In the undulating sea of clouds, all phenomena were collapsing.
This so-called Imaginary Band, by its very nature, did not belong to true history; it was a phantom bubble, a dream adrift without roots.
Precisely because of this, when its foundational existence was erased, this illusory world had only one recourse: to perish and dissipate under the scouring force of historical correction.
Shaya sat enthroned atop the highest point of the Holy City, on that dark iron throne.
Beneath him, the Chalk City of Camelot, this Holy City, was dissolving amidst surging magic.
First, the outer walls, then the ruins of buildings already reduced to rubble by the nuclear explosion within the Holy City, and finally, the royal palace, which had miraculously survived the blast due to Isadorella’s presence.
The collapse continued its ascent, following the path of the palace.
From the foundation stones below to the upper floors.
Then, the wave of collapse reached the very peak of the imperial palace, the edge of the throne at the world’s end.
Shaya watched silently as the crumbling bricks, sand, dust, and colossal chalk stones dispersed.
Within the grand, floor-to-ceiling silver mirror of the Hall of Thrones, the youth’s figure was reflected.
His black and crimson Robe of Dawn bore a gaping, unhealed bloody hole through his chest.
His handsome face was deathly pale, and even his once clear, bright eyes had dimmed.
The effect of the “Night Watcher’s Dagger” after its shattering truly granted Shaya a temporary reprieve from death, but it merely allowed him to retain a final sliver of life force.
The wounds inflicted by the Holy Sword had genuinely remained on Shaya’s body, leaving his limbs and core feeling weak.
Furthermore, having operated the Black Knight Mech in an overloaded state for an extended period had nearly depleted his mental strength, leaving his senses numb and a profound weakness emanating from the depths of his soul, as if he could collapse at any moment.
“Quite a sorry state, isn’t it?”
“Is this the price for pretending to be a great hero even after losing your Undying Body?”
Shaya smiled faintly as he gazed at the frail figure on the throne in the mirror.
“If Little Ai saw me like this, she’d probably worry herself to death.”
Pushing himself to such a desperate state was uncharacteristic of Shaya’s usual approach.
However, this was a choice he had made himself.
From the moment he re-entered Escarnia’s Historical Echo, he had already planned everything.
“Since this is the path I’ve chosen, I must see it through, no matter how absurd…”
“I never imagined your teachings would be useful at a time like this, Teacher.”
Shaya recalled the words of his Golden Elf teacher, shaking his head with a wry smile.
The next moment, his thoughts stirred.
With a spatial distortion, streaks of emerald light, imbued with vitality, appeared around Shaya.
They were then all absorbed into his body.
These were the numerous potions he had hoarded in his Spatial Pocket, now being consumed without regard for cost.
Fueled by the stimulus of these healing alchemical potions, Shaya sharply bit his tongue.
This reignited his mental energy, which had begun to feel dry and depleted.
Leaning back on the throne, he extended his hand slightly.
The next moment, illusory points of light, accompanied by pale silver starlight, slowly coalesced above Shaya’s head.
After a few breaths, the pale silver light solidified, transforming into a crown of pure silver thorns suspended in mid-air.
This crown of thorns was the embodiment of the authority of the King of the Imaginary Band, which Shaya had stolen from Isadorella using the Thief’s Gloves.
Shaya allowed the silver, thorn-shaped crown to descend slowly onto his head.
The authority merged with Shaya’s soul.
Almost simultaneously, his eyes, once dark, blazed with an unimaginably brilliant, dazzling starlight.
His remaining mental strength burned, driving the authority that governed the Imaginary Band.
Within the Hall of Thrones, which was constantly being eroded and corrected by the force of historical revision, a sudden, violent surge occurred.
An unprecedented, supremely brilliant starlight illuminated the sky at the world’s end.
“Then, Your Highness.”
Within that bright, daylight that seemed to threaten to engulf the world,
Shaya whispered softly towards a certain maiden, now imperceptible beneath the river of time.
“Allow me to do one last thing for you.”
“That twisted, erroneous history.”
“I will restore it to its original form.”
“And also…”
Shaya’s lips moved.
His final words drifted down the river of time, heard only by two souls.
…
The river of time roared and churned.
Innumerable erroneous tributaries were severed and buried, while new, correct currents aligned with the general trend were forged.
And surrounding the Imaginary Band, which had previously severed history and obstructed the prevailing trend,
Everything was now being personally “rewritten” by the new Master of the Imaginary Band.
Isadorella closed her eyes, allowing her form to drift within the waves of the river of time, feeling her imprints and footprints from the past being gradually replaced according to her will.
Holy Calendar Year 1.
Amidst joyous celebrations, the Freista Empire was established in the Holy City of Camelot.
However, at the same time, the undefeated King of Knights, who had led all of Escarnia out of a period of dark turmoil, and had purged Abyss Monsters and King Vortigern…
…chose to hand over the imperial throne to her own kin at the very moment the empire was founded.
She herself, declining the company of all Knights of the Round Table and guards,
Came alone to the border village where she had first drawn the Sword in the Stone and embarked on her path to kingship.
Isadorella wandered alone in the wilderness for a long time.
Finally, she leaned against a simple, large tree, holding the Golden Sword, and slowly closed her eyes.
Sunlight filtered through the tree’s canopy, casting dappled shadows and a faint warmth.
Just as it had been when she and Shaya first met during the Royal Selection ceremony.
“This time, let me sleep for a while longer.”
The passing of the King of Knights caused a tremendous uproar throughout the Western Continent.
No one knew why this supreme powerhouse, who had unified the land and ascended the highest throne at such a young age, had made such a choice.
Her lifespan was still long, at least another two or three hundred years.
She had abandoned the imperial throne above all others, forsaken the easily attainable flowers, applause, and glory…
Forsaken everything a human could possess in the mortal world.
But only Isadorella knew.
It was only when she bid farewell to her identity as the King of Knights that she found true salvation.
Of course, the commoners were shocked and bewildered.
The passage of time could smooth over everything.
A new king was chosen from the kin of the old King Uther, possessing suitable talent and strength, Knights of the Round Table were enfeoffed, and the Eight Great Oathbound Families were established.
The Knights of the Round Table clashed with the nobility, the rise and fall of Sword Holders, and imperial power iterated repeatedly through decline and resurgence.
The Freista Empire thus progressed relentlessly, the wheel of historical momentum rolling forward, brooks no one’s will.
And the legend of the first King of Knights and Cain, deliberately orchestrated by the Eight Great Oathbound Families, was gradually forgotten with time.
Until, in the mouths of Bards, it became an ethereal legend, impossible to trace.
Over a thousand years of the past, buried in the ages.
…
Holy Calendar Year 903, Month of Budding, the 4th day.
Freista Empire, Imperial Capital Camelot.
In a villa’s residence, the silver-haired Princess slowly opened her eyes.
In her hands, the Golden Holy Sword emitted a sharp radiance.
“Your Highness Isadorella, you have finally woken.”
A respectful female voice emerged from the gloomy shadow, carrying a hint of urgency.
“You were unresponsive for a long time. I became anxious and came to check, despite your orders…”
“You are…”
Isadorella’s gaze remained fixed on the Holy Sword’s brilliance.
The illusory, deeply etched memories were slowly resurfacing in her mind.
She looked at the shadow for a long time before retrieving the name of her trusted subordinate from the distant memories: “Fren?”
“It is I, Your Highness.”
The female voice from the shadow sounded somewhat overwhelmed.
“I am fine, you may withdraw now.”
“As you command, Your Highness.”
The retainer named Fren retreated silently, while Isadorella continued to gaze at the dim candlelight on the table.
Despite all that had transpired.
Regardless of anything else, she had now ascended the throne.
And the mystery of the Holy Sword had been completely unsealed.
With such power, she now possessed the strength to truly become the Empress of the Empire and cleanse the entire realm.
The initial goals had all been achieved.
“But—”
A faint glint flickered within the crimson beautiful eyes of the Second Princess.
The boy’s final words from that illusory throne still echoed in her ears.
“Please forgive my presumption, Your Highness.”
“I am your Sword Holder, and this is the only way I could conceive of to save my sovereign.”
“Also, although we depart now, please grant me some time, so that we may meet again in the true history, at the current juncture.”
“Then it will be our—”
“The unfulfilled dream of King and Knight… a continuation of the dream.”
…
“A continuation of the dream…?”
Isadorella repeated the phrase.
“In that case, allow me to wait for your return here.”
“Waiting for the story of the Knight and the King to be written anew.”
“For you to become my husband, the Prince of the Empire—”
The Holy Sword in her hand dissolved into faint golden motes of light and slowly vanished.
Isadorella remained in silence, feeling the warmth in her heart gradually fill her being.
“Until the day you become the sole male protagonist in my story.”
………………
PS: It’s a bit late, two consecutive updates today.
