CHAPTER 122: CHAPTER 122: CHOSEN ONE?

The name lingered in the air like incense.

Ilyana.

Aiden rolled the word across his tongue silently, as though speaking it aloud would shatter the fragile peace that had settled between them. His ribs still screamed from the impact, but the sight of her—the strange, sacred weight of her presence—drew his pain into background noise.

Arina did not share his awe.

Her eyes narrowed, sharp as daggers as she studied the woman and child. "Hasa... of this region," she repeated, voice cutting through the stillness. "That means you’re tied to the Tree. A keeper, or more."

The elf’s chin lifted, though her arms tightened around her daughter. "Yes."

Just one syllable, soft, but it struck like a stone dropped into still water.

Aiden leaned against the wall, squinting. "Keeper? Of what?"

Arina didn’t look at him. "Not of what. Of who."

Aiden frowned, but the elf—Ilyana—spoke before he could ask.

"Tree of Ages, my, goddess." she whispered. Her accent thickened, but the words carried like a prayer. "I serve her. I... am her voice."

Silence pressed against the chamber.

Arina’s grip on her sword tightened. Her shoulders shifted, weight leaning slightly forward as though ready to strike again at the first sign of deception. "The Tree has many voices. Too many zealots shouting their goddess’ name. Why should I believe you’re more than another priestess hiding behind words?"

The child stirred, whimpering, her small hand clutching tighter at her mother’s gown.

For the first time, anger flared in Ilyana’s eyes—bright and unashamed. "Because zealots .... dead." Her voice cracked like a whip. "City bleeds. Tree mourns. I remain."

Her conviction filled the room like roots splitting stone.

Aiden’s breath caught. The weight of her words struck him in a way he couldn’t explain—something , something remembered from his own world, from the margins of the novel he had once devoured through a glowing screen.

So this is her? The one who endured....I cannot remember how she looked..

Arina’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it hardened, though her blade lowered an inch. "Endurance doesn’t make you an ally."

"No," Ilyana admitted, clutching her child closer. "But makes me... necessary."

Her gaze shifted to Aiden, who felt it like sunlight and blade at once. "You are not here by chance, white haired one."

Aiden froze. His tongue stumbled. "......The hell’s that supposed to mean?"

But she didn’t answer him. Not directly. Instead, her eyes closed, and she inhaled slow, steady, as if drawing breath from the Tree itself.

When she spoke again, her words carried the cadence of prophecy.

"Blood spills. Gates fall. Eight threads fray.

One hand must weave.

Or all—undone."

Her eyes opened again, piercing green locking onto his.

Arina scoffed, though unease shadowed her voice. "Prophecies. Always the same—cryptic garbage meant to keep fools obedient."

But Aiden’s chest thudded hard against his ribs. He remembered. He remembered. The whispers from his past life, the lore hidden in obscure forums and forgotten notes. The prophecy of the man who would unite the races.

Shit.

Ilyana had turned fully now, not to Arina, not even to the child at her breast—but to him.

"You," she said, and though the word was soft, it landed with the weight of a hammer. "You carry the thread."

Aiden’s mouth dried. His hands curled uselessly at his sides.

’...it should be the MC, just because I have the same hair, it doesn’t mean....’

"Wait," he rasped, shaking his head. "You don’t—no. I’m just trying to keep us alive. I’m not—"

"You are," she cut him off, voice firm with the certainty of root and stone. "Tree whispered. Not to zealots. Not to priests. To me. To her vessel. Savior. Coming..."

Arina’s jaw tightened. Her glare flicked between the elf and Aiden. "And what—exactly—does that make you? A chosen boy? A hero?" Her voice dripped with disdain, though something colder lurked underneath. Fear.

Aiden forced a laugh, but it cracked in his throat. "Yeah, right. A hero. Look at me." He gestured weakly to his battered body, to the bruises blooming beneath his armor. "I’m no hero. I’m just a man trying not to die, a man who is trying to HEAL you...."

But Ilyana only tilted her head, as if pitying him. "That is how all heroes begin."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Even the child’s quiet whimpering felt like part of it, a thread woven into the stillness.

Arina finally sheathed her blade, the steel whispering back into its scabbard. "We came here for one thing," she said flatly, forcing the prophecy from the air with sheer will. "Potion. Cure. Nothing else matters."

Ilyana’s gaze lingered on Aiden a moment longer before she turned, stroking her daughter’s hair. "Treasury," she whispered, voice strained. "Potion waits. But vault sealed with blood not of elves. Blood of man, man chosen by the goddess. Only then it opens."

Her words hung like a curse.

Arina stiffened. Her eyes darted to Aiden.

He felt the weight of both their gazes—one sharp with desperation, the other heavy with destiny.

And for the first time since stumbling into this ruined city, Aiden felt it too.

That his blood was no longer just his own.

Aiden stared at the vault as if it were a living thing.

Steel bent, titanium scarred, yet still the door pulsed faintly—like a heartbeat. His heartbeat.

Arina crossed her arms, eyes sharp, voice edged with both irritation and unease. "So it needs human blood? Convenient." Her gaze slid to him, narrowing. "Almost too convenient."

He met her glare with a shaky grin, trying to mask the crawling unease under his skin. "What? Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t design this thing....I’m confused as you are.."

"Maybe not," Arina muttered, "but, maybe.... maybe you are the chosen one..."

’....the one I have been searching for...’ she thought.

Ilyana shifted behind them, her child still pressed to her breast. "Tree chooses. Not door. Tree commands vault to yield for him."

Her words weren’t loud, but they carried weight, threading into the silence.

Arina’s hand twitched at her sword, but she didn’t draw. Instead, she jabbed a finger at the vault. "Fine. If it’s true, let’s see it open. We don’t have time to sit here stroking our dicks over prophecies."

Aiden swallowed, stepping toward the massive door. Every inch closer made his veins hum louder, like tuning strings pulled too tight. His palm brushed the warped titanium—cold, yet strangely alive.

’this elf bitch really thinks I’m the MC, i know it will stay close, cause why would it? I’m not the one the goddess of the elves chose...it was him, the fucking MC.’

"Alright," he muttered. "If it wants blood..."

He drew his knife.

The blade pressed against his palm. A sting, sharp and bright. Crimson welled instantly, dripping down his wrist.

The vault drank it.

Not like metal stained. No—the blood sank, vanishing into the grooves etched across the door’s surface. Runes flared to life, glowing faint blue, then burning gold, then deep, throbbing crimson.

The air shifted.

A pressure rolled through the chamber, pressing on their chests, heavy as deep water.

Aiden’s eyes opened wide.

[Lilith is smiling.]

’wh...what the fuck?’

Aiden stumbled back, clutching his bleeding palm. His vision blurred. For an instant, he swore he saw not a door, but an eye staring back at him, vast and unblinking, carved from light.

The vault groaned. Wood and steel peeled apart like lips opening. A gap split down the middle, glowing, humming with magic older than empires.

Arina stepped forward, instinct shoving her toward the promise of salvation. Her breath trembled. "It’s opening... It’s really—"

The gap widened.

Inside was not gold, not jewels, not the glitter of wealth.

It was a room carved of smooth stone, lined with shelves upon shelves of vials. Each pulsed faintly, as though liquid light slumbered inside. Rows of elixirs, scrolls, relics sealed in glass.

And at the center, on a pedestal grown from root and bone, rested a single crystal vial.

The liquid inside shimmered like sunlight caught in water—bright, golden, alive.

Arina froze, staring. Her face cracked, all her steel and mockery breaking at once. Her eyes glossed wet. "That’s it," she whispered. "That’s... it."

Her hand trembled toward it.

But Ilyana’s voice cut through, sharp and warning.

"Careful."

Arina’s head whipped around. "What?"

Ilyana’s gaze was steady, unblinking, her child clutched tight in her arms. "Potion cures. Yes. But also binds. Not freely given. Not freely taken. To drink is oath. Bond to Tree. Bond to prophecy."

Arina froze. The tremor in her hand stilled.

Her jaw clenched. "A fucking catch. Of course there’s a catch."

Aiden’s chest tightened. His eyes darted between Arina, trembling with desperate need, and Ilyana, rooted in calm certainty.

He was surprised it opened at all, but ...it wasn’t time to munch that info. Arina, he needed to focus on her.

He stepped forward, voice low. "...What kind of bond?"

Ilyana’s eyes found his, deep green burning like embers under water.

"Her blood already fading," she said softly, nodding to Arina. "This potion saves her life. But ties her life to yours."

The words sank in like knives.

Arina’s breath hitched. "Ties... my life...?"

Ilyana nodded once. "If you fall, she falls. If you rise, she rises. Thread and needle. Bound."

The chamber fell into silence again.

Aiden’s throat closed. He looked at Arina. She was staring at the vial like a starving woman stares at bread, her body trembling between fury and desperation.

For a moment, her mask slipped—fear plain on her face, raw, unshielded.

"...I don’t care," she said, voice cracking. Her hand balled into a fist. "I don’t care if it ties me to the fucking moon. I’m dying. I need it."

Her words hit Aiden like a hammer.

Because she meant them.

Because she was ready to risk everything—her pride, her freedom, even her very soul—for a chance to live.

He looked at the vial again, its glow pulsing in time with his racing heart.

And he realized he had no choice but to decide.