Chapter 189: My Hatred VII

The winds screamed across the open snowy field. The twisting grotesque eyes and mouths above whispered and grinned, yet Lyra and Aelfric did not look up. The skies were a nightmare, but their focus lay solely upon each other.

Lyra's form was still, the long strands of her black hair whipping in the violent winds. Her red eyes burned like smoldering coals of fury, locked upon Aelfric with absolute, pure hatred. Her black dress billowed, strands of shadow curling off its fabric, dissolving into the air like wisps.

Aelfric, standing opposite, only smiled. His robe, vast and flowing, rippled in the winds, the whispers in the sky did not concern him.

Lyra moved first.

A flicker of movement. And then—dozens of glyphs spiraled into existence behind her, circling her form like an array of halos. The runes hummed with malevolent mana, their edges brimming with black lightning so dense it seemed to drink the remaining light from the world.

Then—

A thousand streaks of lightning burst forth.

The storm raged, black lances of raw destruction searing through the frozen air. The air itself quivered as the streaks twisted unnaturally, their trajectories adjusting mid-flight, curving toward Aelfric with deadly speed. Aelfric did not move. He watched, his smile widening, his body bathed in the glow of the oncoming destruction.

And then—impact.

The instant the lightning connected, a colossal explosion engulfed the field, ripping apart the snow and earth beneath it, the sheer force carving a massive crater into the landscape. The shockwave tore through the field, flattening the remains of trees and sending shattered ice screaming through the air like glass shards. The impact's force was so immense that it momentarily snuffed out all other sound, leaving only the roaring crackle of residual electricity in its wake.

Lyra stood motionless, watching, her eyes narrowing slightly.

As the thick cloud of dust and shattered ice began to clear, a broken, grotesque form emerged.

Aelfric's body was a mass of injuries, his limbs twisted, his chest torn open, his face charred and disfigured. His robe had been obliterated, leaving only fragments of fabric clinging to his shattered form. For a mere heartbeat, he stood there, ruined.

Then—his wounds sealed.

The mutilation reversed itself instantly, bones snapping back into place, flesh reknitting, burned skin peeling away to reveal fresh, untouched flesh beneath. His robe, too, mended itself, as if time itself had unraveled the destruction.

The smile never left his face.

"You ought to know better, Lyra." An unnerving chuckle escaped Aelfric. Lyra narrowed her eyes, her lips parting slightly as her mind assimilated the knowledge. She knew the attack was all but useless but she needed to study it first hand, his immortality.

Her Ultra Vires whispered the answer to her.

Aelfric was not immortal in the way men feared Gods or demons. He was not merely beyond the grasp of Death. No, it was worse than that, worse than she thought.

Death did not want him.

Death avoided him.

It was not that he could not die—he simply would not, because the very concept of dying refused to acknowledge him.

Lyra slowly tilted her head.

She had faced many things in her long lifetime before. She had peered into the void of creation and understood its workings. But Aelfric—his existence contradicted all things she had ever known.

And yet, there he stood, whole again, his hands still relaxed, his smile unchanged.

 The sky screeched above them.

Aelfric finally lifted his hand and, in a voice full with amusement, spoke: "My turn."

The explosion of mana still lingered in the air, a static. And then—the tendrils emerged. From Aelfric's stance, they emerged, not summoned but merely extended—as though they had always been there, waiting. Pitch-black, fathomless, consuming.

They slithered through the air unnaturally, not like whips or vines but as something far more dreadful—things that should not be, violating the very laws of existence itself. The moment they reached anything—whether the remnants of ice, the broken land, or the lingering mana residue—it did not burn, disintegrate, or corrode.

It ceased to be.

No trace. No remnants. No destruction. Only absence.

Lyra's eyes flashed, her mind processing the phenomenon with precision. Her Ultra Vires whispered, analyzing the truth behind this power. But for the first time, her Ultra Vires returned with no answer. It was not magic. Not energy. Not even conceptual destruction.

It was simply—Death.

Not death as an event, not death as an end, but the touch of death itself, something even her ability could not unravel. Not because it was unknown, but because it was not meant to be understood. Still—her body moved before the thought could settle. A sudden burst of crimson mana erupted from her frame, outlining her in a dark aura as she shot into the sky like a streaking comet, the ground below rupturing from the sheer force of her launch.

The tendrils followed.

They lunged after her in a fractured, unpredictable pattern, not moving as normal appendages would, but instead phasing through space, blinking from one point to another in unnatural, jerking shifts. Lyra twisted through the air, her movements razor-sharp, every shift in trajectory a carefully calculated maneuver. The red glow around her darkened, layered in thick protective mana, her speed so immense that the very air ignited in her wake.

The tendrils nearly caught her twice.

A single wrong move, a fraction of hesitation, and she would cease.

But Lyra was no fool.

As she dodged, her hands moved, the air warping behind her as she conjured her stacking glyphs—not one, not a dozen, but hundreds materializing in perfect synchronization, layered atop one another, forming an unrelenting column of amplifiers locked directly onto Aelfric.

The glyphs hummed with growing intensity, and from the very top—

A beam of pure destructive mana fired downward.

It pierced through the first glyph, its energy doubling. Through the second—tripling. Through the third, the fourth, the fifth—exponentially amplifying in force, velocity, and raw obliterative might.

By the time it struck Aelfric, it had become a force beyond comprehension, an attack intended not to kill, but to stall. And then—impact. A blast rivaling a small nuclear explosion detonated, the very sky splitting apart as the force rippled outward, annihilating all within its reach.

Lyra barely had a moment to exhale before—pain. A whisper of contact. A single tendril—one she had not noticed in the chaos—had brushed against her arm.

And the world shifted. It was not pain in the traditional sense. It was not burning, not tearing, not even severing.

It was unraveling.

Her very existence in that limb was being undone, a horrific absence creeping from her arm up toward her shoulder, the very definition of her being erased at a fundamental level.

Lyra did not hesitate.

With a brutal snap, her remaining hand gripped her own bicep—and ripped it off. The detached limb vanished instantly, no trace of blood, no fragment of flesh, just—gone. Lyra's body crashed into the ground, the snow beneath her erupting outward, forming a deep crater from the force of her landing.

She gasped—not in pain, but in sheer, absolute focus.

It was worse than she had calculated.

As the smoke from the explosion dissipated, Aelfric stepped forward. His body, his attire, his form—mended. Completely intact. As though the battle had never even begun.

Lyra's mind raced.

("Killing an immortal is a process. I have countered undying beings before. Some had regenerative factors. Some revived through soul anchors. Some merely restored themselves through time-reversal mechanics. There was always a system. Always a logic.")

But Aelfric was none of these.

Lyra's mind dissected the possible approaches.

Erasing him conceptually.

("If his existence could be rewritten, perhaps I could undo the very principle that made him persist. Problem: The tendrils—they already performed this function. He wielded the Bringer of Death's touch itself, meaning even conceptual destruction was beneath him.")

Attacking his soul directly.

("If his body was merely a shell, his true existence might lie within his soul. Problem: He has no soul. My Ultra Vires had already analyzed it—there was nothing there to attack.")

Severing him from reality.

("If I could disconnect him from the very thread of existence, it would render him a non-entity. Problem: The Bringer of Death had already done that for him. He was outside of its jurisdiction, meaning no force could recognize him enough to sever him.")

Every answer led to the same conclusion: Aelfric could not die because he was not acknowledged by Death itself.

And Yet, Lyra Smirked.

Blood dripped from her torn shoulder.

The grotesque mouths in the sky whispered, their guttural, warped voices echoing through the abyss above. Aelfric stood before her, hands open, waiting.

Her red eyes burned with malevolence. And she rose to her feet once more.

If death would not claim him—

("I will have to invent a fate far worse.")

"Interesting," she murmured, rolling her shoulder as crimson mana spiraled around her, the very air shuddering at her presence.

Aelfric tilted his head, his smile widening. "Anger is a good look on you, Lyra." 

She began to laugh. A harsh, unstable sound—one that crackled through the winds, breaking apart into ragged exhalations of something that no longer resembled sanity. Her remaining hand clutched at her face, fingers digging into her skin as her red eyes widened, gleaming with something twisted, something far beyond fury, beyond mere revenge.

"Do you know what you've done, Aelfric?" Her voice was low, a whisper.

Aelfric simply stood there, watching her, his expression unreadable. His posture was calm, relaxed even. But Lyra could feel it. Beneath that tranquil surface, there was something else. Something waiting.

"You marked her," Lyra continued, her voice shaking as a wicked, delirious smile stretched across her black-painted lips. "You let your filthy, disgusting touch of death stain her. Alyssia."

Aelfric tilted his head ever so slightly.

"She is still alive, is she not?" he said, voice smooth, collected, indifferent.

Lyra's expression cracked.

A burst of raw, uncontrolled mana exploded from her, an involuntary reaction of pure, unfiltered rage. The surrounding snow instantly evaporated, the ice beneath melting into jagged, charred formations, the air itself warping from the intensity of her hatred.

"Alive?" she spat. "Alive?"

Her laughter returned, now even more manic, her breath heaving as her body trembled—not from exhaustion, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of the emotions devouring her from the inside out.

"A mark of death is not something one simply 'lives' with, Aelfric. It festers. It rots. It clings to the soul and does not let go. Do you think I don't know what happens to those who are marked?" Her eyes burned, her voice rising with undiluted venom. "She will never know rest should she be spared from the Bringer of Death this day. She will never know peace. Every breath will be a defiance against an end that should have claimed her. She will wake up every day, feeling a presence that does not belong—a whisper that reminds her she is no longer meant to exist."

She took a step forward. "You have cursed her."

Another step.

"And for that, Aelfric, I will make you suffer. I will find something, some way, to make you feel the agony you have inflicted—to create a torment even Death will not save you from." Her power swelled, the mana forming violent spirals around her form. Hundreds of circular glyphs began to take shape, layering themselves across the sky, a storm of impending annihilation.

"YOU DO NOT GET TO WALK AWAY FROM THIS." She roared, her voice splitting through the night.

And then—

A breath.

A step.

The sound of bare feet against the snow.

Lyra froze.

The raw storm of magic halted in an instant, dispersing into nothingness as her entire being locked up. Slowly, her head snapped around.

And there she stood.

Alyssia.

Her long, white hair was wildly disheveled, strands clinging to her pale skin. Her red eyes, so similar to Lyra's yet carrying a different weight, were heavy with exhaustion. The thin fabric of her white nightgown barely shielded her from the cold, and her bare feet sank into the snow, yet she stood firm, unwavering, her breath coming out in soft, fragile exhales.

Her lips parted.

"…Lyra."

Lyra's entire body locked up, her pupils dilating in sheer disbelief.

The anger inside her shattered. "Alyssia," she breathed, almost choking on the name. Her voice no longer carried its madness. No longer held its rage. It was raw, exposed, aching with something far deeper than hate.

Alyssia took another step forward, her gaze locked onto Lyra with an expression that was neither fear nor hesitation.

Aelfric, for the first time, reacted. His entire stance shifted, his calm exterior cracking—not with shock, nor amusement, nor interest.

But with hatred. His lips curled, his red eyes darkening with something venomous, his gaze locked onto Alyssia like she was something he could not tolerate the existence of.

But he did not move.

He did not speak.

He simply stood there, his tendrils writhing uneasily.

Lyra, meanwhile, had already rushed forward, closing the distance between them in an instant.

"Alyssia!"

Her hands hovered over Alyssia's shoulders, almost afraid to touch her—as though she might disappear the moment she did.

"What are you doing here?!"

Alyssia blinked slowly, her breaths still uneven.

"I…" she began, voice quiet. "I woke up… and you weren't there."

Lyra clenched her teeth, her hands finally gripping Alyssia's shoulders as though to anchor her to reality. "You shouldn't be here."

Alyssia tilted her head slightly, red eyes meeting red eyes.

"…Neither should you." The words struck deeper than any attack. "You...you should not have to die for my sake," She whispered.

"How can you say that?" Lyra grit her teeth, the threat of Aelfric seemed so insignificant right now, "I will not allow you die! I can't!" She bellowed.

A tired smile reached Alyssia's dry lips, "Y-you're always such a worrywart. Like my mother," She chuckled despite her state, "Heh, I suppose you are in a sense."

Lyra's breath hitched at the princesses words, her eyes widening as her grip loosened around the girl.

"I-I don't want to lose another..." Tears formed in the corner of her eyes, "Let me help."

Lyra stiffened, her fingers tightening around Alyssia's shoulders. "You can't," she hissed. "This isn't something you can fix, Alyssia. I—"

"You want to protect me," Alyssia interrupted, her voice soft yet steady. "But I don't want you to suffer because of me."

Lyra's expression shattered for a moment, her lips parting, her breath hitching.

Alyssia continued, voice fragile yet firm.

"I see you as my mother, Lyra, I really do. You, Dante and my father are all I have. But I won't let you sacrifice everything to prolong my life."

Lyra froze, her entire body locking up at the words.

Mother.

The word echoed, reverberating deep in her fractured soul, cutting deeper than any wound.

Alyssia raised her hand.

And light bloomed.

"Familial Arts: Divine Blade of Fate."

A vibrant, otherworldly radiance engulfed her fingers, moving upward in a fluid motion. The glow pulsed with intensity, spreading outwards in shimmering tendrils of a prismatic divine mana, warping the very air around them. The light coalesced, shifting, molding—until something vast and divine took form.

An otherworldly blade materialized in her grasp.

Its form was immense, far larger than any mundane weapon, yet it bore an elegance beyond comprehension. The blade's surface shimmered like celestial glass, shifting between hues of silver, gold, and iridescent blue. Its edges pulsed with radiant inscriptions, each rune shifting as though alive. The crossguard bore a single, celestial eye, eternally open.

The Divine Blade of Fate.

Wielded by the Goddess of War, Magic, and Navigation—Octavia. Aelfric clicked his tongue.

His red eyes darkened, his arms remaining loosely at his sides, but the subtle shift in his stance betrayed his displeasure. "That blade," he murmured. "It cannot kill me." His gaze locked onto Alyssia, the scorn in his expression intensifying."But this," he admitted, "is still my loss."

Alyssia's hands trembled as she raised the Divine Blade, the immense weight of its power nearly overwhelming her. But she did not falter. She inhaled sharply, steadying herself.

Her red eyes met Aelfric's once more, and she lifted the blade high. "With this blade," her voice wavered, yet it carried the weight of something absolute, "I seal you."

The moment the words left her lips, the blade ignited. A blinding radiance surged from its core, erasing the darkness itself. The entire battlefield was swallowed in a celestial glow, the sky itself seeming to bend away from the blade's influence. The grotesque eyes and mouths above recoiled, their forms twisting violently as they screamed in soundless agony, writhing.

Aelfric's form began to unravel.

His robe, his body, his very existence fragmented—pieces of him dissolving, warping, as though reality itself was rejecting his presence. His red gaze remained locked onto Alyssia, unreadable, even as his form began to fade. The tendrils of absolute death recoiled, flailing wildly before they disintegrated into nothing.

The power of the Divine Blade pulsed once more.

And Aelfric was sealed.

His unmade form was dragged back—back into the abyss, back into the depths of his coffin, his prison. The darkness swallowed him whole, locking him away beyond the reach of time itself.

And then—silence.

The light faded.

The battlefield was still once more.

But even as Aelfric was gone—the mark of Death remained.

Alyssia exhaled, her entire body trembling, the weight of the Divine Blade vanishing as it dissolved into threads of light. And Lyra… Lyra was kneeling before her, hands gripping the fabric of Alyssia's nightgown as she stared at her in silent horror.

Alyssia smiled, exhaustion consuming her.

The mark of Death had not been lifted.

And then, they moved.

The eyes above—grotesque, malformed, endless—all turned at once, their many gazes locking onto Lyra. Their collective stare was something beyond comprehension, something that did not simply see but consumed, unraveled, understood.

A voice followed.

No—voices.

"One has bargained for the mark to be lifted."

Lyra's red eyes widened, hope flickering within their depths. She grasped Alyssia tighter, still kneeling beside her, her unconscious form so fragile, her pale hair spilling over the snow like threads.

But before she could react—before she could allow herself even a sliver of relief—

The voice spoke again.

"But only one soul shall be released from our grasp."

The flicker of hope was extinguished.

Lyra's blood ran cold.

She lifted her head, her breath trembling, her heartbeat pounding against her ribs like war drums. "What…?" she rasped.

The eyes did not blink.

The voice did not pause.

"A second life dwells within the first." The Bringer of Death stated.

Lyra's mind stopped. The world around her froze. Seconds stretched into an eternity as the meaning of those words sank in, deeper than any blade, more terrible than any wound.

A second life.

No.

No.

No, that couldn't—

"One will be free from our touch. The other will not."

Lyra shook her head violently, her breath shuddering, her pupils contracting into pinpricks. "This… This isn't real," she whispered, her voice cracking. "This can't be real." Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging so deep into her palms that blood seeped into the snow. But the Bringer of Death did not care.

"CHOOSE."

Lyra's breath came in sharp, painful gasps as she stared down at Alyssia's unconscious form. Her skin was pale, too pale. Her chest rose and fell weakly, her breathing barely audible in the heavy stillness.

And within her—

Within her…

Lyra choked, bile rising in her throat.

Aelfric had…

Alyssia, the girl who had called her mother. The girl who had looked up at her with love, with trust. The girl who had smiled despite the suffering she bore. And Aelfric had taken everything from her.

Lyra's vision blurred.

The weight of it—of all of it—crushed her.

The grotesque eyes waited.

The voice did not rush her, did not demand.

Because it did not need to.

The decision was inevitable.

And she knew it.

She hated it.

She hated them.

She hated him.

She hated herself.

Tears slipped from her eyes, falling silently into the snow. Her hands trembled as she reached out, her fingers gently brushing Alyssia's cheek.

So warm.

So fragile.

Lyra's breath hitched—and then she made her choice.

---------------------

The abyss above was gone.

The eyes and mouths had vanished, swallowed back into the void from which they came. The sky remained black—starless, moonless—but the unnatural presence had faded.

And Lyra stood alone.

The vast snowfields of Verdantis stretched out endlessly around her.

No wind.

No sound.

No one.

Only her.

Her—and the impossibly small, fragile life in her hands.

A baby.

Too small. Too delicate.

Barely larger than her palm, as if the world itself had refused to let it fully form.

Alyssia was gone.

And in her place, in Lyra's trembling grasp, was this sleeping, blissfully unaware child.

Her eyes burned.

Tears fell freely, streaking down her face, warm against her frozen skin.

She sobbed.

Not in rage.

Not in madness.

Just… sadness.

Pure, unrelenting, soul-crushing sadness.

She had wanted Aelfric to suffer.

She had wanted revenge.

And yet, here she was, holding the only thing he left behind.

The snow beneath her feet stretched out forever.

The night sky above remained silent.

And Lyra, standing in that vast emptiness, held the only fragile warmth she had left.

A life she had chosen to save.

A life she had no idea how to face.

And still, despite it all—

She held it gently.