Chapter 257 : Chapter 257

Chapter 257: Side Story Three: Dream, It Is Time to Wake

In ‍​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‍the courtyard, the two slightly older adopted granddaughters who had been practicing their basic sword forms in earnest were so startled by her sudden movement that they stopped at once. Calling out in alarm, they hurriedly lowered their wooden swords and ran after her.

Eleanor ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍paid no attention to them. She ran toward the source of the voice, toward the country lane beyond the courtyard wall.

Her ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍aging heart pounded violently in her chest. Blood rushed faster through veins that were no longer young. A roar filled her ears.

Was ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍this a hallucination born of long solitude?

Was ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍it the twisted echo of some deeply buried obsession surfacing at the moment of waking?

Or ‍​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‍was it...

Ahead on the path, two boys of about eight or nine were playing chase. One darted nimbly in front like a little wild rabbit, while the other chased after him, panting hard, his little face flushed bright red.

“Ryan! Stop right there!” the boy in pursuit shouted in frustration.

The boy in front heard him, grinned, and abruptly stopped. Turning around, he pulled a triumphant face at his companion and waggled his brows in mischievous delight.

Eleanor rushed in front of them and blocked their way.

She was breathing a little hard, her face flushed with an unhealthy color from the run and from the storm raging inside her. Her eyes, though lined with the traces of age, were still as sharp and blue as an icy lake, and they locked unblinkingly onto the boy called Ryan.

The boy was obviously startled by this old woman who had burst out so suddenly and was staring at him with such frightening intensity. He instinctively took half a step back, looking at her in alarm.

His companion immediately shifted forward half a step as well, taking up an almost protective posture as he watched the uninvited stranger warily.

“G-Grandma... is something wrong?” the boy behind asked timidly. He looked a little braver than the other one.

Eleanor’s gaze did not move in the slightest. Her voice trembled faintly as she pressed, “What... Did you call him?”

“Ryan,” the boy answered honestly, pointing at his companion. “His name is Ryan Hawk. He’s the son of Uncle Hawk, the blacksmith in the village. Grandma, do you... know him?”

Ryan Hawk.

An utterly ordinary name in the countryside.

The boy had brown eyes, and a few light freckles dotted the bridge of his nose. He wore an ordinary rough linen shirt. He was healthy, normal, the sort of boy one could see anywhere in a village among the fields.

No.

Not him.

Deep in the deepest part of her heart, a voice screamed in denial.

Not him!

The one she had waited for, the one she had sought, the one she had hovered after at the very edge of countless dreams—he might also have been named Ryan, but he was not Ryan Hawk.

He should not have had eyes like these—strange, timid, belonging to a country child who had never known true sorrow.

He should not have had such an ordinary face, such plain brown eyes.

He should not have looked like this.

Then... What should he have looked like?

Eleanor froze, standing there in confusion.

The warm morning sunlight bathed her. Around her stretched the familiar pastoral scenery. In the distance stood the quiet little residence where she had lived for decades. Her adopted granddaughters had already caught up to her and now held her arms in concern. The two boys, meanwhile, were studying this strange old woman with a mix of curiosity and fear.

Every sensation was so real, so tangible.

She had lived most of her life here, from that little girl who had picked up a wooden sword in the corner of a noble garden banquet to the white-haired Sword Saint now revered in all directions.

This path, these fields, this early-morning moment—she had gone through them countless times.

And yet...

“Ryan! This time I’m definitely going to catch you!” the boy who had been chasing him shouted again, seeing that the old woman in front of them had gone rigid. Already he looked ready to turn the whole thing back into a game.

“Hmph.” The boy called Ryan Hawk lifted his chin proudly. “Haven’t you already lost to me enough times?”

“Haven’t you already lost to me enough times?”

Those simple, childish words of banter were, in this moment, like two keys long since lost, suddenly driven into the lock of a vast, rusted door buried in the deepest part of Eleanor’s memory.

Click.

The sound of the lock springing open seemed to echo through her very soul.

Countless shattered images, crossed voices, and vivid emotions surged out like a flood that had been imprisoned for far too long, battering violently against the wall of perception she had built over decades.

These were not the memories of this Eleanor Astrea—the Duchess, Blazing Eleanor, the Sword Saint.

They belonged to another her, younger, more vivid, more stubborn... and more whole.

The Royal Magic Academy. The arena of the Lower Division. The cold, hard stone floor.

She had lost.

For the first time in her life, under the gaze of a crowd, her sword had been precisely knocked from her grasp. It spun through the air and struck the ground with a sharp, heart-jolting clang.

A training sword was held steady against her throat. Even blunted, the touch of it was cold against her skin.

She had jerked her head up.

Against the light of the magic lamps above the arena, all she could see was a blurred, upright silhouette, lean and straight, with brown hair glinting faintly at the edge of the haloed light.

He seemed to murmur something in that calm voice of his. Then, with crisp decisiveness, he withdrew his sword, turned, and walked down from the arena with steady steps while the entire crowd around them exploded into uproar and shocked silence.

She had stood there alone on the platform, her face burning hot—hot with humiliation, with fierce unwillingness, and with a fighting spirit blazing like fire.

She chased after him, again and again, in training halls and private challenges.

“Next time I will beat you!”

“I will defeat you!”

Every time she said it, she said it with absolute certainty.

Sometimes he would respond briefly, perhaps with a hint of mockery. Sometimes he would merely knock her down again in silence, using action alone to show her the distance between them.

The Starfall Ruins. A dark and endless corridor. A labyrinth with no return.

She had stepped in front of him there.

“Don’t die in there, Ryan... Velt!”

That was it...

Ryan.

Ryan Velt.

The boy from the Lower Division of Saint Roland Magic Academy who had first shown her absolute defeat with his dazzling magic and shattered her illusion that she was invincible among her peers.

The one who had lodged in her heart like a thorn, become the mountain her sword path had to cross, the goal she had sworn she must surpass.

The one whose death she had instinctively cried out against in the perilous depths of the ruins.

The one she had always yearned to face in a true and fair contest, to defeat uprightly, and through that victory prove the ultimate meaning of the sword in her hand.

Not this ordinary village blacksmith’s son called Ryan Hawk.

Then... who was she now, standing here with white hair and a hollow heart?

The Empire’s Sword Saint?

A duchess revered by the people?

The War Goddess of matchless achievements?

Blazing Eleanor?

No... that was wrong.

All of that glory, all those long years of battlefields and lonely triumph, all those nights filled with emptiness and loss...

Had they all been nothing more than reflections in water, flowers in a mirror?

Was it because, in this endlessly real illusion of a life, Ryan Velt had never existed at all?

Was that why her sword path had stalled for decades after reaching a certain height, as though it had crashed into an invisible sky?

Was that why every victory, no matter how certain, had always filled her with a strange sense of unease and emptiness?

Was that why her sword, having lost the obsession it had to cut through, having lost the whetstone that honed its edge, had become an unrivaled blade with no opponent left worthy of drawing it?

The details of that long life within the illusion had all been so painfully clear—the rough feel of the wooden hilt in her childhood hand, the salty sting of sweat dripping into dust as she trained, the deafening cheers of victory, the thick smell of blood rushing toward her on the battlefield, the heaviness and pain of old age in her bones, the cold hollow in her heart that nothing could ever fill.

And now all of it receded like a brilliant bubble pricked and burst, like a tide pulling back, leaving behind the cold, hard reef hidden underneath.

All color faded with terrifying speed.

All sounds rushed far away.

All sensation was stripped from her.

Everything grew weightless, unreal, like a dream so long and so convincing that one had taken it for truth—only to have it shattered in an instant by a single phrase.

And now, the dream had to end.

“Ryan... Velt...”

Softly, slowly, she spoke his full name.

Each syllable came out rough and dry, like rusted gears grinding painfully into motion. Yet the moment the name left her lips, it became utterly clear, utterly heavy, as though it possessed the power to sever every illusion.

It was him.

That man.

The one who had shattered her pride and made her, for the first time, lift her eyes to another’s back.

The one she had challenged again and again, losing every time, yet in those countless clashes had sharpened her sword more and more, purified her intent more and more, and made her goal shine with perfect clarity.

The one she would surely defeat one day, upright and head-on, even if she had to exhaust her entire life to do so.

“Ryan Velt...” she repeated, and then her voice suddenly rose. “I will defeat you!”

The instant those words fell, something invisible and indestructible that had bound her for decades shattered with a soundless crack.

The obstruction that had lingered over her sword heart and prevented her from ever reaching completion melted away in an instant like ice beneath spring sunlight. A clarity and openness unlike anything she had ever known burst through her soul like dawn breaking through clouds.

She felt something sharp beyond measure, pure beyond measure, utterly unwavering, awaken from the deepest part of her spirit. It surged through every limb and every bone, fusing once again into perfect unity with the sword in her heart and with her very self.

The surroundings—the familiar courtyard, the worried granddaughters, the bewildered boys, the country path, the fields, the distant mountains, the sky—began to sway, blur, and distort violently, like reflections in water shattered by a stone.

Her aged body faded like a washed-out painting. The wrinkles smoothed away in an instant. From the roots outward, her silver-white hair flowed back into a brilliant, blazing red. Her bent back straightened like a spear. Her clouded old eyes became once more blue, sharp, and crystal-clear, like jewels wiped free of dust.

Time was flowing backward through her.

And yet it was not merely a return to the appearance she had worn before entering the illusion.

Within those restored young blue eyes lay the accumulation of decades of lonely searching, but not the bitterness of age. What remained instead was a will made tougher, clearer, and more immovable than ever after being tempered by both time and illusion.

She raised a hand and stared at it—at the young, distinct-knuckled fingers that now seemed to contain inexhaustible strength—then slowly, firmly, clenched it, as though grasping the hilt of an invisible sword.

There was no sword in her hand.

Yet an intangible but razor-sharp sword intent had already begun to coil silently around her.

That was not a fluctuation of Mana.

It was the edge born from her pure sword heart, forged through the tempering of a long life, held fast through confusion, pursued through loneliness, and finally, after breaking free of all shackles and reclaiming its true self and its true goal, condensed and erupted into being of its own accord.

...