I Am The Game's Villain-Chapter 736: [Final Event] [Blood Moon Festival] [18] Freyja’s Doubts

Chapter 736: [Final Event] [Blood Moon Festival] [18] Freyja’s Doubts

"The air seems unusually quiet tonight," Freyja muttered. She stood alone on the marble balcony of her castle’s grand terrace, overlooking the silver-lit sprawl of Elyen Kiora below.

The Utopian High Elven capital shimmered in the moonlight as beautiful as ever. Normally, the city’s nocturnal serenity would soothe her; Elyen Kiora was the epitome of elven beauty and grace. Yet tonight, something felt... off.

A strange feeling tugged at her chest, faint but persistent.

Perhaps it was intuition—or maybe simply her mind playing tricks on her again.

"Are you worried, perhaps, for Lord Edward, Your Highness?"

The deep, gravelly voice came from behind her. Grukel approached slowly, his cane tapping gently against the marble floor with each step.

Freyja didn’t turn around. "Why would I worry about him?"

Grukel chuckled. "It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say Utopia still stands today because of him, Your Highness. And he is the Guardian of the Tree, after all."

Freyja tilted her head slightly. "Hm... that is worth worrying about," she admitted, resting her hand upon the smooth stone railing.

Amael’s words replayed in her mind, his tone quiet, almost resigned, as if he’d already accepted some inevitable fate. It had sounded too much like a farewell.

If that were truly the case, it would be... disappointing.

Not that she’d ever placed her hopes entirely in him. She wasn’t that naïve. Still, she had thought better of him. The Holy Tree of Ymir had chosen him—had accepted him. That alone should have meant something.

If he ended up dying, well... it would be a shame—both as a loss to Utopia and as proof of his weakness.

"It seems Sancta Vedelia will be in high spirits tonight," Grukel went on, his tone lightening slightly. "According to our spies, the Prophetess is to be married today."

Freyja’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "Let’s hope she doesn’t end up like the previous one—dead before her time."

Sara Oceania. The poor woman had been devoured by greed long before her destiny could unfold. Claudia, the former Prophetess, had reclaimed her powers after Sara’s death, holding the title once more until another successor appeared.

To Freyja, the whole ordeal had been nothing but pathetic.

"Greed," she said softly, gazing down at the glowing city. "It has always been the ruin of even the most peaceful kingdoms."

"In the wrong hands, yes," Grukel agreed. "But I believe greed is also necessary, Your Highness. His Majesty Durathiel built Utopia’s strength upon that very foundation."

Freyja’s expression darkened slightly. "And now he lies dead, his body reduced to ashes."

Grukel paused, bowing his head slightly. "I believe His Majesty knew his life would not last long. And I believe... he died without regrets, Your Highness."

"Hm, I’ll accept that. You, after all, were the one who stood by my dear brother the longest."

She could not deny that Durathiel’s methods had been harsh and emotionless. But his vision, his ambition, had forged Utopia into the strong kingdom it was today despite its loss in the war.

And yet, Sancta Vedelia remained larger... and far more talented.

Freyja had always known this war was hopeless from the start—suicidal, even. But she had hoped to turn it to her advantage. If Viessa had done her part, if she had reclaimed her original body as planned, everything could have been different. As a former Prophetess, Viessa should have had no difficulty doing so. By reclaiming her vessel, the Holy Tree’s balance would have shattered—dragging Sancta Vedelia into chaos.

A perfect plan. Two birds with one stone.

But Viessa hadn’t even tried.

After all these years, Freyja still couldn’t believe it—Viessa hadn’t repaid her.

It would’ve been a lie to claim she felt nothing. No, the betrayal had left a faint ache somewhere deep inside her chest, like an old scar that refused to fade. She had truly cared for Viessa—appreciated her, even. There had been trust once, rare and fragile as glass.

But of course, that trust had shattered like everything else.

It seemed inevitable now—Freyja could never truly rely on anyone. Not even those she once called her dearest friends.

A quiet sigh escaped her lips. "Well... perhaps I can still trust that stubborn old elf," she muttered under her breath, glancing toward the corridor where Grukel had disappeared moments ago. "He doesn’t look ready to die anytime soon."

Just as she let that thought drift away, a faint tremor pulsed through her left arm. Freyja’s breath caught.

The emblem of the Priestess—engraved into her skin—had begun to glow softly, its divine markings igniting with golden light.

Her eyes widened. Without hesitation, she turned and left.

Moments later, she stood before the sacred roots of the young Tree of Ymir. Its golden roots spread like veins through the soil, humming with divine energy. The air here was thick with mana—so pure it shimmered faintly in the darkness.

But it wasn’t the Tree itself that caught her attention.

It was the two amber cocoons pulsing near its base—alive with an eerie rhythm, like beating hearts. Cracks had begun to appear along their surfaces, glowing faintly through the translucent resin.

Freyja stepped closer, her heels making no sound on the grass.

The cracks deepened. A soft sound filled the air, and then—with a muffled snap—the amber shells ruptured, spilling a golden liquid that hissed upon touching the ground. White mana vapor drifted upward, glowing faintly before vanishing into the air.

Freyja smiled slightly. "It’s time, it seems."

The cocoons split completely open, and two figures fell gently onto the soft ground below.

Two girls—naked, motionless, but definitely ’alive’.

The first had long, flowing black hair that glistened like silk under the Tree’s divine light. Her skin was pale, her ears subtly pointed, suggesting elven lineage. She appeared to be in her late teens, delicate yet cold even in her unconscious state.

The other was younger—perhaps a few years—with soft blond hair and fair skin that seemed to glow faintly with mana.

Freyja leaned a bit toward them, watching the rise and fall of their chests. Their breathing was shallow but steady. Relief—and fascination—curled across her face.

"It really worked," she muttered, brushing a strand of hair from the dark-haired girl’s cheek. "What a frightening ability. And to think, Cliodhna truly entrusted your power to Harivel out of everyone."

Harivel wasn’t born Goddess of Banshees, she was a Khaos Princess. She had inherited it from the original Goddess of Banshees, Cliodhna.

Though Freyja could hardly tell the why and how.

Her smile deepened, tinged with amusement.

With a wave of her hand, two soft white towels appeared, summoned from the air. She draped one over each girl’s body with uncharacteristic care.

But as she covered the black-haired one—Samara—the girl’s hand shot up, trembling, and caught Freyja’s wrist.

Freyja froze. Samara’s fingers were cold and weak, but her grip carried a desperate will. Slowly, the girl’s half-lidded blue eyes fluttered open—dazed, unfocused, but conscious.

She looked utterly drained as she muttered. "Nyr..."

Freyja raised a brow. "If you mean Loki, he’s fine."

Samara’s lips trembled. "I... want to see him."

"You can’t in your condition," Freyja said, though not unkindly. "You need rest."

Amael’s request echoed in her mind. He had entrusted her with the safety of these two, telling her not to interfere until he came to retrieve them himself. It had been an odd request—one that carried hidden meaning she couldn’t yet discern—but she had accepted it nonetheless.

As the Goddess of Beauty, Freyja could hardly allow two such breathtakingly pure souls to be harmed.

Samara tried to shake her head weakly, as though she still wanted to speak, but her strength failed her. Her hand slipped away, and her eyes fluttered shut once more.

Freyja sighed quietly, straightening. She scanned the girl for a long moment, her golden eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

There was something about her... something familiar.

A faint, ancient sensation stirred within Freyja’s memory—a forgotten echo from the era of the Gods. She couldn’t recall it clearly, but Samara’s presence struck her with a feeling of déjà vu.

Who was she, really?

Her gaze drifted to the second girl—Annabelle—still unconscious and breathing softly beside her companion. Then, hearing a faint gasp behind her, Freyja turned to find Grukel standing there, eyes wide in astonishment.

He had seen the cocoons before, but clearly, he hadn’t expected this.

"Don’t just stand there, Grukel," Freyja said lightly. "Get the maids. I want them cared for properly—preciously. No mistakes."

Grukel blinked himself back to reality and bowed deeply. "At once, Your Highness."

Freyja watched him hurry off, then turned her gaze back to the two sleeping girls beneath the divine glow of the Tree.

***

Central Vedelia had rarely been this heavily guarded in its entire history.

After the last events, and most recently, the catastrophic Utopian War—the Council had finally learned its lesson. Sancta Vedelia’s beating heart, the capital of all its Kingdoms, would no longer be left vulnerable.

The streets that once bustled with merchants and pilgrims were now lined with soldiers in polished white armor. Dozens of mana-barriers shimmered faintly above the marble spires, forming a transparent dome that pulsed like the heartbeat of a living fortress.

Every checkpoint, every street corner, every entrance was sealed and monitored.

Even those who bore the royal Emblems of the Great Houses—people who once roamed freely through the inner sanctums—now required official authorization from Central Vedelia’s Council to approach the Holy Tree of Eden.

Only the Heads of the Great Houses were exempt.

And today, for the first time in years, there was one more exception.

Because today was a day of celebration—not just for Central Vedelia, but for all the Kingdoms bound under its light.

The new Prophetess, Celeste Indi Zestella, was to be wed to Cyril Magnus Raven.

The announcement had sent waves across Sancta Vedelia. The union of a Prophetess was always of divine importance—a symbol of harmony between faith and power.

And yet, beneath the joyful chatter and floral decorations, a shadow of unease lingered.

Everyone still remembered the tragic fate of Sara Oceania, the previous Prophetess—Celeste’s own mother—whose death had shaken the world and left a scar no one dared speak of aloud.

They all prayed that this time would be different. That this young girl—barely eighteen—would be blessed with a kinder destiny. It would be humiliating, after all, if Claudia were once again forced to reclaim the mantle of Prophetess.

Still, many whispered that the marriage was too soon. Originally, the event was only meant to announce their engagement, but recent unrest within Sancta Vedelia had accelerated everything. What had been a mere formality was now a sacred union under the Holy Tree itself —a rare honor that not even kings could claim.

A public marriage ceremony would be held later in Zestel, the homeland of House Zestella, but today’s ritual under the Holy Tree was purely divine—reserved for the chosen few allowed to stand in its radiant proximity. Only the highest-ranking nobles, priests, and foreign dignitaries of Sancta Vedelia were permitted to attend.

The security perimeter stretched nearly a dozen miles from the Tree. Every carriage, and mana vehicle entering the sacred zone was inspected thoroughly before being allowed through. Those without royal insignias or noble credentials were turned back immediately.

The responsibility for this operation fell entirely to the Knights of Central Vedelia—knights whose loyalty was bound solely to the Council of Central Vedelia. After the failures and betrayals that had plagued each Kingdom’s own knightly orders, the Council no longer trusted anyone beyond its direct command.

Only the most powerful guests were allowed to bring a handful of personal guards—no more.

All around the Tree, hundreds of knights stood vigilant, their formation was flawless. Every movement was disciplined, every glance sharp.

Among them, workers hurried about under the knights’ watchful eyes, trimming sacred blossoms, and arranging seating for the honored guests. The air smelled faintly of incense and mana crystals of lights—the fragrance of sanctity.

Every artisan, servant, and attendant had been vetted and approved by the Council. No one outside of Central Vedelia’s highest ranks had been allowed within these grounds.

Meanwhile, in a small ceremonial hall near the Tree—a resting place prepared for royal guests—the air was alive with quiet bustle.

Inside one of its luxurious rooms sat Celeste.

Five maids worked around her in careful silence. One brushed her snow white hair until it gleamed. Another applied a faint shimmer to her lips. The others tended to her skin, nails, and gown—not a single imperfection was to be tolerated.

After all, today’s union was not just a royal affair. It was to be broadcast across the world, reaching every capital, every kingdoms.

She was to be the face of hope—of faith—of rebirth, hopefully of a stronger Sancta Vedelia.

And so, perfection was required.

Celeste sat still in the ornate silver chair before the mirror. Her reflection looked almost ethereal—pale, composed, and beautiful beyond mortal measure.

Yet her expression was empty.

She did not speak, did not blink, did not smile. The maids whispered to one another as they worked, but she didn’t hear them. Her mind was elsewhere—floating between thoughts she could not share.

All she could do was stare at herself in the mirror... and wonder if the girl she saw was truly her.