CHAPTER 402: IT IS OVER

Back at the infirmary camp in Ilis, though the Land of Ruins was leagues away within the scorched lands of Solara, the sheer force of the eruption—those earth-shattering explosions and quakes of magic—reverberated across the skies, shaking even the air above the tents. Every soldier, healer, and refugee paused, holding their breath in silent anticipation. Their gazes were fixed in the direction of the distant calamity, all waiting—waiting for the chaos to end.

"Damn," Magnus muttered, standing tall in front of one particular tent, arms crossed. "Gally’s really going nuts out there."

Inside the tent behind him, shielded from the outside noise, was Liam—barely clinging to life. The moment Galen had departed for battle against Sylvathar, Lucy had ordered Mystica to get Liam out of harm’s way and shoved him straight into the hands of Tempest’s finest healers currently available. His condition was dire—his insides were shredded, myst exhausted, and according to the medics, his heart was this close to straight-up detonating inside his chest.

But the healers had worked miracles. They’d managed to stabilize him, for now.

Standing beside Magnus was Mystica, her sharp, glowing violet eyes peering into the heavens. She could feel the echoes of the ongoing war more than anyone here. Sylvathar’s maddening myst and Galen’s unrelenting might. The sky was still humming from it.

"Yeah... but I’m not sure he’s winning," she said softly, concerned etched into her face.

Magnus gave her a look, then cracked a small grin.

"Wait, are you seriously doubting Gally right now?"

"No—it’s not that." Mystica shook her head. "But let’s be real. Sylvathar’s strength... it’s way beyond anything the records mentioned. You saw it too."

She turned to him fully now, voice low. "Galen might win... but what’s it gonna cost?"

"Nothing," Magnus replied instantly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Look, as much as I want to worry about him like you are, I just can’t. You know why?"

Mystica didn’t respond, but her eyes silently asked.

"Because Gally ain’t like any of us. You know that, Moony."

His words sank into her bones. Mystica exhaled slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah... yeah, maybe I’m just overthinking it."

"Exactly," Magnus nodded. "Now tell me is this thing over? ’Cause I’m not feeling anything anymore."

Mystica blinked, then closed her eyes and focused. She tuned into the myst currents, deeper than before—but felt... nothing but just a calm void.

Then she opened her eyes.

"I think it’s over," she said aloud.

The camp froze.

"The battle is over!!" Mystica announced, her voice echoing with certainty.

A second of silence. Then the camp erupted.

Shouts of joy and relief thundered through the tents. Warriors hugged. Some cried. Others dropped to their knees, overwhelmed. The tension broke like a shattered dam, and euphoria rushed in.

But not everyone joined in the celebration.

King Tharion stood off to the side, still as stone, just a few paces away from Liam’s tent. His gaze was fixed forward, narrow and unreadable.

From within the tent, Lucy emerged—her regal presence undiminished despite the battered armor she wore. She locked eyes with Tharion instantly, then glanced toward Valemir, who stepped from Sheila’s tent just across from her.

The two kings locked eyes briefly, then both turned their attention to Lucy.

She took a moment, looking from one to the other, before letting out a tired sigh and stepping forward.

Magnus and Mystica instantly flanked her, a silent show of unity. Lucy’s personal agents circled the tent, tightening their formation like a protective shell around Liam.

The two kings walked toward Lucy, stopping just a few strides away.

The entire camp quieted again as they noticed the three monarchs. The joy instantly faded to unease.

Tharion’s voice broke the silence, calm and cold.

"I want to thank you for your assistance, Queen Lucy. Were it not for your strategic mind—rallying Valemir’s forces, arriving when you did—I fear even Ilis might’ve fallen. For that, I am deeply grateful."

Lucy said nothing. Her expression didn’t shift because she knew this wasn’t about gratitude. This was about Liam.

"But," Tharion continued, tone unchanged, "I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to leave my lands with that creature still breathing. A cursed child... one who carries the seed of doom for all of us. So I ask you—politely—to hand him over, so that he may die while he’s still weak."

Lucy remained silent. But her gaze now shifted slowly to Valemir.

And after a pause, Valemir finally spoke.

"Honestly... I’m grateful my daughter is alive. And it’s true—that boy’s the reason she is. But like Tharion said... he’s a dark magic user. Worse, there’s something else inside him. Something demonic. We... can’t let him live."

Lucy’s jaw tensed, her molars grinding ever so slightly, though her face remained composed—still and unreadable, like the calm eye of a storm moments before the fury returns. Her gaze drifted between both kings, measured and razor-sharp, but not a single word left her tongue.

Magnus’s fingers twitched subtly toward the hilt of his blade, instinct on edge. Beside him, Mystica narrowed her gaze, a faint pulse of violet Myst flickering behind her eyes like lightning behind tinted glass. The very air between the four began to thicken, as if reality itself were holding its breath.

At last, Lucy spoke—her voice cool as winter wind and just as cutting.

"Do you even hear yourselves?" she said, low, each word laced with disdain. "You dress your fear in the costume of gratitude. You call him cursed, a danger to the world... yet that same ’curse’ is the only reason your cities still stand. That boy held back the end."

Tharion didn’t blink. "You’re looking through a sentimental lens. The battle may be over, but the threat hasn’t passed. Whatever sleeps inside him will awaken again... and next time, we may not live to speak of it."

Valemir nodded, his voice like cold iron. "This isn’t just about dark magic. It’s about stopping something far worse before it ever fully arrives."

Lucy took a step forward—slow, deliberate. Her armored boots crunched softly against the ground, dust and dried blood still clinging to her battle-worn chestplate. The movement made both kings stiffen, instinctively aware of the lioness behind the calm.

"Stop something worse?" Her voice rose, not in volume but in weight. "No, that’s not what this is. This isn’t about protection or wisdom. You both know it. You’re not afraid of what’s inside him... You’re afraid of what he represents."

Her eyes gleamed now with fury barely restrained.

"He is the living proof that your kingdoms failed. That your power, your rule, your ’order’ couldn’t send the dark magic into extinction—and that a single boy, a child you would’ve let rot in the slums, embodies his kind."

Tharion’s brows creased in a rare show of irritation, but Valemir stepped in again.

"Dress it in philosophy if you like, Lucy, but it changes nothing. The boy must not be allowed to see another sunrise."

Lucy’s head turned slightly, just enough to glance toward Liam’s tent. Her tone turned icy.

"Then you’ll have to go through me."

Mystica stepped forward, her voice sharp and clear. "Tell me something, Valemir—if it had been Sheila who carried darkness inside her, would you be so quick to bury her beneath your throne?"

Valemir froze. His jaw locked, and for a breath, no answer came.

"I thought not," Mystica said softly, venom dancing behind her words.

Tharion stepped forward next, cold resolve in every stride, stopping just feet from Lucy now. The guards surrounding Liam’s tent immediately tensed, weapons ready, eyes locked. The line had been drawn.

"This is not a discussion," Tharion said, his tone as final as a blade to the throat. "Hand him over—or we take him by force."

But before the tension could snap—before swords could leave sheaths or Myst burst loose—

A crushing force of invisible pressure dropped from the sky.

Tharion froze mid-breath. His eyes widened, his chest tightened like the heavens had slammed down onto his shoulders.

And then—a voice, cool and irritated, echoed from above.

"What do you think you’re doing, Tharion?"

Heads snapped upward.

There, descending from the war-darkened sky, floated a figure draped in shadows and bloodstains. His shirt was in tatters, his torso scratched and scorched, but his presence radiated undiluted power.

Galen Magna.

He hovered effortlessly, as his crimson eyes bore down on Tharion with pure disdain and no warmth.

Tharion’s body trembled as he slowly tilted his head up to meet his son’s gaze.

Galen descended slowly, landing between Lucy and Tharion, his boots crunching softly against the ground. He stood tall, battered but clearly unbroken, and for a moment, even the air dared not move.

He turned slightly, eyes narrowing as he side-glanced his father.

"It seems," Galen said, voice like death’s whisper, "you’re in a rush to join the green freak and his lapdogs."

The venom in his tone sank deep, cold enough to make Tharion’s bones ache. A visible shudder went through the king’s frame as he instinctively took a step back, sweat breaking along his temples.

Even Valemir, ever calm and unreadable, retreated half a step without meaning to.

Watching the two kings take their uneasy steps back, Galen finally shifted his gaze toward Queen Lucy. The crimson fire in his eyes dimmed just slightly, his expression softening for a brief moment.

"How is he?" he asked, voice low but steady.

Lucy met his gaze without hesitation. "He was standing right at death’s door. But he’s stable now. Alive."

Galen let out a slow breath, not of relief—but of tension reining itself back. His jaw tightened as he turned his head, this time facing Tharion and Valemir. The disdain in his eyes returned tenfold, sharp and cutting.

"Now all of you, shut up and listen. Especially you two oxygen-wasting fossils," he said, his voice dropping into a tone that silenced the wind itself.

"Anyone—and I mean anyone—who even thinks about harming that boy in that tent... if you so much as imagine it in a dream or breathe the wrong way in his direction... I swear on every drop of blood in my veins and the last shred of my soul... I will put you in the ground myself."

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The raw edge in his tone said everything.

"I hope you understand this isn’t a threat. It’s a promise."

He locked eyes with Tharion, staring straight into those red royal irises like they meant nothing. The camp fell utterly still—no murmurs, no breath, and not even the sound of birds overhead.

Then Galen turned and began walking toward Liam’s tent, steps slow and deliberate.

But he didn’t make it far before Tharion’s voice cut through the stillness.

"You are... a disgrace to your blood," he said, his tone drenched in contempt.

Galen paused. Without turning, he allowed the words to hit him.

"You stand there defending a dark magic user—the very thing that took your sister from this world," Tharion continued. "And for what? What do you gain from this? Has the Tempest Kingdom rotted your mind with their pity speeches? You’ve lost yourself."

Still facing away, Galen stayed silent for a long beat. Then, slowly, he turned back to face his father.

His eyes were no longer just cold. They were deadly.

"You really are the hypocrite I always knew you were," Galen said, voice low, steady. "You speak of Serah like she was taken from us by magic. But let’s not rewrite history, Father."

He pointed directly at both Tharion and Valemir.

"She didn’t die because of dark magic. She died because you and that smug bastard beside you ordered her death. You sentenced her to death like she meany nothing to you. Your own daughter. My sister."

A heavy silence dropped like a hammer as the truth laid bare.

"So don’t twist the story now. Don’t dare stand there and pretend you’re mourning her. If you keep pushing this, I’ll do what I should’ve done fifteen years ago and erase both of you from existence."

Tharion and Valemir stood frozen in shame and fear.

Galen turned away once more, walking toward Liam’s tent with a fury barely held in check.

But again—Tharion’s voice rose, this time colder than before.

"Tch... say whatever lies comfort your guilt, but the boy isn’t leaving here alive."

The sound of a sword leaving its sheath rang through the air. Tharion’s blade burned with fire, its edges trailing with red-hot embers. His irises gleamed like molten coals.

"For Serah," he muttered.

Galen halted, head tilted slightly in disbelief. Then, out of nowhere—he laughed.

A sharp, genuine laugh.

Eyes widened across the camp. Even the guards flinched at the sound—because it wasn’t joy. It was mockery wrapped in rage.

Galen wiped a fake tear from his eye. "Wow., you made me laugh. That’s a miracle."

Then his laughter died, eyes narrowing again with disgust.

"For Serah? Really? You think butchering a boy who just saved your damn kingdom will cleanse your sins? That it’ll make your past decision somehow noble?"

He stepped toward Tharion again, voice rising only slightly, but shaking with scorn.

"You think this would make her soul rest easy? Or stop her from screaming in your dreams every time you close your eyes?"

Tharion flinched—but only slightly. His jaw tightened, but his sword stayed raised.

Galen leaned in a little, eyes burning brighter.

"If you really want to redeem yourself," he said, each word slow, slicing, "then try not compounding your failure and let your daughter’s child live."