The Death-Chosen Daughter Chapter 15
Before the gates of the Underworld, the eternally lingering, freezing astral winds howled like blades.
The stone slabs here were colder than deep ice.
Caelum lay flat on the pitch-black stones. He had crawled all the way from the mud zone for three days and three nights.
His luxurious robes were now rags. The flesh on his knees had been worn to the bone, and the nails on his fingers were torn and curled back.
But the hand clutching the ring remained suspended, as if terrified to let it touch a single speck of dust.
Hanging by a thread, he stared despairingly at the tightly shut massive black doors.
Just as his consciousness was on the verge of scattering completely, the abyssal gates slowly creaked open, revealing a sliver of a
gap.
A pure, rich fragrance of spectral flowers drifted out, dispelling the nauseating scent of blood around him.
Wearing an extraordinarily magnificent dark night divine robe, with the black-gold crown symbolizing the divine authority of the Underworld on my head, I walked out from behind the gates, stepping toward him. My feet touched no dust.
Hearing the footsteps, Caelum struggled to lift his head.
When he saw clearly that it was me, a glimmer of light appeared in his cloudy eyes. His cracked lips actually pulled into an incredibly ugly, yet relieved smile.
“Elowen…” Caelum trembled. He shakily raised that blood-covered hand and slowly opened his palm.
Lying there was the royal ring, wiped completely clean, untainted by a single drop of blood.
“I’m sorry…” His voice was so weak it seemed the wind would blow it away at any moment. “I washed it clean… I’m giving it back to you…”
He looked up at me, his face full of hope.
He thought that by carving out his heart, severing that filthy pact, and crawling through a mountain of blades and a sea of fire for this ring, he could at least earn a sliver of my emotion.
Or, perhaps, a word of forgiveness, even if it was laced with hatred.
I looked quietly at the ring, then slowly moved my gaze up to land on his hopeful face.
I reached out and took the ring. “This ring-”
“You personally placed it on my finger.”
Caelum’s tears flowed harder. “I remember… I remember everything…”
“And you were the one who took it off my hand and gave it to Nyssa.”
“Did you think that by washing something clean, you could pretend it was never sullied?”
My voice was ethereal and grand, devoid of pity or hatred. It held only the absolute coldness of a god regarding an insignificant insect.
Caelum stared at me blankly.
I squeezed my two fingers together slightly.
The royal ring, forged from ten-thousand-year glacial ice and star-forged meteorite, known to be indestructible, instantly
shattered inder the crushing weight of the Underworld’s laws, turning into a pile of fine silver powder.
I turned my wrist and casually cast the powder to the wind.
That powder, representing Caelum’s final dignity and hope, scattered across his blood stained face, blinding his last remaining
eye.
“Did you think carving out an elven core would move a god?”
“Caelum, you are too arrogant.”
Caelum’s lips trembled, but he couldn’t form a single word.
“I will not kill you.”
My voice suddenly rose, echoing like a divine decree above the entire abyss.
“Death would be a mercy.”
“My divine punishment is this: you will beg for death and be denied it. Even when your shell rots away, the Underworld will never accept your soul.”
“You will spend your days looking up at the stars from the mud, reflecting on all you have lost.”
This was the curse of the Underworld’s emissary, and no one could break it.
I didn’t spare the mud on the ground a second glance.
“Faye.” I turned my head to look at the loyal maid.
“From this day forward, you are the High Priestess of the World Tree in the mortal realm. The life force of this continent will be guided anew by you.”
Faye covered her mouth, weeping tears of joy as she kowtowed heavily. “I obey! I will certainly not disappoint you!”
I reached out, helped her up, and gently tapped the center of her brow. A wisp of blue divine netherfire instantly sank into her forehead, manifesting as a dark night divine mark representing absolute divine authority.
“This mark represents my will. Anyone who rebels or dares to harm a hair on your head will have their soul devoured by netherfire for eternity.”
Having settled this final matter, I turned around without an ounce of reluctance.
In the shadows of the abyssal gates, that tall, imposing god was patiently waiting for me.
Thanatos watched me approach, his bone-chilling eyes melting instantly into boundless tenderness.
He retrieved a cloak from behind him.
It was woven from the cores of billions of stars, shimmering with radiant, dazzling colors so bright one hardly dared look directly at it. He draped it gently over my shoulders, then took my hand in his.
“Have you dealt with everything?”
“Yes.” I looked up at him, offering him the only genuine smile I would ever have in this life.
“Let us go home.”
I placed my hand in his, and the gates of the abyss closed heavily behind us, completely sealing away all the noise, regret, and filth.
A century later, the elven continent welcomed a new era.
The World Tree was lush and flourishing once more, its silver leaves flowing like a waterfall.
Legend tells of a cold and breathtakingly beautiful Queen of the Underworld, once the kindest emissary in the realm, who was driven into the abyss by these calling themselves noble.
Every Night of the Shattered Moon, all races would hold a grand sacrificial festival, offering their most devout prayers to that untouchable god.
This year, the new festival was held beneath the altar of the World Tree
The statue of the god stood tall, worshipped by tens of thousands.
An old beggar was there, white-haired and blind in one eye, withered as a dead log. He always wore a tattered robe whose original color could no longer be deciphered, his body giving off the stench of decay.
When the climax of the festival arrived, everyone prayed toward the exquisite statue in the center of the plaza, representing the emissary of the Underworld.
The old beggar would kneel in the mud, his gaze fixed hungrily on the distant statue.
Gazing at the god who would forever remain high above, and who would never spare him a glance again.
Trembling, his shriveled lips moved silently, mouthing a single phrase over and over again.
“I’m sorry.”
But no one cared for the mad ravings of a madman.
And no god would ever hear him.
The wind blew past the altar, sweeping up a sky full of silver leaves/
The priest chanted loudly:
“Praise the Emissary upon her eternal throne.”
