A Writer's Transmigration into the world of fantasy-Chapter 77: Qin Wei’s past life memory (Part-1)

He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say since when were you married, but closed it again, remembering her identity.

When the silence threatened to become awkward, Isolde seemed to understand. She set her brush down on the edge of the palette and sighed, a small, wistful sound.

"He is not my husband yet," she clarified gently. "He is the one I was fated to."

Ronan’s surprise deepened.

Isolde looked back at the painting, gaze softening.

"Unfortunately," she continued, voice quieter now, talking more to herself than to Ronan, "even after twenty years of trying... this is all I’ve seen. Just this much. The eyes. The fire wings. The little bear." She reached out and brushed a fingertip along the edge of the tiny painted creature, careful not to smudge it. "I’m already twenty-seven. Two more years and not even a commoner will want to marry me. But I don’t want to give up after waiting him for so many years. I wonder when I’ll finally see his clear face."

"After all," she added lightly, "if fate has decided to move at last... I’d hate to miss the moment."

Ronan stood in respectful silence as Isolde spoke, her voice light and wistful, almost childlike in its disappointment.

He kept his expression carefully neutral—eyes fixed on the unfinished painting rather than on the Marquessa herself—but inside, disbelief churned.

This woman before him—paint smeared across her cheek, dress streaked with careless color, sighing over a blurry portrait like a lovestruck girl—was Lady Crescent? The Shadow Sovereign? One of the most feared assassins in the Empire, whose name alone could silence entire noble houses? The stories painted her as cold steel wrapped in night, not... this.

He drew a slow, steadying breath through his nose.

"Lady Crescent," he began carefully, "I come from Ashford City. I—"

Isolde turned her head sharply, smile fading.

"I know," she interrupted, tone suddenly flat. "You already introduced yourself to my steward. And the fact that you were made to kneel outside in the sun for five hours should have made it clear: I have no intention of showing courtesy to anyone from House Griffin."

Ronan’s jaw tightened, but he did not flinch.

"Lady Crescent," he continued, voice level, "Lord Kaelan wishes to invite you to House Griffin. There is an important matter that requires your assistance. It concerns Lady Thea’s husband—Icarus Phoenix."

Isolde raised one eyebrow.

"Icarus Phoenix?" she repeated softly. Her gaze drifted back to the canvas—to the mismatched eyes, the fire wings, the tiny bear at the man’s feet. "Go on..."

Ronan inclined his head slightly.

"I do not know the specifics—only that Lord Kaelan instructed me to deliver this message: if you return and lend your aid, he is willing to accompany you personally to see your master, Lady Khione Garcia, and assist with the divination you have long sought."

Isolde’s eyes lit up—bright, sudden, almost feral.

"Did he really say that?" she snapped, head whipping toward Ronan so fast a streak of vermilion paint flew from her hair and splattered against the wall.

Ronan nodded once.

Isolde stood abruptly, palette clattering to the floor. Brushes rolled across the wood; colors smeared in abstract streaks beneath her bare feet.

"Alright then," she said, already moving toward a side table piled with scrolls and half-finished sketches. "Let’s go."

Ronan blinked.

"Right away?" he asked, startled.

Isolde paused, turning back to him with a blink of her own.

"Any problem?"

Ronan shook his head quickly. "No—there is no problem. It is just that your..." He gestured vaguely toward her paint-stained dress, her disheveled hair, the colorful chaos clinging to her skin.

Isolde’s expression hardened instantly.

"What?" she asked, voice dropping to something low and dangerous. "If I go like this, your lord won’t welcome me?"

Ronan raised both hands in placation. "No—of course he would. I only meant—"

"Then... please," she cut in, tone sharp enough to slice silk. "Finish your sentence."

Ronan swallowed once.

Before he could recover, Isolde waved a dismissive hand. "You know what?" she said. "You take your time returning to Ashford. I’ll leave on my own."

Ronan’s eyes widened.

"Eh?"

Isolde was already moving—crossing the chamber in quick, purposeful strides toward a tall wardrobe carved with crescent moons. She flung the doors open; inside hung an array of dark, elegant robes and cloaks, each one shimmering faintly with latent power.

Ronan stood rooted, mouth half-open.

Meanwhile—far to the north, at the same hour—the sky above Blossom Tower was a deep, endless blue.

A massive flying whale drifted lazily through the clouds, its pearlescent skin catching the sunlight in soft iridescent waves.

Tower Master Nyssa stood at the creature’s broad head, long silver hair whipping in the wind, one hand resting lightly on the whale’s barnacle-crusted horn. She wore simple white robes edged in pale violet, but the aura rolling off her was anything but gentle—calm, vast, and utterly unyielding.

Vanessa was seen standing with her.

***

At the same time, in Qin Wei’s dreamworld;

Morning light filtered through the high windows of the Temple of the Olympians, casting long beams across marble floors.

The great domed hall stood silent, except for the soft footsteps of King Damonis. He held baby Icarus in his arms, wrapped in a thin blue cloth, the latter’s eyes darting left and right as if he were curious about this new place with high ceilings he was brought into.

Marble statues of all twelve gods lined the walls—Zeus with his thunderbolt, Hera holding a scepter, Poseidon’s trident carved from pure granite, Athena stood with her shield, Apollo gleamed with his lyre, etc...

In the very center, on a raised stone dais of obsidian, rested a bow taller than a man, unlike any forged by mortals.

It was silver-dark, nearly black, with veins of gold running through it like lightning frozen in time. The string shimmered with a strange energy, taut and still, though no hand had drawn it in several millennia.

Damonis approached the center, footsteps slowing. He set Icarus carefully on his hip and ran a gentle finger over the bow’s grip.

"This," he whispered to Icarus, "is where our blood began to matter, Icarus."

The baby blinked, sucking softly on his thumb.

Damonis smiled faintly as he explained. "Long ago, our house was just a name among many. We were one of the vassal lords of Achaea. But when the Titans broke from Tartarus, and war came again to the gods, there stood a man named Laerti, our ancestor."

He looked at the bow, tapping the bow’s handle as he continued. "He was just a vassal king of a tiny region in the hills—but he rode beside Athena into the flames. He saved Ares from the jaws of Atlas himself. And for that, Zeus gave him a gift... not just any weapon, but the very bow once wielded by Cronus, father of the sky-lords. The Bow of Aegis."

The baby squirmed.

"And so we come, little one," Damonis whispered, "to seek its blessing upon you."

He lifted Icarus so the baby could peer at the golden string. "Go on," he murmured. "Touch it, if you feel you must."

With tiny fingers, Icarus reached forward. His small fingers curled around the string, and he tugged once, lightly, almost shyly. The bow trembled and gave a faint hum as if it called out.

King Damonis’ moved back in reflex, pulling the baby into his embrace, only to witness its movement. 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

Damonis’s breath caught, a frown appearing on his face. "What in—?"

To his astonishment, the whole bow slid from its cradle, hovering inches in the air. Icarus’s eyes also widened in delight as the weapon glowed softly, veins of gold pulsing. His mouth opened, burst out into laughter of excitement.

No one touched it—no priest, no pulley, no magic circle. The massive weapon rose into the air as though summoned by an unseen hand. Its light grew brighter, golden veins flaring like sunrays.

Damonis’ mouth also fell open, but in shock and disbelief. "By the Gods..."

Icarus gave a little giggle. The child’s hand was still extended, fingers curling playfully.

And then, just as suddenly, his grip slipped and the bow dropped.

CRACK!

It slammed back into the stone with a deafening crash. The entire temple shook. Dust fell from the ceiling. Cracks rippled across the marble dais like spiderwebs. Outside, pigeons scattered into the sky as a low rumble rolled through the city—a mild quake beneath the earth, enough to rattle pots and awaken goats.

Laerti stumbled, shielding Icarus against his chest. The child let out a startled cry, but was unharmed. He hugged him close, heart hammering. "Are you all right?" he asked, voice shaking.

Icarus gurgled happily in response.

Priests came running from the inner sanctum, panic in their faces. "Your Majesty! Are you hurt?"

Damonis didn’t answer right away. He was staring at the cracked slab, where the mighty Bow of Aegis now lay once more, as still as stone.

"Icarus..." he whispered, holding the baby away from his chest to look him in the eye. "What did you do, little one?"

Icarus just cooed and reached for his father’s beard.

Damonis turned slowly to the priests, his voice quiet but firm. "Send word to the oracles. Summon the keepers of the old myths. My son has just lifted the bow. I need to know his fate, right now."

One of the priests looked between the baby and the shattered dais, his eyes widened as he commented. "It’s impossible. Only a Titan or an Olympian God can lift that bow alone."

Damonis stared at his son in silence, his heart pounding nervously. "O’ Mother Goddess Gaia, what could be the reason for you to send such a divine child into my life?"