Chapter 191: A soul for a soul

Mikoto watched idly as Lyra's expression twisted into something that could only be described as seething rage. Her crimson eyes burned with hate, her lips curling into a snarl.

"You bastard," she spat, her voice venomous. "There's no way I would ever do that!"

Aelfric remained unfazed, dark satisfaction coiling behind those cold, all-seeing eyes. He tilted his head slightly, the corners of his lips curling into a smirk as if relishing the fire in her.

"Oh?" His voice dripped with mock surprise, and he gestured lazily with his hand, "Not even for dear Alyssia?" He let the name roll off his tongue. The mention of her name made Lyra's breath hitch, but before she could speak, Aelfric pressed forward, his tone a mix of amusement and cruelty. "I dare say, I did not expect you to favor another so deeply above her," he mused. A hand rose to his chin as if pondering some great revelation. "Now, what was it she said all those years ago?" A brief pause, then— "Ah, yes. The girl saw you as her mother, no?"

Lyra's hands clenched into tight fists, Aelfric's smirk widened ever so slightly.

"And yet," he continued, voice now mockingly gentle, "when the opportunity arises, you abandon her once more. How cruel, Lyra. How terribly, terribly cruel."

"You—!"

Lyra took a step forward, raw mana crackling through the air around her like a storm barely held at bay. But then—a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't," came a voice—Guinevere's. Her grip was firm, yet not forceful. A gentle reminder of restraint. "Do not give him what he wants." Lyra turned, her wild, rage-fueled eyes locking onto deep lilac orbs, shimmering with something far heavier than anger. Sorrow. A sorrow that mirrored her own. "Be the composed woman who raised me," Guinevere whispered. "For my sake. For my mother's sake."

Lyra stared for a long, shuddering moment before exhaling sharply, her anger flickering like a dying flame. "I... I am sorry," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Guinevere's fingers squeezed slightly, an anchor of reassurance. "I am by your side, Lyra. Do not succumb to rage and walk a path alone."

Aelfric scoffed, folding his arms. "How touching," he sneered, unimpressed. "But tell me, can you truly believe those lofty words? My eyes tell me of countless futures." His voice lowered, rich with amusement, yet filled with something more sinister. "You two, desperately attempting to claim this soul—" The air darkened. A pulse. A vision only he saw. Aelfric let out a low chuckle, the sound grating. "—But you fail. Time and time again."

Guinevere's expression darkened, her fingers curling slightly as she held back the tremor in her hands. "Why?" she asked, voice suddenly quiet, yet sharp. "Why do you continue to make her suffer so?" Her lilac eyes burned, filled with something deeper than mere hatred—an exhaustion born from centuries of a emotion. "My mother has done you no wrong," she continued. "Your true enemy is the Goddess Octavia, is she not?" A step forward. "Then why involve her mere spawns? People who merely received her blessing?"

Aelfric let out a soft exhale. Then, with slow movements, he shook his head. "How infuriating," he mused, his voice now touched with mock disappointment, "that my own spawn is this dimwitted." The air seemed to grow heavier. "I shall have to educate you properly," he mused, "once I am rid of dear Lyra." His fingers twitched. "I know Octavia loves those she blesses," he continued, voice shifting into something more resolute. "And as such—" A faint hum. The sound of something building. "From henceforth, I shall make it my duty—" Dark tendrils began coiling at his feet. "—to expunge her putrid spawns from this realm." His hand raised slightly, an ominous shift in the air, "And she's powerless to sto—"

THUNK.

A sharp, solid impact. Aelfric's head snapped violently backward, a shockwave of force rippling through the air. The object clattered to the ground with a metallic clang. A helmet.

A pause.

Silence.

Aelfric's body had staggered back, his feet digging into the ground to steady himself. Slowly, he straightened, his gaze flicking toward the discarded helm—then forward, narrowing into a glare.

Mikoto stood inches away from him. That delicate, beautiful face held no fear. Only mocking amusement. "You talk too much," Mikoto said casually, rosy lips curling into a grin dripping with arrogance. "Do you like the sound of your own voice that much?" He snorted, "But that can't be right? Your voice is grating to the ears," He gestured to his own delicate pair.

A flicker of unadulterated hatred passed through Aelfric's gaze. "You—"

Mikoto took a step forward, crimson eyes gleaming with something infuriatingly confident. "Ah, there it is." He tilted his head. "I was wondering when you'd stop the fake composure."

A low, menacing growl rumbled in Aelfric's throat.

Mikoto ignored it, raising a brow. "You're pretty cocky for someone so weak."

Silence.

A single twitch in Aelfric's jaw.

"Bargain for a soul?" Mikoto snorted, rolling his shoulders. "You dumb fuck, I'll just take it and kick your ass."

The air trembled.

Aelfric's hand clenched.

And Mikoto's rosy lips curled into a wider smirk.

"Foolish child," Aelfric's voice carried with the weight of eons of bitterness, the air around them thickening with his wrath. His eyes locked onto Mikoto's, those crimson pools that reflected his form, mockingly. He was angered, not by Mikoto's words, but by his unshakable certainty. "I am eternal. Death has no grasp on me, boy."

The words hung in the air, but Mikoto, didn't flinch. His lips curled from a smirk into a grin, one that wasn't born of mockery, but of a deep, almost unsettling self-assurance. He raised a brow, and his smile widened, like he were a spectator to Aelfric's hollow proclamation.

"Oh? Then why'd you run back then?" Mikoto's voice was casual, almost teasing, with no sign of fear, only the confidence of someone who knew how powerful they were.

Aelfric's eyes narrowed, but there was no answer. None was needed. Mikoto could feel the change in the atmosphere—the way Aelfric's stance shifted, his gaze now fully consumed by the boy before him. It wasn't fear Aelfric felt, but something far worse: annoyance. The realization that this mortal—this boy—was not playing by the rules of existence itself. Mikoto, still grinning, turned on his heel and walked a few paces away, the grass crunching underfoot, every movement, measured. 

"Sabre is a holy blade," Mikoto's voice rang out across the open space, breaking the silence. "I know exactly what its true name is. It's all too obvious. But do you know what its main purpose is?"

Aelfric's brows furrowed, and the first trace of wariness crept into his eyes. He did not respond. The mana in the air around Mikoto was shifting—thickening, becoming more pronounced, more dangerous. A pool of deep, blood-red mana began to form beneath Mikoto's feet. It glowed with an intensity that threatened to rip the very fabric of the area asunder. The ground crackled with the surge of power, radiating outward. Slowly, ever so slowly, something began to rise from the tear in space and time. It was subtle at first—an intricate, radiating handle. Mikoto's hand shot out, and Sabre, responded in kind, emerging fully from the tear. It hovered in midair, Mikoto gripped it firmly, his fingers tracing the contours of the weapon.

He turned to face Aelfric, the blade now pointed directly at the Ancestor, its presence palpable, a force on its own. Aelfric didn't flinch. He didn't even move, his eyes locked onto Mikoto's, betraying no hint of fear. He was prepared. He had been for centuries. But Mikoto was something new. Something dangerous.

"This is my bargain to you, Ancestor." Mikoto's voice was a low, calm murmur. His grin deepened, stretching across his face. "Preserve that woman's soul. Come the festival, we will fight. If I win, you will return her soul to Lyra and Guinevere."

"And should you lose?" Aelfric's voice was sharp, biting, his gaze never leaving the holy blade. His curiosity was piqued, but there was something else in his eyes now—something darker.

"Then I shall offer up both my body and soul," Mikoto declared, his voice, filled with the certainty of one who had made up his mind long before the words escaped his lips.

A flicker of disbelief crossed Guinevere's face, her gaze darting between Mikoto and the now watchful Aelfric. This was beyond anything she had expected. The boy had promised to help, yes, but this—this was beyond all reason. He wasn't just entering a battle; he was making a sacrifice, one that few could fathom, let alone endure. The depth of Mikoto's resolve struck her.

"You foolish child!" Lyra bellowed, her voice tinged with a mixture of anger, fear, and something softer—something maternal. She rushed to Mikoto's side, her footsteps pounding against the earth, her body moving with an urgency. She was ignoring Aelfric entirely, her focus locked entirely on the boy who had just placed his very soul on the line. Her breath hitched as she reached him, and without thought, her hand clutched his shoulder, as though she were trying to keep him anchored to reality. "That burden should not be yours to bear, Mikoto!" Her words were a plea, a desperate cry to pull him back from the precipice. Mikoto flinched, his body stiffening under her touch, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he stood there, his eyes softening for the briefest moment before his face hardened once more. "You've a life to lead, Mikoto," Lyra continued, her voice cracking, her eyes wide with worry, "a goal to accomplish. Please, don't do this. Not for me. Not for anyone."

Mikoto's lips twitched. His smile returned, albeit a little strained. "Oh please, there's no risk involved," he said, brushing off her worry as though it were little more than a fleeting concern. "You've done so much for me, gathering all that info, and all I did was sate your curiosity a little bit. This is me paying you back." His words were light, but the heaviness of his declaration remained.

Before Lyra could voice another protest, Aelfric spoke again, his voice cold, final, "Very well..." He said, his voice dripping with disdain. He took a step back, but there was no fear in his posture, no hesitation. He was simply… calculating. "I… accept." The words were spat out, venomous and laced with malice. "But know this, boy. This bargain is one I shall not lose. Once your body and soul are mine, I shall relish in the opportunity to torment you for all eternity. That is a promise. Remember it well, boy. Come the festival."

From Aelfric's chest, a translucent red chain began to materialize. It was thin at first, like a thread, but quickly grew into something far more ominous. The chain stretched out into the air, winding and twining with unnatural speed, as it came to rest at Mikoto's chest. The connection was made. The bargain was sealed.

[Contract Established]

Mikoto's heartbeat a little faster, but his expression never wavered. He felt the weight of Aelfric's gaze, not just on his body, but on his very soul. But he did not flinch. He stared back, his gaze unwavering.

Aelfric's smirk deepened, and with a fluid motion, he began to sink into the ground. The black liquid that pooled around his feet surged up his form, as if he were being swallowed by the earth itself. His body melted into the darkness, his eyes the last thing visible as they locked onto Mikoto's soul. The world seemed to shudder. Aelfric's presence was no longer a physical one.

Mikoto exhaled sharply, breaking the stillness. With a flick of his wrist, Sabre dissipated into a burst of crimson light, vanishing into the ether. His smile returned, albeit with a hint of uncertainty.

"Man, what a creep," he muttered, only for the words to catch in his throat.

An embrace. Soft, warm, and tight. Lyra had wrapped herself around him, her arms a lifeline, holding him close as if her very existence depended on it. Mikoto was momentarily stunned, his thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. He stood frozen, caught in the unexpected embrace of the woman.

"Huh?" Mikoto's voice was weak, as if the action had left him breathless, unprepared for the raw emotion Lyra was pouring into him.

"You fool..." Lyra whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and something deeper, something far more profound. "You utter fool." She held him even tighter, as though she feared that if she let go, he would vanish from her life, lost to the darkness he had just bargained with. Her arms wrapped around him like a cocoon of warmth. He felt safe, it was a strange, almost maternal comfort—a sense of belonging he had once known.

She finally pulled back, her hands resting on his shoulders as she looked at him, her eyes filled with a sadness that Mikoto could never have expected. "Why did you do it?" she asked, her voice shaking. "Why go and make such a decision so suddenly?"

Mikoto flushed, stepping back with an awkward, forced chuckle. "W-why'd you go and do something like that all of a sudden?" he stammered, his fingers awkwardly pointing at her, as though it were her fault for showing such emotion. He folded his arms, unable to meet her gaze, his cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

Despite the tension, the weight of the moment, there was a softness in the air—a small, fleeting comfort that both of them could hold onto. Lyra smiled, her lips quivering with the remnants of fear and relief. "Seems you can make cute expressions," she teased gently.

Mikoto clicked his tongue, though there was no real annoyance in the sound. "Tch," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "I ain't cute, I'm handsome," he shot back, a slight blush still coloring his face.

"You're a fool, Mikoto." Lyra shook her head, the softness in her expression never quite leaving. "I forget sometimes that you're merely fifteen winters old. Which only irks me more considering what you've done—a magic contract." Her lips pressed together in disapproval, though it was more worry than judgment.

Mikoto raised a hand, stopping her before she could continue. "I know the implications," he said, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation. "If you don't abide by the conditions, it's instant death, though just for me." He made a motion across his throat. "But I ain't worried. After all, I intend to win."

"You, munchkin," Lyra sighed, her tone filled with exasperation, but beneath it, there was an undeniable warmth. "To go this far..."

Guinevere, who had remained silent up until now, stepped forward. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned Mikoto's form from head to toe. "It speaks of either your courage or your idiocy," she mused, her voice smooth and calm, though her gaze betrayed a deep fascination. "Are you... male?"

"Of course I am!"

Guinevere's brow furrowed in contemplation, her voice taking on a slightly fascinated tone. "Oh, this is very... new and odd. A male spawn of Octavia. This is nothing short of phenomenal. There's no shortage of glaring questions I have. This is all so bizarre, something I never thought would be possible." Her gaze softened for a moment as she glanced at Mikoto with a kind of awe. "You keep interesting company, Lyra."

Lyra chuckled softly, leaning closer to Guinevere. "You know, you can still call me auntie, right?"

Guinevere snorted, amusement in her eyes. "I'm three hundred years old, I think I'll pass."

Turning back to Mikoto, Guinevere's expression softened, though the curiosity still burned in her eyes. "Still... why go so far? As a spawn of Octavia, I know you're powerful, yet even so..."

Mikoto shrugged, his smile fading for a brief moment, replaced with something far more serious. "Eh, let's just say I've got experience with scummy dads and leave it at that," he said, dismissing the question as though it were nothing more than an afterthought. "Now, unfortunately, I'll be going through the 'phase' crap when the festival rolls around. But even so, I'll still help you two." His smile returned then—ethereal, almost otherworldly. "So leave it all to me."