Chapter 38 – The Tomb of the First Patriarch
The stone doors parted with a hiss like a dying breath, revealing the inner sanctum of the Veillands.
A narrow corridor stretched ahead, carved not by mortal hands but by divine flame. Faint golden light pulsed from etched runes along the walls—each one bearing the symbol of the Luther Clan sunburst and the sigil of the goddess Celeste entwined in its center.
Jean stepped in first. The others followed in hushed reverence.
They passed murals—scenes of Martin Luther not as a conqueror, but as a man. One showed him mourning over a burning village. Another, cradling the body of a friend. The final mural depicted him placing a great sword into a stone altar, surrounded by spirits, his back turned to the world.
"He sealed it himself," Silvia whispered. "He didn't die in battle… he chose to disappear."
The corridor opened into a vast, domed chamber.
At its heart stood the Altar of the End Flame—a circular dais inscribed with ancient lightcraft. Upon it rested a sword embedded in obsidian. Its hilt was wrapped in red cloth, worn by time, and its blade shimmered faintly despite the gloom.
Luxclade. The blade that split the sky.
Jean stepped forward. Her hands trembled—not with fear, but with awe.
Suddenly, a voice echoed through the chamber.
"You should not have come."
From the shadows stepped a figure cloaked in silver mist. A ghost, yet more solid than the Echoes—a memory given form.
He was tall, draped in white and gold armor. His hair was the same snow-white as Jean's. His eyes, twin suns.
"Martin Luther," Silvia whispered.
The First Patriarch regarded Jean with a gaze that saw into her soul.
"You carry my blood," he said. "But you do not carry my path."
Jean met his gaze. "That's true. I won't."
Martin nodded. "Then tell me… why do you seek my sword?"
Jean stepped to the altar. "Not to conquer. Not to claim the Clan. I seek it to finish what you began—to stop Antares. To save what you could not."
A silence passed.
Martin stepped aside. "Then prove you are worthy to wield Luxclade. Bear the flame of final light. Take it."
Jean grasped the hilt.
A searing pain shot through her. The blade resisted, testing her will, her essence.
She gritted her teeth, heart pounding, soul bared.
"I… am Jean Luther. Emissary of Light. Daughter of the fallen. Bearer of hope."
The sword pulsed.
Then, with a burst of radiant light, it slid free.
Jean staggered, gripping it tightly. Luxclade blazed in her hands, brighter than the sun—its aura fusing with her own.
Martin smiled faintly.
"You are not me," he said. "You are… better."
His spirit began to fade.
"Remember, Jean. Power is not legacy. It is burden. Carry it well."
Then he was gone.
The chamber fell silent.
Jean stood at the heart of it, Luxclade in hand.
Whitney stepped forward and bowed.
"Now, we begin the true war."
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