Chapter : 1121

A shockwave, silent and invisible, erupted from the core of her being. It was not a physical force, but a temporal one. The cacophony of the market—the screams, the shouts, the frantic ringing of a dropped bell—all of it stretched, thinned, and then vanished. The world became a perfect, silent photograph.

A merchant, his mouth open in a horrified gasp, was frozen mid-shout. A flock of pigeons, taking flight in panic, hung suspended in the air like a child’s mobile. The sword in Gregor’s hand, a mere six inches from Martha’s shoulder, was a stationary, silver icicle. The only thing in the universe that moved was her.

The sensation was profoundly disorienting. She was standing outside of time, a ghost in her own life. A new, terrifying power flooded her veins, a humming, high-frequency energy that made her feel weightless, untethered. It was the innate, impossible ability that had lain dormant in her bloodline for generations: the power of 'Speed.' Not the speed of a runner or a warrior, but the conceptual speed of thought itself. She was faster than sound, faster than light. She was faster than the world.

As she took a single, hesitant step forward, a second transformation began. A new presence bloomed in her soul, not an invading force, but an awakening of a part of herself she had never known. It was a power of cold, unyielding, and absolute resilience. Her spirit, born of a quiet girl’s grief and a lifetime of suppressed strength, manifested for the first time. The ‘Diamond Queen.’

The power flowed from her soul into her hands. The soft flesh and bone of her fingers underwent a breathtaking, terrifying alchemy. With a sound like a thousand tiny, crystal chimes, they transmuted. Her skin became a flawless, multi-faceted surface, her bones a core of unbreakable, crystalline light. Her hands were no longer flesh; they were diamonds.

She looked at her new, impossible hands, at the way they captured the frozen sunlight and shattered it into a million tiny rainbows. There was no fear. There was no confusion. There was only a cold, quiet, and absolute certainty.

She moved. It was not a run, but a simple, graceful glide through the frozen tableau of the world. The air, thick and still as amber, parted before her. She stepped between Gregor and Martha, her back to her terrified friend, her new, diamond-hard gaze fixed on the man who had dared to threaten her world.

The sword was still descending, but to her, it was moving with the speed of a dying glacier. She raised her hand. Not in a block, not in a parry, but in a simple, elegant, almost contemptuous gesture of interception.

Her diamond-tipped fingers met the razor-sharp edge of the steel blade.

The sound that followed was not the clang of metal on metal, but a high, pure, resonant ping, like a tuning fork struck against a star.

The sword, a fine piece of Northern steel forged to cut through leather and bone, stopped. It didn't bounce off. It simply ceased its forward momentum, its edge held fast between the delicate, unbreakable tips of her fingers.

Gregor’s face, which had been a mask of triumphant, murderous rage, was now a perfect canvas of slack-jawed, comprehensive shock. His mind, trapped in the molasses of normal time, was struggling to process the impossible event that had just occurred. He was seeing a ghost, a goddess, a thing that could not be.

Jasmin looked at the man, at the fear and confusion in his eyes, and she felt nothing. No anger. No pity. Only a profound, cold, and weary disdain. He was an insect. A loud, ugly, and insignificant problem that needed to be removed.

She kept the sword held in her right hand and, with a motion so fluid it was almost lazy, she lifted her left leg. She didn't put any real force into it. It was a simple, contemptuous push, a gesture of dismissal.

Her foot connected with his ample stomach.

There was no visceral crunch. There was only a dull, percussive thump, and a silent, instantaneous transfer of kinetic energy. The world, for Gregor, became a blur. He felt a force not like a punch, but like being struck by a charging bull. His feet left the ground. The sword was ripped from his grasp. He flew backward, a stunned, rag-doll projectile, arcing through the air in a perfect, humiliating parabola.

Chapter : 1122

He crashed into the vegetable stall he had been standing beside. The wooden structure exploded in a shower of splintered wood, canvas, and a vibrant, comical spray of tomatoes, cabbages, and onions. He landed in a heap amidst the wreckage, a groaning, stunned testament to a force he could not comprehend.

And as he hit the ground, Jasmin’s power, its purpose served, receded.

Time crashed back in on itself.

The sound of the world—the screams, the shouts, the crash of the stall—hit her all at once in a deafening, disorienting wave. The impossible strength drained from her limbs, leaving a deep, trembling exhaustion in its wake. She looked down at her hands. They were her hands again—pale, slender, and shaking uncontrollably. The diamond was gone.

The crowd erupted into a chaotic babble of fear and awe. Martha stared at her, her eyes wide, her mouth agape, unable to form words.

And Jasmin, the quiet, traumatized handmaiden who had just caught a sword and broken the world, looked at her own trembling, empty hands and felt a single, terrifying thought rise from the depths of her soul: What have I become?

________________________________________

The news of the incident at the market traveled with the speed of gossip, which was to say, almost instantaneously. By the time the ducal guards had secured the scene, placed the groaning and spectacularly humiliated Gregor under arrest, and whisked the two terrified young women away to a secure location, a sanitized report was already sitting on Lloyd Ferrum’s desk.

He read the dispatch in the quiet, controlled chaos of his manufactory study. Ken Park, who had delivered the message, stood by the door, a silent, impassive statue. The report was concise, clinical, and completely devoid of the sheer, reality-breaking drama of the event. It detailed a public altercation, an assault with a deadly weapon, and an "unexpected manifestation of innate spiritual power" by the handmaiden, Jasmin.

Lloyd put the paper down, a slow, grimly satisfied smile touching his lips. He looked up at Ken, his eyes holding a fire that had nothing to do with surprise.

"It's about time," he said, his voice a low, almost pleased hum.

Ken’s expression didn't flicker, but a flicker of understanding passed through their silent bond. This was not news to the master of the house; it was the inevitable, and long-awaited, result of a calculated risk.

Lloyd had seen the potential in Jasmin from the beginning. Beneath the quiet, timid exterior, he had sensed a core of unyielding, diamond-hard resilience. It was the same quality that had allowed her to function, to endure, after the trauma of Pia's death. Trauma, Lloyd knew from his own long and brutal experience, was a crucible. For most, it shattered the soul. But for a rare few, the intense pressure and heat could crystallize that soul into something new, something powerful. Pia’s death had been the catalyst. It had created a hairline fracture in Jasmin’s spirit, and today, the confrontation at the market had been the final, sharp blow that had split the stone and revealed the diamond within.

"She is a weapon now," Lloyd continued, his thoughts turning from the past to the immediate, dangerous future. "A beautiful, terrifying, and completely untamed weapon. A power awakening of that magnitude, born of trauma, is a bomb waiting for a second trigger. It needs to be controlled. It needs to be forged."

He stood, his movements now filled with a new, decisive purpose. "Where is she?"

"In a secure holding room at the main estate, my lord," Ken replied. "She is with the girl, Martha. She is… distressed."

'Distressed' was a masterful understatement. When Lloyd arrived, he found Jasmin in a state of near-catatonic shock. She was huddled in a corner of the opulent but sterile room, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes wide and unfocused. Martha Jr. was trying to comfort her, but Jasmin was a million miles away, lost in the terrifying, alien landscape of her own newfound power. The ducal guards outside the door spoke of her in hushed, fearful whispers, as if she were a caged monster.

Lloyd dismissed the guards and entered the room alone. Martha immediately rushed to him, her words a frantic, relieved torrent, recounting the story, her awe at Jasmin's power warring with her terror.

Lloyd held up a hand, silencing her gently. "I know," he said, his voice calm and steady, an anchor in her storm. "You did well, Martha. You were very brave. Now, I need you to go with the handmaidens. They will take care of you. I need to speak with Jasmin. Alone."