Moonlight fell coldly, stretching her shadow long.
The temple door was ajar.
She pushed it open and stepped inside.
Candlelight flickered in the still air, casting the ancient mythological murals on the walls into shifting light and shadow.
The Holy Sword hovered above the platform, its tip pointed downward. The light on its blade pulsed, bright then dim, as if breathing.
It seemed to sense someone had entered. The glow brightened slightly.
Freya stood before the Holy Sword platform, looking up at the blade.
She recalled her previous life. It had been in Ross’s hand then, its light blinding.
Everyone had looked up to him.
She had stood in the crowd, watching that golden light, feeling nothing in her heart.
Back then, she hadn’t known that one day this sword would stop above her head.
Nor had she known she would stand here, alone in the early morning, facing it.
“Can you help me?” Her voice was soft, barely louder than a whisper.
The Holy Sword’s light flickered once.
“Holy Sword, I don’t know if I can become your possessor.”
She paused.
“But I hope that now, you can help me.”
Silence.
The candle flame jumped, casting a swaying shadow on the wall.
Then—
The Holy Sword let out a humming sound.
It was deep, like the toll of a bell from very far away, reverberating through the empty temple.
Freya stood there, watching the sword slowly rise from the platform. The light on its blade grew brighter, more intense, until it illuminated the entire temple as if it were noon.
It flew.
Not toward her, but circled the temple once, as if hesitating, as if confirming.
Then it turned, pointed its tip downward, and descended slowly.
Freya reached out.
The Holy Sword landed in her palm. The hilt was warm, as if alive and beating.
Light spilled from between her fingers where she gripped the hilt, spreading up her arm, across her shoulder, over her chest, enveloping her entire body in a golden halo.
She stood there, holding the Holy Sword that no one had been able to wield for a thousand years.
Candlelight danced around her, casting her shadow on the wall—tall and solitary.
She lowered her head and looked at the sword in her hand.
Ancient runes were carved into the blade, and those runes were glowing, pulsing in the same rhythm as her heartbeat.
Suddenly, she remembered the Mana Heart Crystal her mother had left her—
It beat inside her heart, synchronized with the Holy Sword’s light, as if responding, as if resonating.
“I see.”
She said softly.
She didn’t know what she was saying, but she suddenly felt that what her mother had left her might not have been just that Heart Crystal.
Perhaps also—this sword.
She lifted her head and gazed at the temple’s towering dome.
Moonlight poured in from the high windows, falling on her light purple hair, on the still-glowing Holy Sword in her hand.
She stood there for a long time.
Then she heard a voice.
“Boss.”
She turned.
Lyra stood at the temple entrance.
Her silver-white hair was slightly tousled by the night wind, and her red eyes were wide open, staring at the Holy Sword in Freya’s hand.
“You…”
Lyra’s voice trembled.
“You picked up the Holy Sword?”
Freya looked at her, at that face full of shock and worry.
“Yeah.”
Lyra stood there, unmoving for a long time. Then she walked quickly over to Freya, looked up at her.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Then why is your hand shaking?”
Freya looked down at her own hand—
The hand gripping the hilt was indeed trembling slightly. Not from fear, but from power.
The Holy Sword’s power surged through her body, like a dragon that had just awakened, rampaging through her veins.
She was struggling to suppress it.
“It’s fine.”
She released her grip. The Holy Sword floated up from her palm and stopped beside her, like a loyal hound.
“I’m just not used to it yet.”
Lyra looked at the sword, then at her.
“Boss, why do you have to take the sword yourself? Couldn’t you have chosen someone else?”
Freya was silent for a moment.
“Because I don’t want someone else to bear the responsibility that should be mine.”
Lyra blinked.
“But aren’t you afraid?”
“I am.” Freya’s voice was very soft.
“But even if I’m afraid, I still have to do it.”
Lyra looked at her for a long time.
Then she reached out and took Freya’s still-trembling hand.
“Then I’ll stay with you.”
Freya looked down at the hands holding hers, at those red eyes filled with determination and courage.
“Okay.”
Outside the window, a faint white light appeared on the horizon.
Dawn was approaching.
The Holy Sword hovered beside her. The light on its blade gradually calmed, returning to that breathing rhythm of bright and dim.
Freya didn’t return to the dormitory.
When she walked out of the temple holding the Holy Sword, the sky was already turning pale.
Lyra followed behind her, her red eyes fixed on the golden sword floating beside her, wanting to say something but holding back.
As they walked through the corridor, Freya stopped.
“Boss?”
“We can’t wait any longer.”
Freya’s voice was soft, but carried a determination Lyra had never heard before.
“Every moment we wait, one more person gets devoured by her.”
Lyra frowned.
“But we’re not ready yet—”
“There’s never a time when you’re ready. There’s only doing it or not.”
Freya turned and walked toward Irina’s dormitory. Lyra was stunned for a moment, then quickly followed.
She watched Freya’s back, that light purple figure that looked unusually straight in the morning light. She suddenly felt that her boss had changed.
Not into a different person, but into more of herself.
The real self that didn’t need anyone else to decide for her.
Irina’s dormitory was at the end of the corridor.
The door was closed. Inside, there was no sound, no light. It was as quiet as an empty room.
But Freya knew she was inside.
The Holy Sword trembled slightly beside her, as if warning, as if urging.
“Stand back.”
She said softly to Lyra.
Lyra didn’t step back. Instead, she took a step forward.
“I won’t. I’m going with you.”
Freya looked at her, at those red eyes full of determination and stubbornness, and was silent for a moment.
“Then stay close to me.”
She raised her hand. The Holy Sword flew from her side to in front of her, its tip pointing forward, the golden light growing brighter and brighter.
Then—she swung it down.
Light exploded. The tightly shut door shattered like paper, wood chips flying everywhere, revealing the deep darkness behind it.
That wasn’t ordinary darkness. It was a black with substance, like thick ink.
It poured out from inside the room, carrying a decayed, nauseating stench.
Freya didn’t hesitate. She stepped inside.
Space shattered beneath her feet.
No, not shattered—deformed.
The space Irina had created with Space Magic was like a crumpled piece of paper, every inch twisted and distorted.
The walls were covered in black-purple vines. Glowing liquid flowed on the floor. The air was thick with a sweet, dizzying fragrance.
The members of the Mutual Aid Society floated in the air, eyes closed, like prey hanging in a spider’s web.
Their bodies glowed faintly. Mana and life force were being continuously drained from them, flowing through those black-purple vines into a huge Light Cocoon at the center of the space.
Inside the Light Cocoon, Irina sat in the middle, eyes closed, a satisfied smile on her lips.
Freya stood there, looking at those floating figures, at the mana and life force being sucked away, at the woman still greedily devouring inside the Light Cocoon.
Her fingers slowly tightened.
“Irina.”
The Light Cocoon split open with a crack.
Irina opened her eyes—
Those once pink eyes were now completely black-purple, like two clots of coagulated blood.
She saw Freya, saw the golden Holy Sword floating beside her, saw Lyra standing behind her.
Her pupils contracted sharply.
“Impossible…”
Her voice was hoarse and trembling.
“How could you… how could you possibly get the Holy Sword…”
Freya didn’t speak. She just stood there, looking at the shocked, incredulous expression on Irina’s face.
“The Holy Sword wouldn’t choose you!”
Irina’s voice rose, sharp like fingernails scraping across glass.
“It couldn’t choose you! You don’t deserve it! You don’t!”
“It didn’t choose me.”
Freya’s voice was very calm.
“I chose it.”
Irina was stunned.
She looked at Freya, at those calm, unruffled light purple eyes, at the golden Holy Sword floating quietly beside her.
Suddenly, she laughed. The laughter was shrill and manic, echoing through the distorted space.
“You chose it? Who do you think you are? Do you think picking up the Holy Sword makes you a hero?”
She stood up. The Light Cocoon shattered behind her, and those black-purple vines writhed like living things.
“You’re not a hero. You’re nothing.”
Her eyes grew darker, deeper, like two bottomless wells.
The floating Mutual Aid Society members began to move—
Not on their own, but controlled.
They opened their eyes. There was no light in them, only a hollow, dead blackness.
They descended from the air and stood before Irina, forming a row, a human wall.
“Don’t you want to save people?”
Irina’s voice came from behind the wall, cold and mocking.
“Go ahead. Save them.”
Lyra’s face changed color.
“Boss, they—”
“I know.”
Freya cut her off.
Those people were no longer themselves.
Their consciousness was suppressed, their bodies controlled, made into Irina’s puppets.
If Freya attacked with the Holy Sword, those puppets would fall first.
“Boss, what do we do?”
Freya was silent for a moment, then gripped the Holy Sword tightly and took a step forward.
“Don’t hurt them.”
She said softly.
“Go around them.”
Lyra watched that light purple figure, watched as she moved among those puppets, the Holy Sword emitting a soft golden light in her hand, forcing back the black-purple vines.
She hurried to follow, her red eyes alertly scanning their surroundings.
Behind the human wall, Irina watched the figure drawing closer, watched the sword growing brighter.
Her body began to tremble—
Not from fear, but from anger, from resentment, from the despair of having given everything and still being unable to turn the tables.