Chapter 432: Once Upon a Time, a Princess Wanted Her Freedom, Part II

Sorry for the delay, I slept for almost a whole day to make up for the two all-nighters, and yesterday... I completely forgot it was my birthday---I couldn't work. I'm not even kidding.

Anyway, here's a massive chapter to finish this arc and Esmée's. Enjoy!

Next arc: Tier 1 preparations, with everything you can imagine, from Body Tempering to the Colosseum, and even ???. We will finish with the Tier up.

This is a transition arc before the second Reunion, so I expect it to be shorter than this current one. After discussing it on Discord, this arc had a few unnecessary long sections, so my goal for the next one is not to repeat that mistake.

Note: Derze created a mini-game on the Discord server to cultivate Micro, Domain, Mastery, and your bloodline. If you enjoy numbers go up and wish to reach the Zenith, feel free to check it out (Discord link: https://discord.gg/HQDDnwpFmS). A huge thanks to him... and also to the whole amazing community, I love reading your messages and comments!

Okay, time to go to bed. Ah, my bad, it's morning and I have a train. :/

PS: Priam Character Sheet 
PSS: Discord to say hello and discuss the chappies!

*

The sovereign stared down at his chest, uncomprehending.

“P—parricide,” he gasped before coughing up blood.

Aydan broke into manic laughter. “So now I am your son? Curious. You made no mention of that when, not thirty seconds ago, you promised Elysium to another. When you thought to make me a woman. Me, the crown prince! Your heir by birthright!”

With that, he twisted the hilt, and the motion tore a groan from the king. The pain must have seized his mind, for Esmée suddenly found herself mistress of her body.

At last freed, the young woman trembled. So close to having lost her freedom forever, she wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball and weep. Only sheer will kept her upright. Watching her father writhe in agony helped, too.

Get a grip. Nothing is won yet. Use the chaos.

Fighting her disgust, the princess let herself fall against Rohan.

“Honey?!”

According to Jasmine, tears stirred the hearts of men. Esmée tried to summon one, and burst into sobs. The helplessness she had just endured still clung to her. The shock made her acting more convincing.

“The geas…”

“What? Speak to me!”

Torn between saving her father and her inability to harm her brother, Esmée let out an unfeigned moan. “Th—there is one last failsafe. Without a living king, no slave need exist.”

The phrasing mattered, but the sentence was true. Rohan would have sensed a lie. His pupils widened as he looked up.

“Aydan, stop!”

The prince did not hear him, too busy cackling as he tortured his father. Give a bitter man revenge, and watch a monster bloom.

A guard tried to intervene, only for the comrade beside him to drive a short sword through the gap in his visor. Three more deaths followed suit. This coup had been no improvisation.

What came next happened in a blur. Newly wed, the young Aelbe acted before he thought, rushing to save his bride. Less than two meters from his target, his Cut Concept sliced through Aydan with ease. The crown prince’s head flew, surprise frozen on his face. A few seconds more, and the throne would have been his.

The surviving guards exchanged glances, but the silent Tier 3s’ aura quelled any thought of further bloodshed. Their loyalty died with their prince. One left the room, and the rest followed.

As the son’s body collapsed, the king’s staggered, an arm gripping the sword buried in his chest. Rohan rushed to his side and winced at the sight. The blade had entered from behind the heart and exited through the solar plexus. With his hilt’s twist, Aydan had shredded the heart to shreds.

As the light faded from her father’s eyes, Esmée lunged toward Aydan. Fighting rigor mortis, she pried open his hand, retrieved the Resurrection Token she had gifted her father two months earlier, and—compelled by the geas—rose to return it to him.

She stumbled over a shadow.

“Esmée!” shouted Rohan, slapping Maxime to keep him conscious for another heartbeat. His own.

The princess got up, only to fall again. This time, no shadow played tricks on her; her own heart had stopped. With the king’s death and no crown prince to succeed him, every slave shared his fate.

Wracked by spasms, Esméralda met her father’s eyes and saw suffering, fear, and realization. Before him knelt the architect of his death.

Maxime had been stronger than Aydan; his racial Talent should have shielded him. The sword ought to have missed his heart—perhaps even jammed in its sheath. But in the end, it was Esmée’s will that prevailed.

One last emotion surfaced in his gaze. In the final instant of his life, Maxime truly saw his daughter. Not as inferior, but as an enemy. An equal. And that enraged him all the more.

The king died as he had lived: full of hatred.

*

Lvl Up: [Pain Resistance] lvl 58
WILL +6
DEXT +3

Resurrection Token activated.

It was like breaking the surface after a deep dive. Esmée gasped, desperate for air.

“Esmée?” a voice called. A male held her close, fingers stroking her hair with tender care.

Having just danced with Death, the princess expected a certain partner. However, when her vision cleared, the eyes gazing into hers held no storm.

Disappointed, Esmée barely acknowledged Rohan. As panic faded, hope dawned. Closing her eyes, she searched for her geas—and found it. Like a cursed tattoo etched upon her soul, it was still there… though partly glitched.

Programmed to kill its host once no master lived, it had fulfilled its purpose. The death sentence had been carried out—and no if clause had accounted for resurrection. To the geas, Esmée had paid her due.

The other commands remained. Every order her father and brother had recorded in life still bound her… but she could work around them. So long as no one adds new ones.

Esmée met Rohan’s gaze. “Where is it?”

“Babe, what are you—”

Gently pushing him aside, she rose. “The crown, Rohan. Where is the crown?”

He lifted his right hand. In it gleamed the diadem of her ancestors.

Her first instinct was to snatch it from him, but she restrained herself. After all, Rohan had not treated her cruelly. The marriage, the love potion… He too was a victim.

“Give it to me.” She softened her voice with effort. “Please.”

Rohan began to extend the crown, then froze. He looked down at the corpses, then his Tier 3 hunters before clenching his jaw. “And after?”

“After?”

“What will you do? What is your plan for us?”

Esmée felt anger coil in her gut. “Rohan, I understand your doubts, but that crown has made me—and may yet again make me—a slave. Every second you hold it—”

“Makes us equals,” interrupted the swordsmaster. A grimace replaced his look of concern. “I admire your mind, Esmée, but don’t insult mine. From the moment I wake to the moment I sleep, I think of you. You consume me in a way no woman should. Not meditation, not Micro, nothing makes it stop. You’ve done something to me,” his voice cracked, “and I can’t even hate you for it.”

Esmée’s gaze drifted from the crown to the broken male before her. “You did that to yourself.”

“Like your father and your brother?” Rohan nudged Aydan’s severed head with his boot. “Don’t tell me you had nothing to do with this. There’s not a drop of blood on your hands, but you killed them just the same.”

The geas flared, and Esmée winced in pain. “My father’s cruelty, my brother’s fear… Those, and a thousand other flaws, dug their graves. My presence was but a pretext.”

“It was a bit more than that. I saw you feeding that fear, that hatred, that greed in your brother. You didn’t light the fire between them, but you poured on every drop of oil you could. Griffe warned me: you’re a manipulator.”

Rohan withdrew the crown.

The princess let out a laugh devoid of joy. “With a geas inside my head? I was a pawn. My father’s, my brothers’... Had you not been fool enough to drink your own love potion, I would have been yours still. And with that crown, I might yet be. I won’t let it happen,” she said, as a golden light flared in her eyes; a side effect of the vast aether she was preparing to weave.

Rohan studied the crown in silence, neither defending himself nor moving. A full minute passed before he lifted his gaze.

“You’re not attacking?”

“…”

“You can’t, can you?” he said quietly. “Hey, your father ordered you to secure the alliance between our two factions. But you can defend your life, so you provoke me, hoping I’ll make the first move. Self-defense. That’s how you justify everything you do.” He shook his head. “You see, I’m starting to understand you, Esmée… but you don’t understand me.” He lifted the crown. “I’m too weak not to be tempted by it. To use this artifact to make you a loving wife. To kiss you. To hold you. To forgive you. To possess you…” His voice cracked. “But I want to be strong enough not to succumb.”

Rohan tossed the diadem onto the king’s corpse and drew his swords. “You think your death will free me from these artificial feelings?”

“...No. You would spend your life whispering my name, cursing it and yearning for it.”

“A fine way to temper the mind.” Rohan raised both blades. “I lost to Priam, tied with Kazuki, and beat Jasmine. Let’s see where you stand among your rivals.”

The threat was clear, and the geas relinquished full control to its host.

Aether contracted within Esmée’s Domain, and a rune flared in the air behind her. Then another. And another. The sigils stacked upon one another, first forming sentences, then paragraphs, until a full page wrote itself at the speed of a master typist.

The Tier 3s nearby exchanged grim looks.

“Young master, letting a glass cannon build up power is a shitty idea,” muttered the female.

“She doesn’t have her grimoire. This is the least I can do to make it interesting. You can leave.”

“The Chief ordered us to—”

“I made a mistake. I’ll fix it. If I fail here, I’m not worthy to lead the clan.”

The huntress opened her mouth, but the male placed a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. Both withdrew in silence.

“It’s divorce time,” Rohan said with a sad smile.

“I don’t recall ever accepting a proposal,” the princess retorted, stepping backward to create distance between them. Her heart pounded like a war drum. Esmée often claimed she preferred the pen to the sword, but in truth, she both despised and feared violence. She stopped only when the throne’s shadow enveloped her. Behind her, a second page was beginning to manifest.

Rohan narrowed his eyes, then lunged. He made a single step before slowing, as if mired in a bog. A rune had just lit beneath his feet. He tried to slash at it, but his whole body lagged.

“Something to counter my agility? Predictable.”

His boots exploded, revealing ten claws gouging the marble. The rune shattered, and the swordsmaster dashed once more.

Several runic sections activated in sequence, unleashing a barrage of magical projectiles. Rohan sliced them apart one after another. He countered with wind blades, which Esmée blocked with layered barriers. She only let two through, for them to shred her ball gown, tearing away heavy folds of silk. Fighting in ten kilos of fabric was gruelling.

Another line of runes lit up. Rohan frowned, then screamed as an ultraviolet beam seared his retinas.

[Spoiler].

Esmée triggered another sequence, and the air began to vibrate at the exact frequency she had just divined. Harmonic resonance shook the Aelbe’s bones and burst some of his organs like overripe fruit.

To survive, Rohan was forced to awaken the mythic core of his clan. Seeing the image of a fierce white tiger began to cover his body, Esmée sent a thread of aether snaking toward him. The construct crumbled on contact with the Aelbe Ace’s Domain, but her meta-authority was enough to buy her a single second. Enough to release an aetheric pulse that disrupted his energy flow.

The image flickered, then vanished. A technique that advanced needed a precise caster, and the slightest interference could unravel it.

Roaring, Rohan layered a wind blade atop an aura blade and a Mastery blade. Esmée responded by weaving a double kinetic–auric shield and flooding her Domain with aether to absorb the spiritual strike.

[Spoiler] told her her opponent had regained his sight. Some ability, likely a Merit, had restored his eyes, and she prepared an infrared rune to burn them once more.

Rohan’s instincts must have triggered; he shut his eyes. Rather than waste the energy already gathered, Esmée rerouted it to the ground.

The swordmaster didn’t flinch at the pool of lava that bloomed before him, consuming the corpses of the Lóthandorim father and son. A woman’s hatred could run deep. 

Displaying his ideal movement skill, he burst forward. His speed was so great his foot left a print on the throne, then the ceiling. By the time his afterimage began to move, his real blades were already slashing.

A shield flared before Esmée, then cracked. Two blades swept through, and the princess was decapitated.

*

Her head flew. Rohan tracked it with his eyes until it rolled beyond the throne’s shadow and dissolved into light.

“Please, stop telling everyone you won against me. A showmatch is not an assassin’s specialty.”

“Huh?”

The swordsmaster looked down. Two daggers jutted from his chest.

“H—How?”

He hadn’t felt a thing. No breath, no scent, no vibration. Even his instincts had stayed silent.

“Even on guard, you didn’t notice. Imagine if you’d been sleeping.”

He tried to raise his hand to touch the daggers, but he couldn’t move. Poison. The same one he had used against...

As his strength faded, Rohan lifted his gaze toward the throne. Jasmine crouched atop it, the diadem on her head. She winked at him as darkness claimed him. 

*

“He’ll return. That wasn’t his last life,” said Esmée from the doorway. She had flashed away just as her foe accelerated, letting Jasmine take her revenge. “And the auditory illusion I just wove won’t fool the Tier 3s for long.”

“One life for another. I’m good.” The assassin shrugged. “You want to finish him?”

Esmée met her rival’s gaze. A pair of golden eyes sought judgment in two grey ones—and found none.

“No.”

With the two Tier 3s waiting just beyond the door, Rohan was her lifeline to leave the vault alive. In truth, he was inconsequential. His potential wasn’t bad, but compared to the Champions...

“I see.” Jasmine tapped the diadem on her head. “Looks good on me, doesn’t it?”

“A servant wearing a crown does not make a queen.”

“But a princess in a torn gown does look a bit like a whore,” the assassin teased, tossing her the artifact.

Esmée caught it, eyes widening. “...Just like that?”

“Yep. Regretting what you said now, aren’t you?”

The Empyrean blushed before masking it with Micro. “Sorry. The crown did suit you.”

“I know. And you don’t really look like a whore as no self-respecting hooker would wear those old-fashioned undergarments of yours. Truly, the sight could kill the mood for a blind man.” The Shadow leapt down from the throne and began rummaging through the three corpses. Every item she found vanished into one of her pockets. “If you plan on showing up before Priam dressed like that, better pray he’s sapiosexual.”

“...You didn’t think about giving him the crown? I could be an asset to Oasis.”

The Shadow didn’t even look up. “You need to be chained for that?”

“It would be safer for him.”

“There are stronger safeguards than a geas.”

“Like a subsystem grafted into your soul?” The princess regretted the question the instant it left her lips. Normally, she had more tact, but her father’s domination, her death, her rebirth, and the following battle had left her drained.

Jasmine froze as the light retreated into the bulbs. Soon, the room became the domain of shadows. “Next time that pretty mouth of yours mentions my bond with Priam, I’ll widen your smile. Capiche?”

Goosebumps prickled Esmée’s arms. “Sorry.”

“Shut up. Even if you wanted to, you’ll never share the link I have with him. At best, you’ll have his friendship, or his love. I’m his loyal Shadow.”

Esmée knew better than to reply.

The assassin returned to her task. A full minute of silence passed before she straightened, holding a golden key. “This thing’s almost as enchanted as your diadem. You wouldn’t happen to know where Royal Daddy hid his vault, would you?”

“In his chambers. But we need to hurry.”

“Hmm? Got another wedding scheduled today? Maybe another king to slay?”

Esmée smiled faintly. “Not sure Priam would approve of killing that one.”

“What do you m—Prometheus?”

“Indeed. Aydan was just one plan among many.”

Jasmine let out a growl. “Bloody hell, how did you manage all this with a spyware daemon rifling through your every thought?”

“How did you slip past the senses of two Tier 3s with hyper-tuned instincts?”

“Guess I’m just that good.” The assassin groaned when she realized she had indirectly complimented her rival. “Alright, royal quarters first, then we bail.”

“We also need to stop by the greenhouse.”

“You planning to grab samples for Log-a-rhythm?”

“That too, but mostly, I want a jonstiâme sprout. Brewed as tea, it’s a psychotropic stimulant that grants visions and revelations about the nature of aether. Half our greatest discoveries come from that plant. It’s also a vicious poison, so doses must be widely spaced.”

Jasmine scowled. “That’s the definition of a drug, Esmée. You plan to drug my Priam?”

“I plan to bribe him. Farming his aether skills and his poison resistance should delight him.”

“That, for sure. The bribe’s for what?”

“A job interview. I’ll need a place to sleep before the next Reunion begins. Preferably one where I wouldn’t trip over undead.”

That left only two options: leave with the Demiurge, join the surviving tribe, or ally with an established Champion. As she had no desire to run into Ève’s group, beg some locals, get killed by Arnold, resurrected by Seth, or tend gardens with Dishnu, Esmée hoped to temporarily join Oasis.

“Mmh. If it works out, I’ll lend you my room.”

The princess narrowed her eyes. “Free of charge?”

“Yep. I’ll just crash in another bed, don’t worry.”

After that cryptic reply, Jasmine pointed at Rohan. “You’d better use your bargaining chip to get out of here before he respawns. Unless you’re planning to take on two Tier 3s?”

Esmée grimaced as she turned toward the corpse. Arnold might be capable of that sort of feat, but she wasn’t. Not without extensive preparation, at least.

“Jasmine.”

“Nah, I won’t help.”

“Take this.” Esmée extended the diadem toward her rival.

Jasmine shot her an unreadable look.

“... You sure? Don’t want to destroy it?”

“I want to study it. After all, the geas still stains my soul, and it might help me defeat Cursed Clock of the Colosseum.” Her eyes lingered on the gemstones glimmering faintly. “Besides, I have history with it. That counts for something.”

After a heartbeat of hesitation, Jasmine agreed. “I’ll keep it for you.” She took the diadem, contemplated something, then set it back on the princess’s head. Taking three steps back, she nodded. “Looks like it was forged for you.”

Esmée answered with a dazzling smile.

*

Esméralda Lóthandorim’s status: 

Duchess
Soul Tier: 0
Racial Tier: 1

PHYSICAL:
Strength 185
Constitution 163
Agility 180
Vitality 170
Perception 282 

MENTAL:
Vivacity 1 152 (+12)
Dexterity 345  (+3)
Memory 1 199 SEALED
Willpower 1 186
Charisma 799 SEALED  

META:
Meta-affinity (E) 1 199 SEALED
Meta-focus 999 SEALED
Meta-endurance 999 SEALED
Meta-perception (Aut) 1 399 SEALED
Meta-chance 547
Meta-authority (Ace) 1 399 SEALED  

[Tribulation]: Quintuple Tribulation pending.

*

Esmée - torn wedding dress