Amidst the undulating sea of clouds, all things were collapsing.
The so-called Imaginary Zone, not being part of true history, was like rootless duckweed, a mere phantom, an illusion.
Therefore, when its very foundation was erased, this illusory world naturally had no choice but to perish and dissipate under the scouring of the Power of Historical Correction.
Shiayar sat at the highest point of the Sacred City, atop the iron Throne.
Beneath him, Camelot, the White Chalk City, this sacred city, was vanishing within a surge of Magic Power.
First, the peripheral walls, followed by the buildings within the Sacred City that had been turned to ruins by a Nuclear Explosion, and then the Royal Palace, spared from the blast only due to Isadella's presence.
The disintegration continued, racing upwards through the palace.
From the foundation stones at the bottom to the highest floors.
Then, the tide of destruction reached the very top of the Royal Palace, the edge of the Throne at the end of the world.
Shiayar quietly observed the dispersing bricks, sand, dust, and the massive chalk stones.
Reflected in the grand, floor-length silver mirror in the Throne room was the figure of a young man.
His Robe of Daybreak, black with crimson clouds, bore a huge, unhealed gash that pierced his chest.
His handsome face was deathly pale; even his once-bright eyes were now somewhat dimmed.
The effect of the shattered Night Watcher's Dagger did indeed allow Shiayar to defy death for a short time, but it merely left him clinging to his last shred of life.
The wound from the Sacred Sword was still very real, sending waves of weakness through his limbs and entire body.
The long ordeal of piloting the Black Knight Mecha at Overload had also pushed Shiayar's spiritual power to the brink of exhaustion. His senses were numb, and a profound weakness emanated from deep within his Soul, as if he could lose consciousness at any moment.
How truly ragged I look.
Is this the price for pretending to be a great hero, despite having lost my undying body?
Shiayar, seeing the weak figure on the Throne in the mirror, couldn't help but smile faintly.
If Ennie saw me like this, she would be heartbroken.
Pushing himself to such an extreme was not Shiayar's usual style.
However, this was his own choice.
From the moment he re-entered Escarnia's Echo of History, he had already planned everything.
Since this is the path I've chosen, no matter how absurd, I must see it through...
I never thought your teachings, Teacher, would be so applicable now.
Shiayar, recollecting his Golden Elf Instructor's words, gave a despondent laugh and shook his head.
The next moment, his thoughts stirred.
With a distortion of spatial fluctuations, streams of emerald radiance carrying life force materialized around Shiayar.
Then, they were all absorbed into his body.
These were the numerous potions he had stockpiled in his Spatial Pocket, now all consumed at once, regardless of cost.
Stimulated by the healing alchemy serums, Shiayar fiercely bit the tip of his tongue, reigniting his originally depleted spiritual power.
He leaned back against the Throne, extending his hand slightly.
Next, phantom specks of light, accompanied by Cangyin starlight, slowly converged above Shiayar's head.
After a few breaths, the Cangyin luminescence solidified into a pure silver Crown of Thorns suspended in mid-air.
This Crown of Thorns was the embodiment of the Authority of the King of the Imaginary Zone, which Shiayar had stolen from Isadella using the Thief's Gloves.
Shiayar allowed the thorny silver crown to descend slowly onto his head.
The Authority merged with Shiayar's Soul.
Almost simultaneously, his pitch-black eyes began to sparkle with an incomparably brilliant, dazzling starlight.
His last reserves of spiritual power burned, fueling the Authority that ruled the Imaginary Zone.
Amidst the Throne room, which was being incessantly eroded by the Power of Historical Correction, a sudden and explosive commotion occurred.
An unprecedented, supremely resplendent starlight illuminated the firmament at the end of the world.
In that brilliant light, which seemed to engulf the world as if it were broad daylight, Shiayar whispered softly to a certain young woman, now barely visible far down the River of Time.
"So, Your Highness,"
"Let me do one last thing for you.
The River of Time roared and surged.
Numerous incorrect tributaries were severed and buried, while new, correct currents aligned with the grand tide of events were forged.
Around the Imaginary Zone, which had once severed history and obstructed the grand tide of events, everything was now being 'rewritten' by its new master.
Isadella closed her eyes, letting her form drift amidst the waves of the River of Time, feeling her past imprints and footsteps being gradually replaced in accordance with her heart's desire.
In Holy Calendar Year 1, amidst a sea of jubilation, the Fresta Empire was established in the Sacred City Camelot.
But at the same time, the ever-victorious Knight King—who had led all of Escarnia out of an age of dark, turbulent warfare, who had eradicated the Abyss Demons and Despicable King Vortigern—chose, at the very moment of the Empire's founding, to entrust the imperial Throne to her kin.
She herself declined the company of all the Knights of the Round Table and her guards.
Alone, she returned to the border village where she had first drawn the Sword in the Stone, embarking on her path to kingship.
Isadella wandered in the wilderness alone for a long time.
Eventually, she leaned against a simple, large tree, cradling the Golden Sword, and slowly closed her eyes.
Sunlight filtered through the tree's canopy, casting dappled shadows and a faint warmth.
It was just like when she first met Shiayar at the king selection ceremony.
This time, let me sleep a little longer, she murmured to herself.
The Knight King's passing caused a great stir throughout the Western Continent.
No one knew why this formidable ruler, who had united the entire land at such a young age and ascended to the highest Throne, would make such a choice.
After all, she still had a long life ahead of her, at least two or three hundred years.
She had relinquished the Throne that placed her above tens of thousands, forsaken the readily attainable flowers, applause, and glory...
She had forsaken everything a human could possess in this world.
But only Isadella herself knew the truth.
It was only when she bid farewell to her identity as the Knight King that she truly found redemption.
Of course, the people's shock remained shock, their bewilderment, bewilderment.
Yet, vast stretches of time can smooth over anything.
A new king, suitable in talent and strength, was chosen from the kin of the former King Uther. The Knights of the Round Table were enfeoffed, and the 8 Great Oath-Sworn Families were established.
The Knights of the Round Table and the nobility stood in opposition, Swordbearers rose and fell, and imperial authority fluctuated between decline and prosperity.
Thus, the Fresta Empire forged ahead, its historical course an unstoppable chariot, unswayed by any single will.
And the original legends of the Knight King and Cain, due to the deliberate actions of the 8 Great Oath-Sworn Families, gradually faded with time.
Until they became ethereal tales recited by wandering poets, their origins lost to time.
A thousand years of history lay buried in the annals of time.
「...」
「Holy Calendar Year 903, 4th day of the Month of Sprouting.
Fresta Empire, Imperial Capital Camelot.」
In a detached courtyard residence, the silver-haired Princess slowly opened her eyes.
In her hand, the Golden Sacred Sword emitted a chilling brilliance.
"Princess Isadella, you have finally awakened," a respectful female voice sounded from the dim shadows, tinged with urgency. "You were motionless for so long, and in my anxiety, I disregarded your orders to check on you..."
Isadella murmured, her gaze still fixed on the Sacred Sword's brilliance, ""Who are you...?""
Ethereal, deeply engraved memories slowly resurfaced in her mind. She looked into the shadows for a long moment before finally recalling the name of her devoted attendant from the depths of her distant memories. ""Fran?""
""It is I, Your Highness,"" the woman's voice from the shadows replied, sounding somewhat flattered.
Isadella said, ""I'm fine. You may withdraw.""
""As you command, Your Highness.""
Fran, the attendant, quietly withdrew, while Isadella continued to gaze at the dim candlelight on the table.
Although she had been through so much, she had now ascended to the Throne.
And the mystery of the Sacred Sword was fully unveiled.
With such power, she was now capable of truly becoming the Empress of the Empire and pacifying the entire realm.
The goals she had initially set had all been achieved.
But—
The Second Princess's crimson eyes glinted. In her ears, the young man's last words from that illusory Throne still echoed:
"Please forgive my presumption, Your Highness.
"I am your Swordbearer, and this is the only solution I could conceive of to save my sovereign.
"Also, though we part now, please give me some time. Let us meet again at the current node of time, in true history.
"Then it will be time for our—
"Our unfulfilled dream of king and knight... the continuation of the dream."
「...」
The continuation of the dream? Isadella repeated the words.
If that's the case, then I shall wait here for your return. Waiting for the story of the knight and king to be resumed, waiting for you to become my husband, the Prince Consort of the Empire—
The Sacred Sword in her hand dissolved into pale golden motes of light.
Isadella sat in silence, feeling a warmth slowly fill her heart.
Waiting for the day you become the sole hero of my story.