Consciousness ebbed and flowed, as if drifting through an endless sea of memories.
Eileen felt as if she had lived through an extraordinarily long yet vividly clear dream.
In that dream, she was no longer Eileen Raven but the girl who would later be revered as the “Sacred Archmage King.”
The towering spires of the Magic Academy soared into the clouds, sunlight filtering through stained glass windows and casting colorful patterns upon the polished stone floor.
The air was thick with the distinct scent of parchment, ink, and arcane dust.
By her side, there was always a shadowy presence—her twin sister, Minianne, or the girl known as the “Shadow King.”
Minianne bore a face almost identical to hers but was far paler and more fragile.
Those eyes, which should have been equally bright, often held a faint trace of exhaustion and gloom that was hard to detect.
Minianne suffered from a rare, incurable disease unique to their world—Congenital Mana Deficiency.
Her body was like a leaky funnel, born incapable of storing mana, unconsciously consuming her own magic day and night.
When that faint mana was depleted, it mercilessly began to consume the very essence of her soul.
This ailment was like maggots gnawing at the bone, causing her to wither day by day; her vitality slipped through her fingers like grains of sand.
No matter how precious the potions or how skilled the treatments, nothing could halt that slow and relentless decay.
Meanwhile, as her elder sister, Eileen was a prodigy rarely seen in a millennium at the Magic Academy.
Mana surged through her like a roaring river, and her understanding of magic advanced by leaps and bounds every day.
Any complex spell became effortless in her hands.
Her mentors marveled at her talent, regarding her as the shining hope for the Academy and all of magical civilization, prophesying that she would one day reach the legendary realm of “miracles.”
Yet all the glory and praise meant nothing to her compared to the sight of her sister’s increasingly pale cheeks and forced smiles.
She plunged herself into magic research with desperation, day after day forcibly pouring her overwhelming mana into Minianne, trying to fill that bottomless pit.
After each infusion, Minianne’s complexion would briefly brighten, only to be overtaken again by even deeper weakness.
“Sister…” Minianne’s voice was always soft, filled with a heartbreaking tenderness, “Please don’t waste your mana on me anymore… I… I don’t want to be your burden.”
“Shut up!” The “her” in the dream spoke with a near-obsessive severity, clutching her sister’s cold wrist tightly as she poured in a torrent of mana, “I will find a way to save you! No matter what the cost! So don’t ever say you want to ‘disappear’ again! Do you hear me?!”
Their beautiful everyday moments flowed gently in the dream:
The two sisters darted between the towering bookshelves of the library, Minianne tiptoeing to reach the high magical tomes, while “she” only needed to wave a hand and the books would float down gracefully;
In the Academy courtyard, Minianne sat on grass sprinkled with starspirit flowers, watching “her” practice intricate elemental shaping, the glow of magic reflected in her sister’s gentle yet slightly envious eyes;
At night, “she” stayed by Minianne’s bedside, transferring mana while softly recounting legends from ancient tomes…
But beneath this seemingly heartwarming daily life lay a deep and despairing shadow.
No matter how powerful “she” became, no matter how much mana was infused, Minianne’s body continued to weaken irreversibly.
That helplessness was like a cold tide, eroding “her” heart day and night.
During an important expedition to ancient ruins, “she” met the first-generation Sword Saint, Frieda, a fiery and straightforward legendary woman radiating pure strength.
By the campfire, Frieda watched “her” worry over her sister and took a gulp of strong liquor, sighing, “This world is truly ruled by something so unreasonable as ‘talent.’ Some are born with destructive power, others barely able to survive, cursed from birth… It’s just… an incredibly unfair world.”
Those words struck like thunder, exploding in the lake of despair and obsession already filling “her” heart!
Yes! How unfair! Why must fate be so unjust? Why must her sister suffer such pain from birth? Why must talent decide everything? Must this injustice, this distortion, simply be accepted?
An unprecedented, cold yet grand will began to brew and churn deep within “her” soul like a sleeping volcano.
Change it! Change this unreasonable world! So that tragedies like Minianne’s would never happen again!
A vague but unshakable goal began to take shape.
The dream’s images started to blur and fracture, and the will of the Sacred Archmage King—powerful enough to shake the world—receded like a tide, leaving only a profound echo behind.
Eileen’s consciousness slowly resurfaced; her heavy eyelids finally struggled open a crack.
The soft light was somewhat dazzling. She blinked, her blurry vision gradually sharpening.
The first thing she saw was a stunningly beautiful face, full of surprise and deep worry.
It was Roswitha, tightly holding Eileen’s hand, as if afraid she would vanish if she let go.
“Eileen! You’re awake! Thank goodness!”
Roswitha’s voice trembled with excitement and relief, her sapphire eyes shimmering with tears.
Eileen wanted to respond but her throat was so dry it felt like sandpaper scraping—she could only emit a hoarse whimper.
“Water! Quick, drink some water!” Roswitha reacted immediately, gently but swiftly lifting a cup of water from the nearby table, carefully supporting Eileen’s head as she fed her cool water drop by drop.
The refreshing water soothed her parched throat, and Eileen felt noticeably better. Her voice regained some strength: “How… long was I asleep? It feels like… I had a very long, long dream…”
Her voice was still weak.
Roswitha’s eyes reddened further, tinged with lingering fear, “Seven whole days! Eileen! Do you know how worried we were? When Lilisa carried you back, your breathing was so faint it was almost imperceptible. I thought… I thought you’d never wake up again…”
She gently stroked the hair scattered on Eileen’s pillow, overwhelmed with pain.
“Seven days?!” Eileen was startled herself.
No wonder the dream felt so long, almost reliving all the core memories of the Archmage King about her sister Minianne.
A complex wave of emotions surged in her heart, but Roswitha’s care soon washed it away.
“It’s nothing serious…” Eileen instinctively tried to comfort her, forcing a weak smile, “See, I’m awake now, aren’t I?”
However, as soon as she spoke, Eileen suddenly sensed something was off.
Roswitha… seemed a bit different?
The usual Roswitha, although gentle and considerate, was introverted and quiet, always speaking softly with a fragile aloofness.
But this version, while unchanged in appearance, carried a demeanor that was… livelier? Even tinged with a hint of… mischief?
“Roswitha, why do you seem a little different?”
A mischievous gleam flashed in Roswitha’s eyes. She leaned close to Eileen and lowered her voice to a mysterious yet playful tone: “Of course I’m different. Because after Roswitha and I merged, the old Roswitha disappeared.”
“!” Eileen froze instantly, her face paling even more than her white hair as if a cold hand had gripped her heart.
Disappeared?! Roswitha’s consciousness… was replaced?!
Eileen knew that within Roswitha’s body existed another, far more powerful soul. It was that second persona who dealt a fatal blow to the Shadow King back in Endymion City!
Now it seemed this persona was a projection of the Goddess herself! If the two fused, it made sense that the mortal Roswitha would vanish.
And the one who used the Miracle Weaver to rewrite the past and force the Goddess’s projection to merge early was… herself—the culprit!
Seeing Eileen’s face drain of color and the overwhelming panic welling up in her eyes, Roswitha finally couldn’t help but burst into laughter, waving her hands: “Just kidding! Just kidding! Look how scared you are!”
She hurried to explain, a smile mixed with apology and ease: “Sorry, just joking. It’s a ‘fusion,’ not a replacement. Roswitha’s consciousness is still there. But when we forcibly awakened ‘me’—the fragment of the Goddess’s will slumbering deep within her—the cost was huge. Her main consciousness is still in a deep sleep recovering. She should wake up in a couple of days.”
“Now we can switch anytime! And our divine power has increased like never before!”
Eileen exhaled a long, long breath, as if a drowning person finally surfaced, collapsing weakly onto the pillow. She shot Roswitha—or rather, whoever was currently in control—a tired glare: “… That joke wasn’t funny at all! You scared me half to death!”
“Sorry, sorry,” Roswitha stuck out her tongue, then grew serious again. She squeezed Eileen’s hand with undeniable strength: “But Eileen, I have to warn you solemnly. The Miracle Weaver’s power, especially the kind you used last—directly shaking and altering an already determined ‘past’—costs far more than just mana! It’s the energy of your soul’s essence! It burns away your life’s foundation!”
Her gaze was filled with concern and worry: “If you keep using it recklessly like this, your soul won’t be able to bear the burden and will ultimately… completely dissipate! Promise me, no matter what, don’t ever use it like that again unless absolutely necessary!”
Feeling the genuine care in Roswitha’s words, warmth bloomed in Eileen’s heart, and she nodded seriously: “Mm, I understand. I promise I’ll be careful from now on.”
Yet deep within her, a voice echoed clearly: if the lives of her comrades and the fate of the world were once again placed on one side of the scale and her own safety on the other… she probably still wouldn’t hesitate to burn herself to weave that faint miracle.
Bishop Eisenhart was right—power is meaningless if not used when needed.
To protect, what does it matter if one’s body shatters?
Thinking this, Eileen immediately asked, “What about Bishop Eisenhart and Regilith? Are they okay?”
“They’re fine, don’t worry.” Roswitha smiled with relief, “Bishop Eisenhart has recovered well—the Silver Armored Paladin looks absolutely amazing! As for Regilith…”
She paused, a trace of emotion in her smile, “She seems like a completely different person now. She comes to watch over you at your bedside for a long time every day. There’s something completely different in her eyes. Guilt, gratitude, and… a newfound resolve. Serena and Helga have also been guarding outside, along with Rita and Lilisa.”
As if to confirm her words, the door quietly opened.
Helga and Rita rushed in first.
The moment Helga saw Eileen awake, tears streamed down her face as she pounced onto the bedside like a little cannonball: “Eileen! You’re finally awake! Waaa… I was so scared! I thought… I thought…” She sobbed uncontrollably, clutching Eileen’s arm tightly.
Although Rita didn’t throw herself on her like Helga, her usually calm eyes were also filled with tears as she silently sat by the bedside, everything unspoken yet understood.
Serena followed in, and upon seeing Helga weeping over Eileen, she crossed her arms and looked away habitually, her cheeks flushed as she muttered, “Hey, hey, what are you crying like that for… Silly Helga, don’t crush Eileen…”
However, her trembling shoulders and the glistening tears in her eyes betrayed the turmoil within.
Lilisa came in quietly last, her damaged parts seemingly carefully repaired. Her heterochromatic eyes quietly watched Eileen with a silent sense of protection and relief.
Finally, Regilith entered.
She wore simple, plain clothes, her deep blue hair tied back, and her face lacked the carefully maintained aloof elegance of before, replaced by pure concern and an unshakable heaviness.
Unlike the others, she didn’t approach but walked straight to Eileen’s bedside and, to everyone’s surprise, slowly and solemnly knelt on one knee.
She lifted her head, those deep blue eyes once filled with calculation and the burdens of her family now clear and resolute, brimming with tears of gratitude.
“Eileen,” her voice choked barely audible yet clear, “Thank you. Thank you for saving my father and… saving me. Without your miracle reversing fate, my father, I, and Roswitha would have long been reduced to nothing but bones.”
She took a deep breath as if expelling a lifetime of accumulated filth: “At the same time, I want to offer you and everyone my most sincere and profound apologies for what I did in the past. I was blinded by my family’s mission, twisted by fear and so-called ‘responsibility,’ and committed many despicable acts that hurt everyone and violated the knight’s path. I… am deeply sinful.”
Tears finally slipped down her cheeks, dropping onto the cold floor: “I know an apology cannot repair any harm. But please believe me, from now on, the ‘Raef’ crushed and desperate under family orders is dead and gone!”
“The Regilith Eisenhart you see now is only a shield for my father and everyone else! I will use my life to protect you all and atone for my sins! If there’s ever a place you need me, no matter how difficult, I will face death without hesitation!”
The room fell into silence, broken only by Regilith’s suppressed sobs.
Eileen looked at the kneeling girl with a complex expression.
Indeed, if it were the old Raef obsessed with family interests and treating others as chess pieces, she would never have spoken with such heartfelt regret and rebirth vows.
She might have expressed thanks, but never this humble a confession.
After everything she had been through, especially experiencing the Sacred Archmage King’s profound love for her sister and helpless pain during her coma, much of Eileen’s resentment had indeed softened.
The Archmage King’s vast memories gave her a deeper understanding of the world’s attachments, pains, and struggles. Many things seemed easier to see through now.
She gazed at Regilith’s tear-streaked face, sighed softly, and reached out to gently press her hand on the girl’s head—this gesture carried a warmth and authority beyond her years, as if from the Archmage King’s distant memory.
“Regilith,” Eileen’s voice was weak but carried undeniable strength, “Rise. I’ve heard your words of repentance. Remember what you said today.”
She deliberately put on a stern face, pretending to be serious, but there was a faint warmth in her eyes: “From now on… no more of that, okay? Getting along with everyone and being their shield is not just talk.”
Regilith suddenly lifted her head to meet Eileen’s gaze, as if receiving some precious forgiveness and recognition.
She nodded vigorously, tears flowing harder, but a tear-stained yet relieved and resolute smile blossomed on her face: “Yes! Miss Eileen! I swear! Never again!”
Warm sunlight poured through the window, illuminating every tear-streaked but hopeful face in the room.
The relief of surviving disaster, the warmth of forgiveness, and the faint light pointing to the future—bought at great cost by Eileen—all intertwined into a precious and moving scene.
Though the shadows over the Holy Capital had not yet dissipated, the hands they held tightly seemed to grasp the power to resist the darkness.
They had misunderstandings and grievances, but at this moment, they could finally understand one another.
The vague feelings of affection from the past, after surviving life and death, might now transform into a more profound and important emotion.
Roswitha and the others then began recounting everything that had transpired during Eileen’s coma—the outside world had turned upside down…
“What? The Pope said I’m the head of a heretical cult? Colluding with the Shadow Sword Guild to rebel? Targeting the kingdom and the church?!”