Chapter 121: I got beaten up again

Lyra paused.

“No one can lift it. The Theocrat said it’s still waiting for you.”

Freya was silent.

She remembered the feeling of the Holy Sword trembling in her hand before she passed out, remembered the power that rampaged through her body.

It hadn’t rejected her, but it hadn’t fully accepted her either. It was waiting—

Waiting for her to make the final decision.

“What about those Mutual Aid Society members?”

“They’re all awake.

They don’t remember what happened—only that they had a long nightmare.”

Lyra lowered her head.

“The Theocrat said their mana and life force are severely damaged. It’ll take a long time to recover. But at least they’re alive.”

Freya nodded.

‘Alive is good.’

She looked at Lyra, at those red eyes still marked with tear streaks.

“What about you? Are you hurt?”

Lyra shook her head.

“Not me. My leg just hurts from all the kicking.”

Freya was silent for a moment, then the corner of her lips lifted slightly.

“Good work.”

Lyra froze, then grinned, showing that little wolf fang.

“No trouble! Protecting the boss is my duty!”

From a distance, bird calls came, crisp and long.

Freya lay there, staring at the ceiling. She thought of her mother, of that Mana Heart Crystal, of that black crystal shard.

She didn’t know what the future would bring, but she knew she had to live.

Only by living could she find the answers. Only by living could she protect the people she wanted to protect.

“Lyra.”

“Hm?”

“I’m hungry.”

Lyra’s eyes lit up instantly.

“I’ll find you something to eat! Grandfather’s chef came along—he said he’d make your favorite cream mushroom soup!”

She ran out, her footsteps thudding away.

Freya lay alone in bed, looking at the half-open door.

Sunlight squeezed through the crack, drawing a thin gold line on the floor.

She reached out her hand and looked at her palm.

There was nothing there, but she knew something had changed.

She closed her eyes, feeling the two completely different forces deep in her heart—

One warm like a mother’s embrace, one cold like an abyss’s breath.

They were fighting, wrestling, searching for some delicate balance.

“I won’t lose.”

She said softly.

She didn’t know if she was speaking to herself or to the sleeping black seed inside her.

The door pushed open, and Lyra walked in with a tray holding a steaming bowl of soup.

“Boss! Soup’s here! Drink it while it’s hot!”

Freya sat up and took the bowl.

The soup was very hot. She blew on it, and white steam rose, blurring her vision.

She lowered her head and took a sip—it tasted like the kind her mother used to make.

Grandfather had the chef make it from her mother’s recipe.

She drank slowly, each sip very slow, as if savoring something precious.

Lyra crouched by the bed, looking up at her, red eyes sparkling.

“Boss, is it good?”

“Yeah.”

“Then drink more! You haven’t eaten in three days—you must be starving!”

Freya didn’t answer. She just kept drinking the soup.

The soup was warm, warming her from throat to stomach, warming her heart.

That cold seed trembled slightly in the warmth, then fell back asleep.

Serar came in as Freya was leaning against the headboard, drinking the second bowl of soup Lyra had just brought.

The door opened, and the young man with ice-blue hair walked in, followed by the white-haired Theocrat.

His face lacked its usual playful expression—it was taut, like a drawn bowstring.

“Awake?”

His voice was heavy too.

Freya put down the bowl.

“Yeah.”

Serar walked over, stopped by her bed, and looked down at her.

Deep blue eyes churned with complex emotions—

Worry, anger, and an indescribable relief that felt like surviving a disaster.

He didn’t speak. He just reached out and pressed his hand against Freya’s forehead.

His palm was warm. A gentle stream of mana seeped in through her forehead and slowly wandered through her body.

The Theocrat also stepped forward, his withered fingers resting on Freya’s wrist. Two streams of mana probed her at the same time, like two invisible currents flowing through her blood vessels, through her heart meridian, through every corner of her body.

Freya sat quietly, letting them examine her.

Her expression didn’t change, but her heart tightened slightly—

That black crystal shard was still buried deep in her heart meridian, tangled with the Mana Heart Crystal her mother had left behind.

She could feel it, like a cold, sleeping seed.

But Serar’s and the Theocrat’s mana flowed right past it, without stopping, without reacting.

As if it didn’t exist at all.

Serar withdrew his hand.

“No abnormalities. Mana stable, heart meridian normal.”

He paused.

“But you were unconscious for three days.”

“I was tired.”

Freya said it lightly.

“Tired?”

Serar’s voice rose a notch.

“You went to the Temple alone, you lifted the Holy Sword alone, you charged into Irina’s space alone, and you almost died in there—and you tell me you were tired?”

Freya said nothing.

Serar stared at her, chest heaving.

He took a deep breath, as if trying to suppress something.

“Freya, do you know how many people were worried about you during the three days you were unconscious?”

His voice dropped, hoarse and rough.

“Lyra didn’t sleep for three days. Anke came three times a day. Sophie almost tore down the Temple door. And your grandfather—” He paused.

“He got the news and rushed over from the Northern Frontier overnight. An old man past seventy, riding a horse all night long.”

Freya’s lashes fluttered slightly.

“Can’t you just—”

Serar’s voice trembled.

“Can’t you just give people a break?”

The room fell silent.

Freya looked at Serar, at the redness in his eyes, at his tightly clenched fists.

She had never seen him like this—

No joking, no cynicism. Just raw, undisguised anger and pain.

“I’m sorry.”

She said softly.

Serar froze, then turned his face away.

“Who asked for an apology.”

His voice was muffled.

“Just rest and recover. Don’t push yourself anymore.”

He turned and prepared to leave.

Then the door pushed open.

Lyra stood in the doorway holding a tray with a steaming bowl of congee.

Anke and Sophie followed behind her—one carrying fruit, the other holding a big bouquet of flowers.

All three froze when they saw Serar.

“What are you doing here?”

Lyra’s brow furrowed.

Before Serar could answer, Sophie saw the expression on his face that hadn’t fully faded—a mix of anger and heartache.

“Did you yell at her?”

Her voice dropped dangerously.

“I didn’t—”

“Were you just yelling at her?”

Anke also caught on, her brown eyes narrowing.

Serar stepped back.

“I was just reasoning with her—”

“Reasoning?”

Lyra set the tray on the table, red eyes blazing with little flames.

“Who do you think you are? Reasoning with the boss?”

Serar stepped back again.

“I’m her friend—”

“Friend?”

Sophie sneered, shoved the flowers into Anke’s arms, and rolled her wrists.

“Friends can yell at her?”

Serar’s face finally went pale.

He looked at the three fierce women in front of him—

Lyra had already rolled up her sleeves, Sophie’s fists were cracking, and even Anke had put down the fruit and assumed a fighting stance.

“Calm down—”

No one listened.

The first punch was Lyra’s, landing on his stomach.

The second kick was Sophie’s, hitting his shin.

The third hit was Anke’s—a book smacking the back of his head.

Serar crouched down, covering his head.

“I came to check her health! I didn’t bully her!”

“Checking her health needs that much volume?”

Lyra kicked him again.

“I was caring about her!”

“Caring means you can shout?”

Sophie added a punch.

Serar stopped talking, crouched there with his head down, ice-blue hair spilling everywhere.

Anke stepped back and brushed off her skirt.

“That’s about enough?”

Lyra kicked him once more.

“Not even close.”

Sophie pulled her back.

“Alright, alright, any more and he’ll be dead.”

Lyra finally stopped, glaring at Serar.

“Don’t ever yell at the boss again. If I see it, I’ll hit harder.”

Serar stayed crouched, then lifted his head to look at Freya.

His left eye was swollen, his lip was split, his hair was a mess like a bird’s nest, and his deep blue eyes were full of grievance.

“You’re just going to watch them beat me?”

Freya was leaning against the headboard, slowly sipping the congee.

Hearing this, she put down the bowl.

“You asked for it.”

Serar opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it.

He stood up, brushed the dust off himself, and limped toward the door. When he reached it, he stopped without turning back.

“Freya.”

His voice was a little hoarse.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t do this again. I really do worry.”

He pushed the door and walked out.

The door closed behind him.

The room was quiet for a moment, then Sophie laughed.

“He looked hilarious! His left eye was swollen like a walnut!”

Anke laughed too.

“Serves him right, for yelling at Freya.”

Lyra crouched by Freya’s bed and looked up at her.

“Boss, what did he say to you just now?”

Freya looked at her, at those red eyes full of curiosity and worry.

“He told me to rest and recover.”

“Oh.” Lyra nodded.

“Then you need to rest well. Grandfather said you have to drink lots of soup, sleep lots, and not run around.”

Freya looked at her earnest little face with its hint of authority.

“Got it.”

Sophie put the flowers into the vase on the table. Anke placed the fruit on the low cabinet. Lyra brought the congee back to Freya.

“Drink some more.”

Freya took the bowl and drank.

The congee was thick, the rice grains cooked soft and tender, with a faint sweet taste.

She drank slowly, listening to Sophie and Anke chattering, watching Lyra crouched by the bed looking up at her.

She suddenly felt that being alive was wonderful.

No matter what the future held, no matter what that black crystal shard would bring, at least at this moment, she was here, and they were here.

She put down the bowl.

“Lyra.”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

Lyra froze, then grinned, showing that little wolf fang.

“You’re welcome! The boss’s business is my business!”