CHAPTER 155: ELYSIA CRIED DESPERATELY!

The crowd whispered nervously. "Why had he stayed? Was it mercy... or was it something far more dangerous?"

Elysia gaze flickers to Calvane. Edwin straightened, his body aching, but his spirit burning.

Calvene, the loyal and trusted subordinate of the Celestial Royal, strode into the arena with steady steps.

His eyes, sharp and unwavering, swept across the battlefield where fire raged wildly. Flames twisted and crackled like beasts hungry for destruction, devouring the ground and filling the air with searing heat.

From the stands, the nobles shifted uneasily. Their hushed whispers rippled through the audience, a chorus of fear and speculation.

Calvene finally stopped at the edge of the burning field. He lifted his hand, his voice carrying across the arena like a sharp blade cutting through smoke.

"Extinguish the fire. Now."

Immediately, the other subordinates of the Celestial Royal sprang into action. Their robes fluttered as they raised their hands, runes glowing to life across the battlefield.

Magic burst into the air and the fire slowly began to shrink.

The fire hissed in defiance, crackling angrily as if unwilling to die. Smoke billowed upward, thick and suffocating, before it began to thin under the combined effort.

Slowly, the inferno shrank, fading from an uncontrollable blaze into smoldering embers. The once-blinding battlefield grew clearer.

And then, as the last tongues of flame sputtered out, the crowd finally saw what lay at the heart of the storm.

Elysia and Edwin stood within the scorched remains, their silhouettes outlined by the smoke that still curled around them.

Elysia staggered forward, her body trembling as the suffocating heat of the flames finally eased.

Her breaths came sharp and uneven, but what weighed on her chest was far heavier than the fire.

Her voice cracked as she screamed, "Father! Why... Why did you let me agree to this?!"

The sound tore through the arena like a blade, cutting past the murmurs of the nobles and silencing the restless crowd.

For an instant, no one spoke. The daughter of such a proud family—always composed, always strong—was crying before them.

The mask of cold determination she had always worn shattered in that moment, revealing the truth: she was still only a girl, forced to shoulder the crushing weight of choices she never should have carried.

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks, glistening in the smoke-lit air.

Her words trembled as she choked them out, each one heavier than the last.

"You... you should have stopped me! You should have protected me! Isn’t that your duty as my father?!"

The crowd stirred, whispers rising and falling, pity mixing with judgment. But Elysia didn’t hear them.

The one of the noble family sat upright, his robe flowing with dignity, yet his eyes betrayed a deep weariness.

His shoulders sagged under the weight of responsibility, as if centuries of duty pressed down on him alone.

For a long, heavy moment, he did not answer. His lips tightened, struggling between love as a father and duty as a leader.

At last, he spoke. His voice was soft, almost tender, yet it rang clearly through the arena, reaching even the furthest corners.

"Elysia..." he said, the sorrow in his tone unmistakable. "It is not for the sake of my life that I allowed you to walk this path. It is for the sake of our family and family’s future."

"For... the family?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, broken and lost. She shook her head violently, tears blurring her vision.

"How could her father—her protector, her anchor—trade her suffering, her pain, for something as cold and distant as "the family’s future"? How could duty outweigh the love between father and daughter?"

The crowd watched in stunned silence. And in that moment, Elysia stood not as a noble’s daughter, not as a warrior—but as a child, betrayed by the very person she had trusted most.

In the stands, the nobles exchanged subtle glances, their expressions a mixture of cold calculation and hidden sympathy.

Some shook their heads, pity softening their eyes as they watched the young girl break down before her father.

Others, however, nodded with grim approval, their gazes sharp and unyielding. To them, sacrifice was not cruelty but necessity. Power demanded blood, tears, and broken hearts—it always had.

Amidst the silence, Edwin stood motionless. His hands hung stiffly at his sides, but his fists were clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms.

Outwardly, he forced calm, his breathing measured, his posture steady. Yet inside, his heart roared like a storm threatening to burst its cage.

His jaw tightened, the muscles twitching as his thoughts tore at him.

(For the family’s sake?) The words echoed in his mind like poison. (You force her into despair, strip her of her will, and expect me to remain silent?)

He lowered his gaze, hiding the fury that blazed in his eyes, unwilling to let anyone see the fire raging within him. But in the quiet of his own heart, he swore a vow as sharp as steel.

(No. I’ll remember this. Every humiliation. Every tear she sheds, every pain we endure, and every time you bow our pride to the ground. This debt will not vanish. One day... it will be repaid.)

(Celestial Royal, you fat devil)

Calvene’s sharp eyes briefly flickered toward Edwin, sensing the unrest burning in the boy’s silence.

But he did not speak. His duty was clear—to maintain order, not to involve himself in the bitter wounds of a family after what the royal had decided.

With measured calm, he looked away, as if he had never noticed.

Meanwhile, Elysia’s despair deepened. She turned once more to her father, her voice trembling, raw, and desperate, each word tearing from her throat like a cry for salvation.

"You speak of family," she said, "but what about me? Am I nothing more than a pawn on your board? Do I mean so little that you would throw me into this trap without hesitation?"

Her words struck the audience harder than any sword strike could. The nobles murmured among themselves—some stirred with unease, others watching with cold detachment, as if they were witnessing the inevitable fate of one born into power.

Her father, the noble head of their clan, closed his eyes slowly. For a brief moment, his stern composure wavered, as though the weight of her suffering cut deeper than any blade.