Chapter 232

“The way to end the disaster... is absolutely not by killing the Demonic Dragon!”

Her pale eyes resembled glass that had suddenly splintered apart, fine cracks spreading across the cage that had long kept them sealed shut.

Margaret's eyes widened instinctively. She stared at the little girl who stood barely half her height. Beneath her astonishment and disbelief, there flickered a faint glimmer of hope that even she herself hadn't realized still existed.

From the moment she was born, she'd never shared this desperate secret with anyone. Those chaotic, endlessly repeating visions of the future had already shown her the existence of Ye Zheng.

Ye Zheng would dispel the shadow that had shrouded this nation for centuries. She would become the greatest figure this land had ever known... while Margaret herself was fated to die beneath the name of the Demonic Dragon.

This was her destiny. Aside from the Aston royal family, there was no one she could hold responsible. Yet through the countless nights when she jolted awake from restless sleep, how could she not have wished that she, too, might become the great savior?

She'd been born into a position others could only envy and possessed political acumen far surpassing Vincent Aston's. Had fate not taken such a cruel turn, she, too, would've become a monarch whose name echoed through the ages!

Seeing the change in Margaret's expression, Ye Zheng slowly lowered the hand she'd been pointing at her chest with. Her expression softened even further as she reached out of her own accord and took Margaret's hand, her small fingers wrapping firmly around the young woman's much larger one.

“Ye Zheng, you...”

“I know these words may sound arrogant, even condescending. Margaret, I want to save you.”

Spoken by an eight-year-old child, such words should've sounded absurd enough to invite laughter.

Margaret lowered her head and met those unwavering eyes. Yet she couldn't laugh. A dull, aching tightness rose from her throat to her eyes. She refused to blink, holding Ye Zheng's gaze until the dryness became almost unbearable before her eyelids finally lowered.

“Ye Zheng.” Margaret bent down, her crimson hair cascading over her shoulders as she spoke.

“Thank you. No matter how this ends, I'll always remember the words you've spoken to me.”

Margaret led Ye Zheng back into the bedchamber, returning to the depths where even sunlight could not reach.

“I'll find a way to let you attend the secret sacrificial rite three days from now. Perhaps... you'll uncover truths that even the Demonic Dragon never discovered.”

✧✧✧✧✧

Throughout history, the founders of great dynasties were almost always accompanied by legends of divine favor on their path to the throne, as though destiny itself had chosen them.

After the Aberrant Realms descended, the early history of the Aston royal family was severed from the historical record. Once the God of Hope eradicated the Demonic Dragon, the calendar entered the Divine Descent Era. The empire's history before the Divine Descent gradually faded into obscurity. Aston XIV's prestige eventually surpassed even that of the founding emperor. He'd led the empire into a new age of rebirth and was revered as the greatest man in history, second only to the God of Hope.

In the era Ye Zheng had traveled to, Vincent Aston was still nothing more than a young emperor with a gloomy disposition and a frail constitution. Externally, he was swept along by the irreversible tides of the age. Internally, he remained overshadowed by Margaret and the immense influence of the Henry family that stood firmly behind her.

He bore no resemblance whatsoever to the wise and far-sighted ruler later generations would come to revere.

The most illustrious monarch in history had been the founding king, Aston I. Two hundred years earlier, the royal family that ruled this land had been decadent and corrupt, mercilessly exploiting its people. At the time, Aston I had been nothing more than an ordinary knight.

One day, he witnessed a noble lord slaughtering commoners on a whim. Powerless to stop the massacre, he could only quietly save a child who stood at death's door. Seeing the child on the verge of dying from blood loss, with no idea what else to do, he slit open his own arm and let his blood flow freely. The warmth of that blood couldn't return life to the child's body, which had already begun to grow cold and stiff. Yet just as despair threatened to consume him, a miracle unfolded.

The blood pouring from his wound turned to gold. Little by little, warmth returned to the child's body. Immediately afterward, the sword at his side was likewise stained a brilliant gold by the blood.

Thus began the stirring legend that ushered in an age of conquest.

The moment Ye Zheng heard the story, her thoughts immediately turned to the golden divine blood and the golden divine sword.

Earlier, Mercé had told her that the God of Hope had originally been nothing more than an extraordinarily powerful human girl. To unite the hearts of the people, the empire had deliberately fashioned her into a deity. In other words, the so-called "Divine Sword of the God of Hope" had never truly existed.

Or rather, the "Divine Sword of the God of Hope" was in fact a sacred blade that had been passed down through generations of the Aston royal family. It had once been entrusted to the God of Hope, Hope, to drive back the Demonic Dragon. Now, it rested in Pei Xi's hands.

Pei Xi had already proven that the divine blood and the divine sword were inextricably linked. Ye Zheng refused to believe their origins had been as accidental as the legend claimed. They were very likely products of another world as well.

Her original plan had been to return to the timeline five hundred years in the future, then look for an opportunity to investigate the divine blood and the divine sword there.

She hadn't expected to come into such close contact with them so soon.

Three days later, beneath a secluded palace somewhere within the imperial complex, a deep underground cellar flickered with wavering candlelight. At the center of a dried-up pool stood a stone altar. The shadows of three figures stretched across the gray-white floor as their voices echoed through the cavernous silence.

"Margaret, my empress... I never imagined you'd support me so wholeheartedly. I betrayed the trust you placed in me before, and for that, I'm sorry. I've always been grateful for your understanding and your help."

The somewhat frail young man lowered his head. The carefully cultivated vulnerability in his posture carried an oddly endearing quality. Margaret's brow tightened ever so slightly at the sight.

"What are you saying? From the day I became empress, my life has belonged to this nation. For its sake, any sacrifice is worth making... exactly as I taught you."

At those words, the young man slowly lifted his head. His smile was unnaturally rigid. The corners of his lips were drawn upward, but not the faintest trace of genuine warmth reached his eyes.

"Yes. I've always carried your teachings with me. In this world, no one has ever treated me with as much kindness as you have."

"Margaret, I'll always, always be grateful to you... Those feelings are genuine."

Margaret let even the faint semblance of a smile fade away. She regarded the young man with cold, unreadable eyes.

He looked harmless enough. Growing up neglected had made him exceptionally adept at reading people's expressions. Even the palace maids occasionally found themselves feeling sorry for him.

But Margaret knew better.

She knew he was a monster who could neither be killed nor swayed.

Vincent Aston possessed striking golden hair and eyes of the same radiant hue. Gold had always been the defining color of the Aston royal family. People placed their hopes in him, believing he might one day perform a golden miracle like the ancestor who had founded the dynasty. That was why he'd been named crown prince, despite the fact that his parents had always adored their lively, charming younger son far more.

At the age of nine, Margaret had already caught a glimpse of the dreadful future through the nightmares that haunted her night after night. During one visit to the palace with her father, she met the eight-year-old prince for the first time.

The man who would one day corner her with no path left to escape was, back then, nothing more than a quiet, lovable little boy. He'd let his overbearing younger brother snatch away his favorite toys without protest, then slip away in secret to cry by himself.

Nine-year-old Margaret had been reminded of her own younger sister. She simply couldn't bring herself to hate him or wish him dead. Instead, she convinced herself that those nightmares were nothing more than the tricks of some wicked fairy-tale wizard, tormenting her for amusement.

So she reached out her hand to him.

From that day forward, she protected him with unwavering determination, making it her life's purpose to safeguard the Aston royal family. As long as she remained by his side, the pitiful, endearing little prince before her would have no reason to stray onto such a disastrous path. He relied on her so deeply. He needed her so completely.

Yet the closer they became, the more Margaret discovered that Vincent was nothing like the gentle, harmless child he pretended to be. He had even orchestrated an "accident" that claimed his younger brother's life. When she confronted him, he broke down in tears, speaking of how suffocating and agonizing his brother's existence had always been.

But Margaret could no longer believe a single word he said.

By then, she'd already learned the truth from the palace maids. The scene from their first meeting, when he was nine, hadn't been his younger brother stealing his toys at all. Those toys had belonged to the younger brother from the very beginning. At only eight years old, Vincent had already mastered the art of turning black into white before the eyes of strangers.

Margaret finally understood how gravely she'd been mistaken. As she grew older, she came to accept that this world held no fairy-tale wizards. Those nightmares had been genuine visions of the future, and with each passing day, her own fate crept closer to becoming that very future.

After that, the young Margaret abandoned any hope of changing him.

Instead, she began trying to kill him.

Every attempt failed without exception. The people she dispatched invariably met with some bizarre, inexplicable accident before they could ever reach him, so uncanny that one could almost believe his ancestors were truly watching over him.

For the past several years, Margaret had continued playing the role of his loyal supporter and steadfast guardian.

All for the sake of this very day.

Margaret lowered her eyes to the little girl whose hand she held in her left. Sensing her gaze, the girl with the pale-colored eyes looked back at her.

"Little Miss Henry, do you know why we're here today?"

The young emperor leaned forward, carefully arranging his features into a gentle, reassuring smile.

Ye Zheng, currently wearing the guise of Margaret’s younger sister, found the act almost painful to watch. She couldn't be bothered to guess how a real eight-year-old girl ought to react. Instead, she slipped her arms around Margaret's waist, buried her face in the folds of her skirt, and feigned fear.

“Don't frighten her.” Margaret's voice carried the faintest note of reproach.

“I wasn't trying to frighten her... But for you to still say something like that at a time like this, Margaret. So this is the kind of person you truly are... Hahaha.”

The young man's laughter died away halfway through. A flicker of malice swept across his perpetually sickly, shadowed features, while his golden eyes blazed with unnerving brilliance. “Haven't we already made the necessary sacrifice?”

“At a moment like this, there can't be any turning back.”

Margaret turned her face aside without answering.

Vincent Aston spared the timid little girl a passing glance before dismissing her entirely. He then turned and walked toward the altar at the center of the chamber.

Behind him, Margaret's hesitant voice broke the silence. “Are you certain? If you do this, will a god truly answer your call... and bring peace to all the turmoil consuming the empire?”

Vincent gently ran his hand along the sword resting upon the stone altar, his gaze lingering on the blade with near-religious obsession. “Of course. This is precisely how my ancestor founded this nation.”

“To bring an end to an age of endless war, he offered the people of his hometown to the god, including his own daughter. In return, the god bestowed upon him a single drop of divine blood, binding him to Its power. It also granted him a divine sword of immeasurable might, allowing him to sweep aside all who stood in his path...”

The young man continued, “Now, all that's left is to use this sword to end her life. Once that's done, we can usher in another glorious age.”

“But your ancestor slaughtered the people of his hometown, along with his own daughter, to earn the god's favor. Is sacrificing a single little girl really enough?”

“Gods have their preferences too! Back then, that man was nothing but a destitute knight. How could he possibly compare to someone of my noble standing? His family and friends were worth far less than the daughter of Count Henry and the empire...”

The young man broke off abruptly.

He'd only then realized that the voice answering him wasn't the one he'd expected.

He whipped around and glared at the little girl standing beside Margaret. That familiar childish face now bore an utterly unfamiliar expression, one filled with naked contempt and revulsion. The sight made something deep within him shudder before erupting into white-hot fury.

“Who are you?!”

“Margaret, who is she?!”

Ye Zheng tilted her head slightly. Revealing her true identity would only complicate matters, so she answered calmly, “I'm just an ordinary person. Your god probably wouldn't find such an insignificant sacrifice as me to Its liking.”

She lifted a hand and pointed directly at the stunned, livid man. “Your status is so exalted. If you offered yourself to the god instead, wouldn't this land enjoy peace for far, far longer?”

Vincent Aston turned toward Margaret in mounting panic. How could Margaret betray him? Ever since childhood, he'd relied on her, trusted her, and admired her without reservation.

Margaret paid no attention to his shattered expression. Instead, she drew a flintlock pistol from within her bodice.

She'd sent countless people to assassinate him before. In the dead of night, after jolting awake from uneasy sleep, she'd imagined pressing the muzzle of a gun against his head more times than she could remember.

Even if she couldn't escape the fate of becoming the Demonic Dragon today, she'd at least fire one furious shot at destiny itself!