!”
Lyra waved at her.
Freya was silent for a moment, then turned and walked downstairs. The sunlight fell on her, warm.
In the distant sky, the clouds gradually parted, revealing a clear blue.
Her grandfather’s estate was large, yet exceptionally quiet.
Freya hadn’t noticed it when she was little.
Back then, her mother was still alive, and laughter always echoed in the hallways, and her figure tending the flowers in the garden was always there.
Her father didn’t come home often then, but every time he did, he brought her gifts—
Ice Crystals from the Northern Frontier, colorful candies from the Border Towns, and those ancient Magic Tomes she could never understand.
Later, her mother left, her father left, and only her grandfather and she remained in the estate.
Later still, she went to the Academy, and her grandfather lived here alone, guarding this empty, old house.
“Boss, I just realized today how big Grandpa’s house is!”
Lyra’s voice came from ahead, interrupting her thoughts.
The white-haired girl was crouching at the end of the corridor, curiously studying an ice-carved griffin.
The griffin was lifelike, every feather on its spread wings clearly visible, refracting fine light in the sunlight.
Lyra reached out and carefully touched its claw.
“It’s cold! Will it come to life?”
“No. It’s just a dead thing.”