Chapter 55: The Saint Recognized by God.
Aphrosia felt her magic bound by an icy, invisible shackle. Each attempt to draw on it brought searing, bone-deep pain—not physical, but a soul-wrenching agony, as if red-hot needles pierced her magic circuits. Every breath burned.
The golden figure floating above, her divine blue eyes gazing down, dimmed ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly.
Aphrosia was… too weak, too strained.
Trying to simultaneously wield her meager nature magic and the faint, unstable time divinity from her single wing to break that cursed shackle was like igniting explosives in a fragile glass bottle. The outcome? Her magic circuits would collapse—or worse, she’d explode into oblivion.
Aphrosia knew this better than anyone. She could “hear” the faint wails of her overburdened circuits, “see” the clashing forces—nature’s green and time’s gold—colliding violently in her narrow channels. Each clash made her tremble, blood trickling from her lips.
But she didn’t care! Why should she?!
For over a decade, she’d worked harder than anyone! While others practiced magic, she gritted her teeth, honing non-magical skills to perfection—swordsmanship, combat, tracking, potions, traps, even arcane runes. Her effort was unimaginable!
Yet that damned, inexplicable shackle blocked her path like an impassable chasm. She could feel it: her insights, her accumulation, should’ve broken through long ago! She shouldn’t be stuck at apprentice low-tier! But the shackle mocked her efforts, trapping her at the threshold of power.
Astraea’s harsh judgment, sharp as a cold dagger, not only pierced her pride but exposed her deepest helplessness—the suffocating feeling of being throttled by fate, unable to break free no matter how she struggled.
She was terrified!
Terrified that her feeble strength would never let her find the two mothers who saved her from darkness. Terrified that at their reunion, she’d still be a “child” needing protection, disappointing them. Terrified that facing the shadowy forces behind the disappearances, she’d be powerless to stop the tragedies.
This fear, this defiance, this heavy responsibility burned hotter than her clashing magic, blazing in her chest!
She had to get stronger! Now! Immediately!
“Arghhh—!!!”
A roar of raw pain and unyielding will burst from her clenched teeth, hoarse like a dying beast, brimming with desperate resolve!
Her pale, exquisite face, already drained from pain, lost all color, like fine porcelain. Cold sweat soaked her bangs and thin clothes, clinging to her delicate frame. Her body arched under crushing pressure, muscles spasming, nerves screaming on the verge of snapping.
But her blue eyes, despite the pain and weakness, blazed with unprecedented brilliance, like exploding stars, burning with reckless madness and a resolve to defy death…
Like a crazed gambler, she staked everything to shatter that shackle. She poured her remaining will and life force into it—not harmonizing her powers, but detonating them!
She’d make her body a furnace, her will the spark, igniting the clashing torrents to blast apart the cursed shackle! Either it broke, and she’d be reborn in fire—or she’d shatter into dust!
Boom—!!
A muffled, soul-deep explosion erupted within her!
No longer a faint wail, but a cataclysmic roar like a collapsing mountain! Unstable, chaotic energy burst from her body—green nature magic and faint, holy gold divinity clashing, merging, annihilating! Her skin cracked with blood-red lines, like fracturing porcelain.
Blood streamed from her mouth, nose, even eyes, tracing vivid red paths down her ghostly face.
Astraea’s divine eyes contracted sharply. For the first time, a flicker of shock crossed her flawless face.
She’d expected struggle, pain, even collapse—but not this reckless, bone-deep ferocity from a girl who seemed lazy, snarky, and secretly cursed her. This wasn’t for pride or spite, but a burning need to protect!
As Aphrosia felt her consciousness fraying, her body on the verge of bursting into blood mist—
Crack!
A faint yet thunderous snap echoed in her soul!
The green and gold lights fused, barely blocking the slowed attack—Astraea had deliberately eased it, or it would’ve interrupted her eruption.
In moments, Astraea’s shock turned to a satisfied smile. Her instincts were right—her chosen saintess was indeed someone who defied danger with unwavering conviction.
*
But what of Sophia? The Church’s candidate saintess, her position was awkward. One chosen by the goddess, another by the people—their existence was inherently opposed.
Perhaps a battle between mortal and divine awaited them…