CHAPTER 161: HER FATHER CAME!

"Let’s return with the sword, child?"

She turned back," what?"

Elysia’s eyes snapped open as if ripped out of a dream. Her body jolted violently, her heart hammering in her chest.

She was no longer in the visions of the past—she was back at the altar where the sword was kept.

But she quickly realized she had not returned unchanged.

The Oathblade’s hilt burned in her grip, searing hot, as though the sword itself was alive and angry at being touched.

The pain shot through her palm, but she did not release it. Her knuckles whitened as she clung tighter, refusing to let go.

Then, the blade gave a cry.

"So you accepted me? Fine, let’s wield this together until the end. I won’t let you down."

It was not the clash of metal, nor the groan of stone—it was a song. A sharp, ringing note cut through the silence of the cavern, echoing off the walls like the voice of some ancient spirit.

The sound was beautiful and terrifying like both a warning and a welcome.

Energy rushed into her veins like a floodgate opening. Her entire body trembled as warmth spread from the sword into her chest, then out into every corner of her being.

It was not gentle—it was like fire coursing through her blood. Her muscles clenched, her bones ached, and her skin prickled with heat.

Her vision sharpened unnaturally. The dim void suddenly appeared clearer, every crack in the stone visible, every shadow sharper. She could even hear faint vibrations in the air, as if the sword had heightened her senses.

Then, something strange happened.

The blade in her hand glowed faintly, and light began to wrap around it. It wasn’t bright like a flame but soft, like moonlight woven into steel.

The aura flickered, thin and unstable, but enough to make her breath catch.

Without thinking, her body moved. Her arm swung the sword in a clean arc.

The sound was not normal.

The air itself seemed to split.

CRACK!

A sharp noise ripped through the cavern, like thunder trapped underground. Dust rained down from the ceiling as loose stones rattled on the floor.

The force of her swing created a shockwave that scattered grit and ash across the chamber.

Elysia staggered back, gasping. Her legs buckled but she stood without falling. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath rough and shallow, as if she had just sprinted for miles.

Sweat poured down her face, dripping into the dirt.

She looked at the blade in her hand.

It trembled. Its glow, once bright, had dimmed. The light did not vanish completely, but it pulsed faintly, weaker than before, as if the sword itself was telling her: "This is only the beginning."

"I can give you immense power. power comes according to you will"

Pain surged through her muscles. Her arms felt heavy, her legs weak, as if the very strength had been stolen from her. She realized it then—the Oathblade was not a gift freely given.

It was a trial. Every moment she held it, it drained her stamina, pulling at her life, testing how much she could endure.

She was left exhausted, her body screaming in protest. And yet—

A small, breathless laugh escaped her lips. Her head lowered, her shoulders shook, but not from despair.

A smile spread across her face.

Despite the exhaustion, despite the pain, despite the sword’s merciless hunger, she felt it—the power was real.

The legends were not lies, nor were the visions mere illusions. She had touched something beyond ordinary steel.

And though the Oathblade demanded much from her, she would not give it up.

The sharp crack of stone splitting echoed through the quiet halls. Elysia’s father froze from his bed. That sound—he knew it too well. It came from the forbidden room.

Without hesitation, he rushed through the corridors, his footsteps echoing against the marble floors. His breath grew heavier with each step, dread clawing at his chest.

When he reached the heavy iron door, a chill ran down his spine. He pushed it open, the hinges groaning as though they resisted him.

What met his eyes nearly brought him to his knees.

The chamber was in ruins. The ground had deep cracks running like veins across the floor, dust still rising in the air.

The stone walls, once sealed with sacred wards, were fractured, some pieces scattered across the ground as though they had been struck by a divine hammer.

And there, at the center of the destruction—stood his daughter.

Elysia was panting, sweat dripping down her face, strands of hair clinging to her cheeks. Her hands clutched tightly around the hilt of the Oathblade.

The sword glowed faintly, pulsing as if it were alive, but the moment her father’s eyes met hers, the light of the sword dimmed.

Slowly, the blade’s radiance faded back into its original dull state of black and grey, as if hiding its true nature.

Her chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, yet her stance was unyielding. She had touched the forbidden sword... and it had accepted her.

For a long moment, silence stretched between them. The dust settled, the glow faded, and only Elysia’s heavy breathing filled the air.

Her father’s eyes trembled, though his face showed no expression. Inside, however, his heart was torn in two.

(Elysia... why?) he thought, his gaze lingering on the sword in her hand.

(Why did you touch the blade we swore never to awaken? That sword is not a blessing—it is a burden. It carries the blood of our ancestors, the wars, the curses...)

His fingers curled tightly at his side. Memories surged: (the stories of their forefathers, warriors who had died wielding that same weapon in the Demon Wars, their names carved in history but their lives consumed by the blade’s merciless hunger.)

(That was our ancestor’s sword. A blade that chose only the desperate and the doomed.)

Tears gathered at the edge of his eyes, but he blinked them away. He could not show weakness.

Still, as he looked at his daughter—frail, trembling, yet unbroken—a quiet resolve stirred within him.