[For readers who saw the older chapters, chapter seven and chapter eight got changed. Please reread those chapters before reading this chapter.]
***
She was seriously not used to physical touch so the affection hit her like unexpected thorns, sharp and stubborn, refusing to let go.
Although, telling Selarin the truth wouldn't exactly make things worse.
"I'm... a transmigrator."
Selarin's eyes widened, the glint of epiphany lighting up her expression. "An extracted soul? Could it be…"
"Could it be what?"
"Otherworlders require immense amounts of Eidos and power to summon. After centuries of trying, summoners turned to an alternative, extracting souls from other realms and placing them into prepared vessels."
"…Are you saying I'm a vessel?"
"Most likely. What happened to you?"
"I was discarded. They said I was useless… no significant power."
"Ah, as I thought," Selarin stood up, looking positively amused. "The human king of this era… is weak."
"Why do you look so amused? I thought you were..."
"Oh, please," Selarin glanced down at her with a wry smile. "Humans, demons. What's the difference? Both spill blood over some made-up idea called glory. It's all the same song, just a different verse."
It was oddly amusing that the so-called demon shared her views more than most humans did. In truth, they were far more alike than Liora wanted to admit.
"You call me your disciple," she muttered, "but I'm just... weak."
"Then remember this," Selarin replied firmly. "We are not here for power, we pursue knowledge and curiosity. That is all that matters."
For a while, there was peace, at least within the confines of the library.
But outside, the war between humans and demons had never truly ended.
They said the savior was gone, either dead, vanished, or never returning.
The human king was feeble. Eirandal, the Kingdom of Echoed Time, was without its guiding light.
So they searched again.
A prophecy emerged, of The Chronosworn Heir, a mortal born to bend time, destined to bring an end to darkness once and for all.
Some claim the savior was reincarnated, others believe they're trapped in a time loop, endlessly reliving the same fate, or wandering through time itself.
But one thing was certain: humanity remained vulnerable.
Especially now, as four centuries passed and the Demonic Empire welcomed the birth of twin heirs, children said to possess power unlike any seen before.
"Where are we going?" Liora asked as they stepped out of the estate, the four of them moving together: Selarin, Marla, Parlon, and herself.
"We're going to watch the Duel of Ascension," Marla replied with a grin, practically skipping with excitement. "It's the grand trial between the twin heirs to determine who's more fit to inherit the empire. You know, standard, wholesome bloodbath stuff!"
"Please, don't... say it like that," Selarin sighed, rubbing her temples.
"Eep! I'm sorry, my lady…" Marla shrank back instantly.
"You really ought to watch your words, Marla…" Parlon muttered, his tone tinged with that familiar disappointment he reserved just for her.
It was strange seeing Selarin like this. So tense and so grim.
Ever since their arrival at the estate, she'd seemed oddly distant, but they had no choice and go.
The arena was located at the heart of Elarion's capital, carved into the jagged slope of Mount Zarhail.
Towering spires of darkstone surrounded the coliseum, wreathed in runes.
Their carriage descended the winding obsidian roads, guarded on all sides by armored sentinels with glowing red eyes and wings tucked tight against their backs.
As they arrived at the gates, the crowd was already gathered, hundreds of demons from noble bloodlines, aristocrats in lavish cloaks, beastkin soldiers, and masked onlookers with glowing brands on their foreheads.
It was less a celebration, more of a ritual and a reckoning.
"Hey, why is it like this?" Liora leaned closer to Parlon, her voice hushed.
"To decide which sibling takes the throne, it's not about lineage. It's about strength," Parlon murmured, careful to keep his tone low so Selarin wouldn't overhear. "In some eras, it ends in death. In others, just bloodshed. And sometimes... just either breaks."
"But they're still so young... what, sixteen?"
"Demons are impatient. We don't wait. A true heir is expected to be forged early. Sharp, ruthless, undeniable."
It was no wonder Selarin looked so grim.
To see her own grandchildren raised in a world where love was second to legacy, where power meant survival and possibly meant killing each other.
It was a fate she clearly never wished for them.
They sat on the upper balcony reserved for the Imperials, while the servants remained standing behind them.
"Who do you think will win?"
"Lilathra, obviously. That girl's a beast. Ruthless to the core. Her brother, on the other hand..."
"A coward."
"This might just be one of those eras again... The kind where it ends in death."
The murmurs grew louder, grating on Selarin's nerves and deepening her frown.
"OHOHOHOHO! This battle will DEFINITELY not end in death!" Marla cackled, slapping Parlon on the back with far too much enthusiasm.
"AGH—!" he groaned, doubling over slightly. "Y-Yes... Both siblings totally respect each other..." he muttered, clearly in pain.
"Grandma…" a voice called out, smooth and sharp like a blade wrapped in silk.
The moment the three of them turned, Marla and Parlon dropped into deep bows.
Liora, caught off guard, hesitated.
She didn't recognize the girl.
She'd spent most of her time hidden away, buried in books and scrolls.
Marla, of course, didn't hesitate to shove Liora's head down. Hard.
"Hmph… That slave has no manners," the girl scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain.
When Liora dared to glance up, she was met with the sight of someone who looked like a goddess born from war.
The girl's wavy gray hair cascaded over her shoulders like smoke, her eyes a deep, blood-tinged crimson that seemed to scream with both fire and cruelty.
Long lashes framed them, giving her an almost regal allure, but there was madness in her gaze, a controlled inferno barely caged.
She stood with perfect poise, chin tilted ever so slightly, like she expected the world to kneel.
She was beautiful in the way lightning is beautiful: fierce, dangerous, and absolutely unforgiving.