CHAPTER 72
The capital of Aethelgard lay beneath a sky bruised with dusk, yet the streets buzzed with activity-merchants yelling over their stalls, nobles dismounting from carriages, children weaving between lamplight shadows as if nothing loomed on the horizon.
Sorayael stood at the city's outer wall, her silver hair fluttering in the wind like a battle banner, her golden eyes surveying the crowd below with urgency.
She inhaled deeply.
For a moment the city hushed.
Then the sounds of laughter, disbelief, and murmurs are in the air.
Sorayael's fists clenched, her heartbeat thudding like war drums. She doesn't want to use her power of Auctoritas just for this.
'Kung ayaw nila, bahala silang mamatay' her thoughts and was about to give up but suddenly, someone came.
A white-maned stallion reared, and atop it, a man cloaked in silver and crimson, with an aura that made seasoned guards part without hesitation.
Zarethian's father. An S-Ranker. A living legend of Aethelgard-the National Hero.
He dismounted and approached Sorayael with purposeful strides. No hesitation, no mockery in his gaze-only fire, only resolve.
He turned to face the crowd, his voice thundering like a storm:
"You doubt her? Then doubt me too!"
Gasps rang out. Whispers silenced.
The crowd shifted. Uncertainty fractured into urgency. The first wave of movement began-nobles herded by their guards, mothers clinging to children, scholars clutching scrolls as they fled.
Sorayael sighed, relief trickling in but it didn't last.
A blue-gloved hand pressed to her shoulder.
She turned. It was Karsen. His eyes were full of sadness.
Silas is one of their own. A friend. A brother for them. Her eyes dimmed, but only for a moment.
'Although I want to feel the weight of his betrayal, I need to secure everything first before I process my own emotions.'
She straightened her spine.
Karsen's jaw tightened. "We'll come with you-"
They all looked at her, waiting for her order. Wanting to fight beside her.
But Sorayael shook her head.
Ravelia stepped forward, her expression torn. "But you can't go alone-"
'Bigla-bigla na naman nasulpot.'
Zarethian crossed his arms, his face unreadable then smirked.
She rolled her eyes, biting down a smile. "I'm being realistic, Firebrain."
He snorted. "Well then, do us a favor. Don't die. I still have to show you who the better swordsman is."
Sorayael gave a half-laugh. "Fine. You can try when this is over."
Zacchaeus stepped forward, his face unusually serious. "Be safe... both of you." He bowed slightly. "You carry all of us with you."
Ravelia raised her hand with ice and nodded. "We'll keep the skies from falling."
Sorayael met every gaze. She would carry their hopes with her. Their friendship. Their trust.
Deimon opened a portal, wind humming in its core.
Sorayael turned to the swirling light. She looked back one last time.
Their faces-flawed, fierce, beloved-burned into her memory.
She stepped through.
Toward the throne.
Toward the Emperor.
Toward the end.
The Grand Gates of the Imperial Palace loomed ahead, silver-gold etchings now dulled beneath thick vines of corrupted mana slithering like veins across the marble. The once-proud banners of Aethelgard fluttered no more, as if they, too, held their breath.
Sorayael stood before them, her silver hair catching the last breath of daylight. In her chest burned the ember of truth, and at her side, Deimon's presence was silent but unwavering.
Then a movement.
The grand doors groaned open.
From within, palace guards emerged, their once-proud armor now tainted with dark luster. Their eyes-void. No light. No soul. Only emptiness and bloodlust.
One of the guards screamed-though it was hollow, not human-and lunged forward.
Deimon stepped between them like a shadow unstilled, his blade humming with wind. In one clean arc, the puppet's body fell. Another came. Then another.
Sorayael didn't hesitate. With each step toward the heart of the Palace, her resolve hardened.
Behind her, Deimon danced with deadly grace, his blades cutting through the tide of mindless soldiers.
Each life lost here, she knew, wasn't truly living anymore.
They were just echoes twisted by dominance.
And then-
A pulse.
A horrible, radiant thrum like the slow heartbeat of the cosmos.
Far within the throne chamber, the Emperor felt her presence.
From atop the obsidian dais, Lysander Aethelgard turned his head ever so slightly, a smirk cracking the stillness of his face.
Before him, twin celestial circles burned into the marble floor. The symbols of two ancient Constellations-long-lost stars etched with the blood of fallen heroes-glowed brighter with every passing second.
Above, the sky had begun to open.
Ribbons of light fractured the heavens, and slowly, slowly, something massive began to descend.
Wreathed in spirals of astral flame and stardust, the Celestial of the Martial King began to appear-its form tall as mountains, armored with galaxies, eyes burning with conquest.
Opposite it, twirling like dream-smoke and impossible geometry, the Celestial of Dream Magic bloomed across the sky like an unfolding lotus made of stars.
And still they descended, hungry and summoned by the Emperor's unholy rite.
He gripped the hilt of his blade tightly-a sword older than empires, the very one that had pierced the heart of Zyair Amadeo, staining its silver steel with forgotten blood.
'daughter of traitors?'