Chapter 5: The Discovery

Elysia crept down the shadowed corridor, heart racing with each carefully placed step. Five days of observation had confirmed the pattern: every third evening, Duke Dominus retreated to his private study after dinner and remained there until well past midnight, reviewing correspondence and estate ledgers. The household understood that interruptions during these hours would be met with cold fury.

Which made it the perfect time for exploration.

At five years old, Elysia had finally grown tall enough to reach doorknobs without struggling. Her soft-soled indoor slippers made little sound against the stone floors as she navigated the manor's east wing, where her father's private chambers lay.

A celebration in the great hall provided additional cover. Some minor lord's nameday feast had drawn most of the household staff to the kitchens and serving areas, leaving the family's private wing largely deserted. Even Agnes had been temporarily reassigned to help with the visiting noble ladies.

The Duke's study door loomed before her, heavy oak carved with the Blackwood family crest—a sword crossed with what appeared to be a stylized flame. Elysia pressed her ear against the wood, listening for movement inside. Nothing. Strange. According to the patterns she'd observed, her father should be inside.

She tested the handle, expecting resistance. To her surprise, it turned easily under her small hand. The door swung inward with the faintest creak.

The study stretched before her, illuminated only by dying embers in the hearth. No candles burned at the massive desk. No Duke pored over documents. The room stood empty, its owner apparently called away by unexpected business.

A stroke of luck. Or fate.

Elysia slipped inside and closed the door behind her. The study smelled of leather, parchment, and the peculiar herbal scent of her father's preferred tea. Bookshelves lined three walls, filled with volumes bound in rich leather and embossed with gold. The fourth wall featured a massive stone fireplace flanked by weapons and artifacts displayed on wooden stands and hooks.

Moving with careful purpose, she approached her father's desk first. The surface held neatly arranged stacks of correspondence bearing wax seals from various noble houses. Tempting, but too risky—the Duke would notice if his meticulously organized papers were disturbed.

Instead, Elysia turned her attention to the display wall. Here hung swords, daggers, and smaller items she couldn't identify from a distance. A nobleman's collection of martial treasures—some likely passed down through generations, others possibly war trophies.

She moved closer, drawn to a particularly ornate dagger displayed on a wooden stand. The weapon's hilt featured intricate silver wirework forming patterns that seemed to shift in the dim firelight. The blade itself was unusual—not the bright steel of most weapons she'd seen in this world, but a darker metal with a faint bluish tinge.

A small plaque beneath it read: "Shadeglass Dagger - Acquired in Greaze Campaign, Year 947."

Shadeglass. The name resonated with her, though she couldn't say why. Perhaps she'd overheard it in conversation, or read the term in her limited access to the manor's library.

Without conscious decision, Elysia reached for the dagger. It felt wrong to touch her father's possessions without permission, but an irresistible curiosity drove her forward. Her fingertips brushed the hilt—

"Lady Elysia?"

The sudden voice from the corridor outside froze her in place. One of the house guards, making rounds. Footsteps approached the study door.

Panicking, Elysia grabbed the dagger from its stand, intending to hide it and herself behind the heavy curtains flanking the fireplace. The weapon was heavier than she expected—her small hands fumbled, and the dagger tilted, its blade sliding across her palm.

Sharp pain lanced through her hand. Elysia bit back a cry, nearly dropping the dagger as warm blood welled from the cut. She stumbled backward, bumping against a small table.

The guard's footsteps paused outside the door. "Is someone there?"

Elysia's heart hammered against her ribs. Discovery in her father's private study, bleeding, with a valuable artifact in hand—the consequences would be severe. She clutched the dagger tightly despite the pain, blood now dripping onto the expensive carpet.

Something strange happened then. Where her blood touched the dark blade, a reaction occurred—not the simple wetness of liquid on metal, but something else. The blade seemed to absorb the blood, and where it did, tiny motes of darkness appeared, hovering above the metal like minuscule black snowflakes.

The doorknob turned.

Terror and fascination warred within Elysia as the dark motes multiplied, swirling faster around the blade. Then, with shocking suddenness, they erupted into flame—not ordinary red-orange fire, but black flames with distinct purple edges, exactly like the Abysmal Flame she had imagined in her previous life.

The impossible fire engulfed her hand and the dagger, yet caused no pain. It didn't burn—not in the conventional sense—though she felt an intense tingling where it touched her skin.

The door began to open.

Pure instinct took over. Elysia thought *stop* with desperate intensity, directing the thought at the flames. To her shock, they immediately vanished, leaving only the faintest wisp of shadow-like smoke that dissipated in seconds.

"Who enters without permission?" came the guard's stern voice as the door swung fully open.

Elysia had just enough presence of mind to slip the dagger into the folds of her dress before turning to face the guard, her cut hand hidden behind her back.

"I—I was looking for my father," she said, adopting her most innocent expression. "I had a nightmare."

The guard's severe expression softened slightly at the sight of the Duke's small daughter, her eyes wide with apparent fear. "His Grace attends to the feast, Lady Elysia. He left strict instructions not to be disturbed."

"I'm sorry," she murmured, lowering her gaze in what she hoped appeared as childish contrition rather than calculation. "I'll return to my chambers."

The guard nodded, stepping aside to let her pass. "Shall I escort you, my lady?"

"No thank you," Elysia replied, keeping her wounded hand carefully concealed. "I know the way."

She walked with measured steps until turning the corner, then broke into a run, heart pounding. The dagger pressed against her leg through the fabric of her dress, a cold reminder of what had just occurred.

Once safely inside her chambers, Elysia locked the door and hurried to her washbasin. She placed the dagger on her dressing table and examined her injured hand under the light of a single candle.

The cut ran diagonally across her palm, still seeping blood though not as heavily as before. What should have been a painful wound barely registered—as if the black flame had somehow numbed the area. More disturbing, the edges of the cut showed unusual coloration—a faint purple tinge that couldn't be dismissed as a trick of the candlelight.

"The Abysmal Flame," Elysia whispered, staring at her hand in disbelief. "It's real."

Two years of rationality, of dismissing her previous life's fantasies as childish delusions, crumbled in the face of undeniable evidence. The flames she had invented as Mizuki Kamiya—her chunibyo persona's signature power—had manifested in this world, triggered by her blood on an unusual blade.

With trembling fingers, Elysia wrapped a clean handkerchief around her wounded palm. Then she turned her attention to the dagger, examining it more carefully. The blade's dark metal seemed to absorb rather than reflect candlelight. The silver wirework on the hilt formed patterns that resembled flowing water or perhaps smoke—impossible to pin down as they seemed to shift subtly with each movement.

"Shadeglass," she murmured, recalling the plaque. Whatever the material was, it had reacted to her blood in a way that defied conventional explanation, even in a world where minor magical talents were commonplace.

A thought occurred to her. If the blade had triggered the flame once...

Before she could reconsider, Elysia unwrapped the handkerchief and pressed her still-bleeding palm against the flat of the blade. Blood smeared across the dark metal, and for a breathless moment, nothing happened.

Then, like tiny black snowflakes forming from nothing, the dark motes appeared again, swirling faster until they erupted into those distinctive black flames with purple edges. They engulfed her hand and the dagger once more, causing the same intense tingling sensation without pain.

This time, rather than panicking, Elysia observed. The flames didn't consume—they didn't reduce anything to ash or cause any visible damage. They simply existed, flowing like liquid darkness around her fingers and the blade.

Experimentally, she thought *grow*, focusing her will on the flames. They responded immediately, expanding to engulf her entire forearm before she hastily thought *stop* and then *smaller*. The flames retreated to cover just her palm and the dagger.

"I control it with my thoughts," she whispered, awe and fear mingling in her voice.

Next, she tried to direct the flames to move from her hand to the handkerchief lying on the dressing table. The black fire flowed like water, leaving her skin and blade to hover above the cloth without igniting it.

*Return*, she commanded mentally, and the flames obediently flowed back to her hand.

For nearly an hour, Elysia experimented with the flames, testing their properties and limitations. They generated no heat that could warm the room, yet when she specifically willed them to burn, they reduced a scrap of parchment to ash in seconds. They made no sound, produced no smoke except the faint shadow-wisps upon first appearing or extinguishing. They could expand or contract, move in any direction, even split into multiple smaller flames—all according to her mental commands.

The Abysmal Flame. Her Abysmal Flame. The power she had pretended to possess as Mizuki was somehow, impossibly, actually hers in this world.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook her. The flame manipulation seemed to drain her energy, particularly when she attempted more complex movements or divisions. With a final thought of *extinguish*, she dismissed the black fire and slumped into her chair.

The cut on her palm had stopped bleeding entirely. More strangely, when she unwrapped the handkerchief to check it, the wound had already begun to close—far faster than any injury should heal. The purple tinge around the edges remained, however, a visible reminder of what had occurred.

Elysia stared at the dagger lying innocuously on her dressing table. She needed to return it before her father discovered its absence, but more urgently, she needed to understand what had happened. Was the blade itself magical? Or had it merely activated something already present within her?

The latter seemed more likely, given her history. Somehow, the fantasy power she had created as Mizuki Kamiya had become real in Elysia Blackwood. The implications were staggering.

If the Abysmal Flame existed, what else might be real? The enemies she had invented? The cosmic connections she had fantasized about? The special destiny she had pretended to have?

Elysia shook her head, forcing herself to think rationally. One confirmed phenomenon didn't validate all her previous delusions. The flame was real, yes, but that didn't mean everything else was. She needed to approach this scientifically, testing each capability and limitation before drawing further conclusions.

She wrapped the dagger in the bloodstained handkerchief and hid it beneath her mattress. Tomorrow night, after she'd rested, she would return it to her father's study. For now, she needed sleep and time to process her discovery.

As she changed into her nightgown, Elysia caught sight of herself in the mirror. The face that looked back at her—a child's face, with those distinctive violet eyes—suddenly seemed less foreign, less disconnected from her sense of self. If the Abysmal Flame existed in this world, perhaps she was meant to be here. Perhaps her consciousness hadn't transferred across dimensions by random cosmic accident, but for a specific purpose.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," she whispered to her reflection. "One phenomenon doesn't constitute a pattern."

Still, as she climbed into bed, an unfamiliar feeling settled in her chest—not quite hope, not quite excitement, but something adjacent to both. For the first time since arriving in this world, Elysia felt a sense of personal agency beyond mere adaptation. If she could control these flames, what else might she accomplish?

Sleep came slowly, her mind racing with possibilities. Just before drifting off, a final thought surfaced from the depths of her consciousness:

On that Tokyo rooftop, in the last moments of her previous life, Mizuki Kamiya had wished the Abysmal Flame was real.

And somehow, impossibly, that wish had been granted.

---

Elysia's dreams that night were vivid and strange. She floated in a vast darkness punctuated by distant stars. Before her stood a woman—or something woman-shaped—composed of shadow and starlight. Her form shifted constantly, edges blurring into the darkness around her, but her eyes remained fixed: two points of brilliant violet light that matched Elysia's own unusual eye color.

"At last," the figure said, though no mouth moved. The words seemed to form directly in Elysia's mind. "You have found the first key."

"Who are you?" Elysia asked, surprised to find she could speak in this dream-void.

"I have many names across many worlds," the shadow-woman replied. "Here, some call me Nyx, the Twilight Mother. You may think of me as a guide, if you wish."

"Did you bring me here? To this world, this body?"

The figure's form rippled, neither confirming nor denying. "Your flame has awakened. Earlier than expected, but perhaps necessary. The barriers between worlds grow thin."

"The Abysmal Flame—it's really mine? Not just the dagger's magic?"

"It has always been yours," Nyx replied. "In every iteration, in every world. The dagger merely helped you remember. Blood remembers what mind forgets."

Before Elysia could ask another question, the starlit void began to fade. Nyx's form dissolved into the darkness, her final words echoing as the dream collapsed:

"Learn quickly, little flame."

Elysia woke with a gasp, morning sunlight streaming through her window. The dream remained unusually vivid in her memory, unlike the typical fragments that faded upon waking.

Her palm tingled. When she examined it, she found the cut completely healed, leaving only a thin purple line to mark where the blade had sliced her skin.

The dagger remained hidden under her mattress. Not a dream, then. Not a hallucination.

Elysia slid from her bed and knelt on the cool floor, reaching beneath the mattress to retrieve the wrapped weapon. In daylight, its dark metal seemed to drink in the sun's rays, the blade appearing almost liquid.

Unwrapping the handkerchief, she steeled herself and pressed her finger against the blade's edge—not hard enough to cut, just enough to make contact. Nothing happened. No black motes, no purple-edged flames.

"Blood," she murmured, recalling both her initial cut and Nyx's words in the dream. "It needs blood to activate."

She wouldn't cut herself again to test the theory—not now, with Agnes likely to arrive any moment for morning preparations. Tonight, when she returned the dagger, she would have opportunity for one final experiment.

As if summoned by the thought, a knock sounded at her door. Elysia quickly rewrapped the dagger and returned it to its hiding place.

"Lady Elysia? Are you awake?" Agnes called.

"Yes, Agnes. You may enter."

As the nursemaid bustled in with breakfast and fresh clothing, Elysia maintained her practiced façade of ordinary noble child. But beneath that carefully constructed exterior, her mind raced with implications and possibilities.

The Abysmal Flame was real. And somehow, it belonged to her.

Whatever that meant for her future in this world, one thing was certain: life as Duke Dominus Blackwood's unremarkable youngest daughter had just become significantly more complicated.

And infinitely more interesting.