In the fragnt world of the World Tree.
A faint radiance fell within the desolate hall.
A cold chill wafted in the air.
Facing Shiayar’s gaze, filled with sorrow, longing, and a slight reluctance.
An unprecedented ominous premonition rose in Hathaway’s heart in an instant.
But soon, she forcibly cald the sea of her mind.
After the upheaval in the Council earlier, she was no longer the Hathaway she used to be.
Or rather, as the oldest current Council Elder, and the only pure blood Golden Elf on the Lost Island, she already possessed an extrely strong mind.
If not, Hathaway would not have been able to continue her research on the Astral Realm to such an extent, alone in those long, dark centuries, with all her predecessors and supporters passing one by one, and with her kin gradually forgetting history, even treating her with coldness and opposition.
Simply because of the expectations her predecessors held for her, and the heavy burden of the Elf Clan’s future...
And also because the new Council Elders, with faces similar to those in Hathaway’s mories, and carrying the sa blood, kept her holding onto a sliver of hope for the Elven Royal Court.
She believed... whether it was the Royal Court or herself, despite the divergences and conflicts between them, all considerations ultimately stemd from plans for the Elf Clan and the Lost Island’s future.
If it was to allow the Elven Royal Court to survive and develop better, no matter what thod was employed, whether right or wrong, Hathaway was willing to try to understand.
Even if it ant becoming the emblem of the obsolete and the decadent, bearing the brunt of the Court’s inhabitants’ criticism, caught in the whirlpool of contradiction...
Like the witch hunts Shiayar spoke of, becoming a scapegoat of public consensus and an ancient era’s relic, she did not care.
However, everything that happened at the previous Council eting completely killed the last naïve illusion in Hathaway’s heart.
It was not an attempt to seek an alternative path for the Elven Royal Court.
But simply, pure betrayal.
To revert from a standing being back to a dosticated ornantal race.
This was sothing Hathaway could not tolerate.
And what she could not tolerate even more, was how those people implicated Shiayar.
Unknowingly, in Hathaway’s heart, the human boy nad Shiayar had beco as significant as the entire Elven Royal Court.
She took a deep breath.
Stowing all her fear, anxiety, and slightest cowardice deeply within her heart.
Then, she raised her head.
Hathaway knew very clearly what she was going to face next.
The sleeping Sun God... the creator of the Glorious Era.
But, as everyone outside speculated... even if the great being sleeping within the World Tree Fragnt was indeed that creator.
After experiencing that catastrophic upheaval, its state was certainly less than a tenth, even less than a hundredth.
Perhaps, there was sothing she could do.
A soft chant began to flow smoothly from the mouth of the Golden Elf.
Transforming into one graceful syllable after another, stirring the crimson gold magic power to manifest in The Void.
Once, it was Shiayar who pulled her out from that dark mire.
Guided her in learning the Arcane Arts, and magic, bringing light to the Lost Island, as well as to her.
And now, Shiayar had sunk into the darkness of the Lost Island.
Therefore, it was her turn to save him.
With such thoughts in mind, Hathaway’s lodious chanting hastened a little...
Each syllable tugging at magic power, constructing a dazzling Arcane model.
It was the spell for "Directed Dinsional Transposition."
She knew very well what she was up against, even in a weakened state, it was once the creator of the Glorious Era, an absolute higher being.
Thus, Hathaway never intended, from the outset, to kill it outright.
Instead, she planned to leap with Shiayar out of the Lost Island, to escape to the Astral Realm.
Judging from its still-sleeping state, it obviously did not have the capability to pursue beyond the Lost Island into the Astral Realm.
By then, she and Shiayar would be completely safe.
...
Yet, the next mont.
Atop the Black Iron Throne.
The epheral figure was motionless, still maintaining a slumbering pose.
But imdiately, next to the Black Iron Throne, in that faint shadow—
An epheral eye slowly opened, exuding an appearance as ancient as bronze.
At the mont observed by that brass-colored epheral eye.
Hathaway noticed that her entire body’s blood suddenly began to boil.
One blood-red inscription after another seeped from within her blood.
Seeping through her veins, perating into every inch of the Golden Elf’s skin and flesh.
Transforming into black-red, ominously ethereal paths, covering every inch of her skin.
What followed was a piercing, bone-gnawing pain, as if perating the deepest of bone marrow.
This was a curse erupting from the Elven Blood flowing within Hathaway, occupying her heart and flesh.
The "Directed Dinsional Transposition," just a step away from completion, was interrupted in an instant.
The spell model collapsed the mont before completion, causing backlash with its spiritual power, blood trickling from her mouth, and her entire soul sea no longer discernible.
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