CHAPTER 73
The throne room of Aethelgard no longer echoed with pride.
Once regal, once draped in golden banners and polished stone, it now pulsed with corrupted mana.
Cracks veined the marble, and what once bore the sigil of the royal line was now overrun by twisted summoning glyphs.
At the center of it all stood the Emperor-not a man, not anymore, but a vessel cloaked in dread and deceit.
His silver hair drifted in the arcane wind like threads of moonlight twisted by nightfall. And when his eyes met hers, they gleamed not with recognition-but with possession.
Sorayael stepped forward slowly, her boots echoing on the fractured tiles. At the center of the room, standing like a god crowned in rot, the Emperor—Lysander Aethelgard—watched her with gleaming, serpentine eyes.
His lips curled into a smirk. "You've come far, child of ruin."
Sorayael's fists clenched. "Don't call me that."
Lysander descended the steps of the dais, sword dragging behind him with a screech of metal. "You wear her eyes. Her power. But you walk in shadows of ignorance."
The Emperor tilted his head. "Ah... but knowing a fragment is worse than not knowing at all."
Her golden eyes narrowed. "Why?! Why can't you just let me breathe? Just once?!"
Her voice cracked, and her vision blurred. Rage burned inside her, but beneath it—grief.
'First my mother, then my father. I couldn't even mourn. Now this?'
She took a step closer, shoulders squared.
And that's when it happened.
A sudden gust of dark wind.
A blur of shadow.
Reinhold appeared before her, blade raised-eyes devoid of soul, locked under Dominance.
Sorayael barely deflected the attack, stumbling back as sparks exploded between their blades.
His expression was empty, but something-just something-lingered in his gaze, as if fighting the control within.
He charged again.
Sword met sword, and Sorayael dodged, flipped, and parried, refusing to strike to kill. "You're not my enemy. Reinhold, it's me, Sora. Don't let him win!"
But her words fell on deaf ears.
Above them, the summoning deepened. The air itself pulsed with unnatural rhythm. Glyphs shimmered in the sky, pulling stars from their constellations.
The Martial King emerged first, towering and silent, his blade forged from eclipsed galaxies.
Then the Celestial of Dreams, her hair drifting like woven night, eyes filled with the sorrow of eternity.
They knelt before Lysander.
The Celestial of Dream Magic bowed low, eyes shimmering like nebulas.
The Martial King, towering and unmoved, unsheathed a blade made of eclipsed stars.
From every corner of the Empire, across every locked dungeon and sealed battlefield, the gates began to crack
Black fog spilled from them.
Monsters-twisted, blood—hungry, and ancient-poured into the world once more.
Outside, the clang of weapons faded. Deimon stood over the last of the corrupted guards, blood dripping from his blades, chest rising with exhaustion. But he felt it. The shift. A thread pulled taut, somewhere inside.
He felt it, the ripple in the mana, the collapsing wards.
Then he heard the clash inside. The strain of Sorayael's breathing.
He rushed into the throne room.
Sorayael turned for a breath. "He's under Dominance!"
Reinhold charged again, faster this time, a blur of speed and precision.
But Deimon stepped between them-steel met steel.
Their blades locked midair.
Deimon grinned with a sharp edge. "I'm your opponent now, genius bud."
Reinhold snarled, no longer the calm knight he once was. His aura lashed out violently.
Sorayael, chest heaving, turned back to the dais-eyes blazing.
The Emperor watched her, amused. "So many sacrifices just to reach me. Tell me, how much more are you willing to lose?"
She lifted her chin. Her golden eyes shimmered with heat and stardust.
And then she stepped forward-toward him, toward the fallen stars, toward fate.
The palace shook, not from footsteps or spells, but from will.
The Auctoritas had awakened.
From the crumbling marble tiles to the highest tower, golden light poured through every crack and shadow, blanketing Aethelgard in radiance that was neither warmth nor flame-but authority, unshakable and divine.
Sorayael stood in the heart of the throne room, unmoved. The floor beneath her shimmered with shifting glyphs, but none dared touch her. Her eyes-once merely golden-now burned with celestial fire, bright enough to pierce through veils of time and truth.
The Emperor gritted his teeth, forced to his knees-not by choice, but by command.
Power surged from Sorayael like a rising sun breaking through centuries of night.
Her cloak turned to flowing strands of starlight.
Her clothes are no longer the attire of a student, warrior, or noble, it were spun from constellations themselves, woven by the hands of the sky.
And above her head materialized a crown-not of gold, nor jewel, but of blinding, intangible command.
A crown forged from the weight of destiny bent to her will.
The world... bowed.
Even Dominance that once a power feared to control nations and souls-trembled beneath her.
The Emperor roared, pushing himself halfway up, darkness leaking from his mouth and eyes. "You... You shouldn't have that power! That is a right given only to—!"
The constellations behind the Emperor faltered. Their connection to him crackled, threads of mana unraveling like silk scorched in holy fire. The stars themselves seemed to hesitate, uncertain-as if they remembered who the true heir of the sky was.
Outside the throne room, in the cracked courtyard, Reinhold-still locked in combat-suddenly halted, body seizing mid-motion. The dark sigils on his skin dimmed. His breathing hitched.
A trembling smirk pulled at Deimon's lips. "Oh? You're back now?" he said, panting. "Our Liege doesn't need to lift a finger for the world to listen."
Reinhold dropped to a knee, clutching his skull, gasping. "Well, I guess, that's just how powerful it is."
They watched how their Liege glowed.
From the mountains to the eastern spires, from the ruins of old temples to the depths of forgotten marshes-the world felt it.
The beasts of the forest stilled.
The corrupted soldiers dropped their weapons.
The wind itself turned toward the palace.
And... they bowed.
Even those with no allegiance or loyalty-monsters, spirits, watchers-kneeled, their faces turned toward Aethelgard's heart.
The people, too—nobles and commoners alike—paused in their panic. From windows, from balconies, from alleyways-they saw it. The light. The crown. The truth.
Their eyes widened.
And they, too, bowed.
Tears welled in the eyes of the old. Children stopped crying and clung to their parents' hands. The banners of fallen empires rustled in reverence.
For they saw not a girl.
They saw a presence that even the gods could not deny.
A power that once shattered the chains of fate.
The fire that scorched even the stars.
The return of the will that bent heaven and earth.
Velthira's legacy... now reborn in Sorayael.
And in the deepest silence of that golden moment-the Emperor, still clinging to his hate and ambition, trembled on his knees.
Sorayael's gaze locked with his-no pity, no rage.
Only the truth.
She was about to kill the emperor who was struggling right now but the emperor smirk says it all.
A sly move. He commanded someone in the shadow as if it's been there the whole time. The emperor coughed blood for using his power while he was under the power of Auctoritas.
Sorayael was confused but still lifted her sword and stabbed the emperor.