Farluciel’s eyelashes trembled imperceptibly.
Consciousness seeped out like faint light through an early spring ice lake, thawing bit by bit.
Beneath her was a fabric as smooth and elastic as silk, warm and dry.
The air was filled with a refreshing scent, a mix of calming herbs and the purifying power of Holy Light magic.
This was not the damp, rotten earth of the Forbidden Marsh of the Demon Realm, nor the rough marching blanket of a temporary camp.
This was her room, in the royal city of Arslan, inside the quiet rest tower reserved exclusively for Godchosen.
“Mm…”
A faint moan pulled Farluciel’s thoughts back to reality.
She slowly opened her eyes.
Her ice-blue pupils regained their usual clarity as they adjusted to the gentle light in the room.
She turned her head slightly, her gaze falling to the bedside.
There lay her adjutant, Irene, slumped over and dressed in comfortable loungewear, her face etched with deep fatigue.
Her two braided pigtails were slightly messy, a few strands sticking to her sweaty, slightly greasy cheeks.
Even in sleep, her brows were tightly furrowed, and under her eyes, faint traces of tears remained.
We made it back from the Forbidden Marsh of the Demon Realm.
Farluciel’s heart felt as if it was gently held by a warm hand.
She knew that, during the time she was unconscious, this girl had carried burdens far beyond her age and duty.
It was she who led the surviving companions back to the safety of the royal city from that land of despair.
This child… must have been so afraid.
She made no sound, only watched Irene quietly.
After a long time, she began to examine her own body.
The power of the Godchosen flowed through her again like a trickling stream.
The emptiness from her depleted spirit had greatly faded.
She tried to channel her magic.
A wisp of energy, shimmering with icy light, danced and spiraled at her fingertip—docile yet lively.
Her mental strength had recovered about seventy to eighty percent.
She gently touched her back with the back of her hand.
The wound left by the griffin’s sneak attack was now covered by a thin layer of pale pink new flesh.
The Divine Healing Magic of the Lishen Church, combined with her own Godchosen Physique, had once again shown its formidable restorative power.
The body is fine.
The mind is stable.
Then… what about Yingyue?
This thought pierced her newly restored calm like an icicle.
She sat up slowly.
The movement was enough to rouse Irene from her shallow sleep.
“Your Highness!”
Irene jerked upright.
A flash of confusion crossed her eyes, then was quickly replaced by overwhelming joy and excitement.
She practically crawled to the bedside, her voice trembling with suppressed sobs.
“Y-You’re finally awake! How do you feel? Are you uncomfortable anywhere?”
“I’m fine, Irene.”
Farluciel’s voice was tinged with hoarseness from disuse, but her tone was as steady as ever.
She reached out, gently patting Irene’s shoulder as if soothing a startled small animal.
“You did well. Thank you for your hard work.”
A simple word of praise made Irene’s eyes instantly redden.
She fought back tears, nodding forcefully as she began a jumbled report.
“I… We made it back, Your Highness. We returned to the royal city two days ago. Except for… for the three sisters who fell, I brought back all thirty-two Red Dragon Guards and magical girls! They’re all receiving treatment. Their injuries… their injuries have stabilized.”
“How long was I unconscious?”
Farluciel asked, her gaze passing through Irene as if looking into the distance.
“Five full days, Your Highness.”
Irene answered in a low voice, fear lingering in her tone.
“The physicians said your mental power was overdrawn… and your body, too… Fortunately, the Godchosen’s protection was with you…”
“Where is Zhao Yingyue?”
Farluciel interrupted, her question urgent and unhidden.
Irene’s expression darkened instantly.
She lowered her head, her voice heavy.
“Ambassador Zhao… she’s gravely injured. The physicians said her qi and blood were so depleted that she’s almost burned out. Seventeen fractures all over her body, especially the chest and right leg—almost completely shattered. The Abyss Lord’s power was too… too overwhelming.”
Farluciel’s heart sank, her fingertips turning pale.
Irene continued.
“She woke up a day before you, but… the prognosis isn’t good. It’s difficult for her to even sit up now, let alone… fight. The physicians said that with injuries of this level, even the royal family’s finest secret medicines can’t restore her in less than half a year of complete rest. And… even if she recovers, she may never reach her former peak again.”
Half a year… or perhaps never.
For a woman who valued martial arts above her own life, how hopeless would it be to face such a verdict?
“Where is she now?”
Farluciel lifted the blanket, placing her feet steadily on the cold floor.
“Your Highness, you need to rest!”
Irene hurried to support her.
“I asked you, where is she?”
Farluciel’s tone brooked no argument, the commanding aura of a Godchosen radiating until even the air around them seemed to freeze.
“In… In the adjacent Royal Ward.”
Irene replied instinctively, cowed by her presence.
Farluciel said no more, striding toward the door.
Seeing this, Irene quickly grabbed a white cloak embroidered with a silver laurel pattern from the rack and hurried after her, draping it over her shoulders.
—
The moment she pushed open the ward door, Farluciel had already prepared calm, steady words to console a comrade who might never walk the martial path again.
However, the scene before her was nothing like she had imagined.
The room was indeed filled with the potent scent of rare herbs—so strong it felt as if an entire alchemist’s cupboard had been overturned.
But aside from that, the atmosphere was less heavy than… excessively lively.
Zhao Yingyue was half-lying on the bed.
Calling it lying might be misleading.
She resembled a fragile artwork, carefully wrapped for export to a distant land.
From neck to ankles, her body was swathed in thick, snow-white bandages, leaving only her head and intact right hand exposed.
She looked like an oversized mummy, or perhaps a giant rice dumpling haphazardly wrapped by an unskilled cook.
But this dumpling was in astonishingly high spirits.
Despite the pallor from blood loss, a flush of excitement colored her cheeks.
Her enchanting phoenix eyes shone like polished obsidian, bright and lively, as she stared intently at her right palm and muttered.
“No, no… The angle I swung at should have been three points sharper… Yes, that’s it. The essence of ‘Collapse Mountain’ is from below upward, breaking the foundation first, then shaking the peak…”
Hearing movement at the door, she jerked her head up.
When she saw Farluciel’s face—three parts stunned, seven parts concerned—her eyes instantly sparkled.
“Yo, Fanny!”
Zhao Yingyue’s voice was loud and energetic, entirely unlike someone with seventeen broken bones and depleted qi.
“I thought you planned to sleep until spring next year! Finally come to admire this hero’s glorious feat of slaying an ancient beast?”
As she spoke, she tried to strike a heroic, blade-wielding pose with her only movable arm.
The effort pulled at her chest injury, her face contorting with pain as she let out a sharp “Tss—”.
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