The garden stretched before them, a tableau of manicured greenery bathed in pale moonlight, but the serenity of the scene was shattered by the clash of steel and the cries of knights falling in their wake. Seraphina, Rachel, and Cecilia moved like a storm, dismantling any resistance that dared to stand against them. Every swing of their weapons and every surge of mana left destruction in its path.
"Finally, good weapons," Seraphina said, her voice carrying a rare note of satisfaction as they reached the armory. Her fingers brushed over the smooth hilt of her Ancient-grade sword artifact, its Eastern craftsmanship radiating power as it thrummed in her grip. Beside her, Rachel and Cecilia retrieved their own artifacts, their auras flaring with renewed strength.
"Let's go!" Rachel urged, her sapphire eyes alight with determination. The three women moved in unison, weaving through the corridors and cutting down the knights that swarmed toward them. Their focus was singular—escape. Revenge could wait. Survival could not.
The garden's edge came into view, the iron gates just beyond it a promise of freedom. Seraphina felt a flicker of hope as she pushed forward. 'So close.'
Then, her instincts screamed.
Her sword rose instinctively, catching the arc of an invisible slash. The force sent her staggering back, her feet digging into the soft earth as she gritted her teeth. The air around them turned heavy, oppressive. Cecilia and Rachel halted beside her, their gazes snapping to the source of the attack.
From the shadows, a figure emerged.
He was clad in simple, unadorned armor that belied the immense presence he carried. His movements were measured, precise, and his blade—long, straight, and gleaming under the moonlight—seemed an extension of his very being. The remaining knights erupted into cheers, their voices ringing with reverence.
"Sir Owen! Sir Owen! The Sword Saint is here!"
Seraphina's grip tightened on her blade as her heart hammered in her chest. Nine stars. The mana radiating from him was unmistakable, a force that rivaled her uncle, Li Zenith. If not stronger.
The Sword Saint's eyes swept over the three of them, cold yet carrying an undeniable weight of humanity beneath the surface. He did not speak immediately, nor did he attack. Instead, he seemed to be weighing them, judging them.
It was Rachel who broke the tense silence. Her voice, steady and commanding, cut through the air. "Sir Owen, please. We don't want to fight you."
The Sword Saint's gaze shifted to her, his expression unreadable. "You've wrought havoc upon this palace," he said, his voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of steel. "And you ask for peace?"
Cecilia stepped forward, her golden hair catching the moonlight like a halo. "We didn't choose to be here," she said, her voice softer but no less firm. "We were imprisoned unjustly. Surely you can see that."
Owen's hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade. For a moment, his eyes flickered with something—a hint of doubt, perhaps. "The orders came from the High Sovereign himself," he said. "Your presence here threatens the stability of this land. I cannot ignore that."
"Threatens stability?" Seraphina snapped, her composure cracking. "The only threat here is the one that put us in chains! You're a Sword Saint—do you truly believe imprisoning innocents is just?"
Owen's jaw tightened, and a shadow passed over his face. He did not respond immediately, as though her words had struck a nerve. For a brief, fleeting moment, it seemed as though he might lower his blade.
Then, his grip on the hilt tightened. "Justice is not mine to determine," he said quietly. "I serve the will of the High Sovereign. His wishes outweigh my own morality."
"You don't have to do this," Rachel said, her voice imploring. "We mean no harm to this world. Let us go, and you'll never see us again."
Owen's gaze softened, just barely. "I believe you," he admitted. "But belief is not enough. I am bound by duty, and that duty demands I stop you."
The atmosphere grew heavier as Owen's mana flared, a palpable force that seemed to press down on them from all directions. Seraphina gritted her teeth, stepping into a defensive stance. Rachel and Cecilia mirrored her, their artifacts glowing with latent power.
"Last chance," Owen said, his tone regretful. "Yield, and I will ensure your safety within the bounds of the High Sovereign's will."
Cecilia's crimson eyes narrowed. "We've had enough of being bound by others' wills."
Owen's lips pressed into a thin line. "So be it."
He moved first, his blade slicing through the air with impossible speed. Seraphina barely had time to parry, the impact jolting through her arms like a thunderclap. The Sword Saint's strikes were relentless, each one a masterstroke of precision and power, forcing them onto the defensive.
Cecilia's artifact flared, a brilliant burst of light magic erupting toward Owen. He sidestepped with fluid grace, his blade flicking out to counter. Rachel surged forward, her movements imbued with the divine strength of her Saintess mana, but even her strikes were deflected with almost casual ease.
"We can't win this head-on," Cecilia hissed, her breath coming in sharp bursts. "We need a plan."
"Keep him busy," Seraphina said through gritted teeth. Her mind raced, searching for any weakness, any opening.
But Owen gave none. His blade danced like a living thing, and his presence was an immovable wall.
An unshakable force.
Still, the three of them fought on, their unity and determination the only things keeping them in the fight. Seraphina could feel the toll it was taking, the strain pressing on her with every passing moment. But giving up was not an option.
Not now. Not ever.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Owen's blade clashed against Seraphina's one final time, the force of his strike overwhelming her defenses. Her sword was wrenched from her grasp, clattering to the ground, and she fell to her knees, breathing heavily. Her glare cut through him, fierce and unyielding, even as the strength drained from her body.
Owen's chest tightened. 'What am I even doing?' he thought as he stood over her, his sword raised but hesitating. He didn't want this. Every fiber of his being screamed that this was wrong. These women were warriors, not criminals. Their fight had been one of desperation, not malice.
And yet, the High Sovereign's will was absolute.
Seraphina's gaze didn't waver, her light blue eyes burning with defiance even as she teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. Owen wished—no, hoped—that they would somehow rise again, surpassing him, defeating him, proving that he was wrong to doubt them. But as the battle had worn on, that hope had dimmed.
Rachel had been the first to fall, her divine strength faltering against the relentless precision of his strikes. Cecilia followed, her brilliant light snuffed out by the weight of his blade. And now Seraphina, the last to stand, was at her limit.
'In another time, another place, they would have surpassed me,' Owen thought, a pang of regret twisting in his chest. 'But they won't have the chance—not under the High Sovereign.'
He glanced at the soldiers who stood by, their faces lit with awe and greed. One of them stepped forward, his hand reaching for Seraphina, his intent as vile as the thoughts that surely lingered in his mind.
Owen didn't think. He acted.
The air around him grew sharp and cold as his killing intent surged outward, an invisible wave that stopped the soldiers in their tracks. They froze, their eyes wide with terror, as though death itself had brushed past them. "If any of you touch them without my command," Owen said quietly, his voice as cold as his aura, "I'll show you what happens to those who forget their place."
The soldier who had stepped forward stumbled back, his face pale, and the others hurriedly snapped to attention, their movements now precise and professional. Owen's jaw tightened. Monsters on the battlefield, cowards in the shadows.
He extended a hand, and with a flick of his fingers, the ambient mana responded to his will. Invisible threads of power wrapped around the unconscious women, lifting them gently off the ground. For a moment, he paused, looking down at Seraphina's face. Even in defeat, her expression was resolute, her features a perfect mixture of defiance and grace.
'Why, Father?' he thought bitterly. 'Why did we have to serve this man? Why did our honor have to die at his command?'
But there was no answer from the father he had buried long ago. Only the silence of his own regrets.
Owen turned, the women floating behind him as he walked toward the heart of the palace. The soldiers followed at a distance, their footsteps careful and quiet, as though afraid to provoke his wrath again.
As he moved, Owen's thoughts churned.
These weren't ordinary prisoners. Their strength, their spirit—it was undeniable. In another life, they might have stood as equals, allies even. But now, bound by the chains of duty, Owen was the instrument of their downfall.
And for the first time in years, he hated the blade in his hand.