I can feel it now. Not just its weight above—but the weight behind it. The weight of unspoken vengeance. Of hands that forged it in fire, hoping never to hold it again... and yet, again and again, here it comes.
Her strike is elegant, yes, just swift. Like time pulling tight its final thread. Like fate exhaling. That's where the true cruelty lives — in the beauty of its motion... graceful as a dancer, deadly as regret.
Is this what they all saw in their final moment? That glint of light—is it the morning sun, or just the last reflection I'll ever see? Funny how the world sharpens when you know it's slipping away. The sky's never seemed so wide. The wind was so still.
Please… not yet. Just give me one more heartbeat. Just one. I don't want this to be the end of me, not like this.
But that blade—it's falling anyway.
I'm sorry, Mom.
I'm afraid.
God… I don't want to go.
*
Astis's right hand glowed, a spider-shaped glyph etched in magenta light pulsing just beneath the skin like a heartbeat. Hovering above his wrist, a translucent oval construct—no more than ten centimetres long—shimmered in the space between him and the incoming blade.
"Will it work?"
It was his last hope—a desperate gambit to conjure a portal and displace the sword before it met flesh. A gamble between life and death.
Even the lady—stoic as ever—seemed almost impressed. But she gave nothing away.
Whoosh.
"Ugh—ARRRGH!"
Blood burst forth, hitting the dust-laden stones and dying the pale pebbles a dark, weeping crimson. It flowed like a forgotten lullaby, soft and bitter, winding its way through the uneven earth—a river of unspoken farewells. The ground welcomed it not in violence, but as if in inheritance. As if it had always waited for this sorrow.
The pebbles shifted beneath the weight of tragedy, reluctant witnesses trying to avert their gaze. But the blood found every crack, every corner, dragging honesty from silence.
Astis would surely have wondered whether the flowers nearby would stoop to drink from it, well only if he had the leisure to do so.
"Arggh—ahhh!"
Astis wailed, anguish ripping through him. His left hand had been severed completely from him. Even though it was not his real body, the pain was excruciating.
"No... I saw the sword vanish through the portal. How did it—how did it reach me?"
He said whinning on the ground soaked in blood of himself.
The lady stood tall, unshaken. She made a single motion with one hand. Her hair long pale blonde hair fluttering a little.
"Tend to him."
Her voice was cool and impassive as she gave those orders with a nonchalant face.
Around her, priests hurried forward and the screams of agony of Astis was completely ignored as if the wails of pigs before slaughter.
"Rejoice, peasant,"
She said with surgical cruelty, glancing at her sword. If it were any other other time Astis would have commented that she was bothered by the blood stain on the sword.
"Only your arm was corrupted. Had it reached your heart, your head would have come off. I've saved you. Twice, in fact."
She continued.
"Allow me, my lady."
One priest offered with a low bow to cleansed her sword which has just been defiled by the lownoron blood of Astis.
Several others echoed, eager to serve or rather to remain in her favour.
The lady waved her hands away as a gesture saying "no need".
Astis writhed, untouched by their piety and discrimination, left alone to flail in the grip of his despair.
To the lady, he seemed like a pathetic creature—begging for mercy. Or so he thought.
'First, that damn ritual where I had to stab myself, second, that fucking faceless humanoid who scammed me to sign up for the ordeal, and now you, who I believe was my saviour, to cut off my limb.'
One of the priests conjured a glyph from red-hot coal, while another seized Astis's left arm—the one still attached—severed only a little above the elbow.
"What are you—"
Before he could finish his sentence, they plunged his arm into the glyph of coal.
"Ugh…"
Astis flailed his legs, trying to pull back, trying to escape. But all of it was in vain.
"Leave me… please..."
He begged again and again.
After some time, the priest let go of his arm, and he collapsed to the floor, clutching just above the glowing wound near his elbow.
'It hurts, it hurts, it fucking hurts.'
His entire body trembled.
The lady, however, looked on—amused by the boy.
It wasn't that Astis had failed to summon the portal precisely enough to warp the sword.
Nor that the tip of her blade had curved mid-flight changing its trajectory.
Nor even that it was a mere coincidence.
After Astis had finally calmed down, the lady spoke, her eyes filled with expectation.
"Your incompetence saved your life today, peasant."
Every word struck louder, as though the very air had chosen to amplify it.
'Oh? How so? Delight me, you little girl."
"You would have died from corruption. Yet somehow, you were lucky. I only sliced your hand."
"But I did not imagine you would cast that spell. You summoned a circular gate. What was it meant to do, I wonder? Redirect my own sword to my nape using another portal?"
'I would have liked that very much…'
'Another gate... Oh. I see now how naive I was.'
"Your gate served both as the point of entry—and exit. Simply put my strike past your portal and return to the same space. Wasn't it because both of your gate was placed one above another."
'In other words, I summoned two portals but just like an amateur idiot I placed it one above another.'
'Had I summined it t at least two direction—one for the sword to enter, and another to send it elsewhere—her neck might have been its exit point.'
'If only I had known that sooner.'
The manipulation of abstract ideas—especially spatial concepts—has always been the realm of knowledge and experience. Not just relying on raw talent.
No matter how much Yai one possessed, mastery could not be reached without years of rigorous training.
Astis had neither abundant Yai nor talent nor practice.
So how could he have predicted that his portal would serve as both an entry and an exit and would be summoned one above the another just like a coin with one face having Tail and another head.
"Well, I hope you recover at least, peasant. You were… interesting to observe."
With that, she turned her back and began walking away—only to pause when a burst of maniacal laughter echoed behind her.
"Hm. Ha ha haaaa... hahhh."
"Hahaha… ha ha hah..."
She turned back to loom at the madman.
"What's so funny? Would you care to share it?"
Her expression shifted with irritation, for she felt almost insulted, then she unsheathed her sword again.
"Ivantha....Williams."
Astis called out with a shaking voice. And after a momentary pause as if she just heard something nonsensical she finally said.
"No, then—Isabelle? Whatever 'Williams' you are… I've got a question. Would you mind answering it?"
Maybe it was the sheer weight of the trauma.
Maybe the edge of death had finally cracked his mind.
Or maybe the fatigue had broken through the last barriers of fear in him.
But at that moment—he was not afraid. She was not afraid of her, not afraid of priest or even the unknown.
"What do you see yourself as?"
Her eyebrow twitched with irritation.
The priests around them grew tense. They longed to silence his nonsense, if only to avoid more embarrassment in front of their lady.
But they held back. Her expression warned them otherwise—and deep down, they agreed. He deserved punishment for making them exert more effort than he was worth.
Still, one old priest ignored the threat and plunged forward in rage.
He strode forward and struck Astis hard across the face.
Darkness crept at the edge of his vision.
Then he felt warmth on his cheek.
Blood.
He blinked—and saw the headless body of the priest who had hit him collapse to the ground.
The others recoiled and dared not to utter a word.
Interrupting the lady was clearly a death sentence and yet he had done it. It was the price he had to play.
Astis couldn't help himself. He chuckled again.
'So all this time, she refrained from killing me. Then perhaps, there's a reason. Or maybe… she favours me a little.'
'Let's give it a try.'
"What do you see yourself as, Williams—or just part of your family?"
She didn't respond at once.
She just stared at him grinning—cold, observant, calculating—for long, silent minutes.
Then finally,
"Hah."
"Only to a family of mine... will I give that answer."
She truly looked like an old lady at that moment even though her appearance omwas that of a young lady.
She chuckled.
Then turned and walked away again.
But after a few steps, she paused.
"Oh. I am not Ivantha."
There was pride in her voice.
"I am Ivansia Williams."
'Ivansia Williams, huh… The one to whom I must give my answer.'
Isn't this… exhilarating?
Astis burst into laughter once more—wild, breathless, and free.
'Noted, girls like you are dangerous, well i am lucky Penelope isn't like you.'
It has been a while he thought of his unrequited love.