CHAPTER 158: TO THE OATHBLADE CHAMBER!

Its power could never be forced. The sword was not a weapon that bent to will or strength. It had a soul of its own.

No one unworthy could ever awaken it, no matter how much they desired. To touch it without being chosen was not simply failure—it was death.

Elysia knew this. Everyone in her family knew it. The stories had been drilled into her since she was a child, carried on hushed voices and stern warnings.

And yet...

Her father’s voice echoed faintly in her mind, as if the years had not passed at all. She remembered herself as a small girl, standing in the great hall while he loomed over her, his words as heavy as iron.

"You are forbidden to set foot in the sealed grounds. That sword is not for you."

The memory struck her harder than any blade could. She clenched her fists until her nails dug deep into her palms, sharp enough to sting.

(Why? Why was it always him who decided? Why was it always his voice that told her what I could not touch, what I could not dream of, what I must never reach for?)

Her heart throbbed painfully, rebelling against his words.

Because even now—tonight—she could feel it.

The pull.

It was faint, so faint she might have dismissed it as her imagination. But it was steady. A strange thread winding through her chest, pulling her toward the darkness beyond the walls.

It was as if a distant voice was calling her name, whispering softly from the forbidden grounds.

Her breath caught in her throat. No, it was not her imagination. She knew it in her very bones. It was not fantasy. It was real.

Her breathing quickened, each inhale sharp, each exhale uneven. She pressed her forehead lightly against the cool glass of her window.

The pale moonlight streamed across her face, painting her features in silver. Her reflection looked back at her—eyes burning with fire that no one could extinguish.

"That sword."

"It was meant for me"

Not for her father’s chosen heir. Not for anyone else in their proud bloodline. Her.

Her lips moved soundlessly as her thoughts hardened into a vow.

"That sword should be mine. I will wield it."

The thought came naturally, like a whisper carried in the wind.

It wasn’t something she forced, nor something she could deny. Deep inside, Elysia simply knew—just as one knows to breathe or to blink.

She couldn’t explain it, and she didn’t need to. Somewhere out there—past the walls of her chamber, past the silent gardens, and even past the heavy gates of the forbidden grounds—the sword was waiting for her.

Her chest tightened.

She stepped back from the window, her bare feet pressing lightly against the cold floor. The silver glow of the moon painted her face pale, but her eyes burned with quiet resolve.

She would not wait for permission.

Each beat of her heart hammered the choice deeper into her soul. "Tomorrow—no, perhaps even tonight—i will go."

The forbidden grounds lay hidden in the deepest part of her home, a place spoken of only in whispers.

Few had ever seen it, and fewer still had returned to tell the tale. It was not just a room but a prison of shadows, where jagged shapes danced across the stone walls as though alive.

Strange runes, etched long ago into towering pillars, pulsed faintly with a cold light, their meaning lost to all but the oldest scrolls.

No servants dared to wander close. Some said the air itself turned heavy and pushed intruders away. Others swore that an unseen force would hurl the unworthy back to the gates.

But Elysia felt none of that.

Cloaked in midnight black, she moved without hesitation. The silence pressed against her ears, but her steps were steady, each one echoing softly against the stone floor.

The passage ahead was narrow, its walls lined with torches. They had not been touched in years—dust still clung to their bases.

And yet, as she passed, the flames burst to life one by one, flaring briefly before settling into a steady glow.

It was as though the very place recognized her and welcomed her.

Her heart pounded. Her breath quickened. But still she walked forward, drawn deeper into the shadows.

Finally, the passage widened into a vast cavern. At its center stood a stone altar, cracked and weathered with age but unbroken, its surface carved with lines that glowed faintly in the dark.

And there, resting in silence, was the sword.

The Oathblade.

Its steel shimmered faintly, even in the dim light, as though it carried its own moon within.

Its sheath was made of blackened steel, streaked with silver veins that pulsed faintly under the moonlight streaming through a crack in the cavern ceiling.

Dust covered the altar, yet not a single cobweb dared to cling to the blade—as if even time itself feared its presence.

A low hum filled the chamber, steady and rhythmic, like the heartbeat of something alive, waiting for someone worthy enough to awaken it.

Elysia’s chest tightened. Her breath grew shallow as her hand lifted toward the hilt.

Her fingers trembled—not out of fear, but out of the weight of what this sword meant.

The instant her skin brushed the hilt, power exploded. A violent surge of energy stormed through her body, rattling her bones.

The cavern roared as if alive. With a thunderous crack, an unseen force blasted her backward.

She slammed into the stone wall, blood spraying from her lips. Her vision blurred, ears ringing.

Gritting her teeth, she struggled to stay conscious.

So this is the trial... it won’t accept me so easily.

Her father’s warnings echoed in her mind: The Oathblade will consume the unworthy.

She clenched her fists, slowly pushing herself off the ground despite her trembling limbs. Pain burned in her chest, but her eyes sharpened with unshakable resolve.

"I will not falter," she whispered, voice hoarse but steady. "Not for him. Not for anyone. I fight for myself... and if I succeed, I may stop the war before it begins in the future."