Primordial Heir: Nine Stars-Chapter 349: Aftermath

The blade, fueled by the last sparks of his dual laws, passed through her neck without resistance.

Time seemed to freeze.

Subject #009's head tilted. Her golden eyes, wide with impossible shock, looked down at her own body, at the hole in her chest still crackling with dying energy, at the headless torso that was still standing.

Then, she fell. Her body hit the melted stone with a heavy, final thud. A moment later, her head landed beside it with a soft, terrible sound.

The invisible wind threads still in the air dissipated into a faint sigh. The oppressive pressure of her presence vanished.

Nero stood over her, swaying violently. His left arm hung limp, the energy gone from it, burned and blistered from the inside out from the point-blank explosion of power. His right arm was a bleeding, useless ruin. He looked down at the headless body of the Storm Mage, then at his own broken hands.

He had done it. He had used every trick, endured every wound, and in the final second, used his most hidden card to create the opening he needed.

He didn't feel triumphant. He felt only a vast, hollow exhaustion. His red eyes faded back to blue, then clouded with pain. His knees buckled, and he collapsed beside his fallen enemy, the world going dark and silent around him. The fight was over. He had survived.

Meanwhile, on the other shore of that fractured dimension, silence had returned.

Khione lay where she had fallen after her cataclysmic spell, her body a canvas of exhaustion and pain. The volcanic plain was still, the heat baking the stillness. After a long time, her fingers twitched. Then her hand moved, fumbling at the storage ring on her finger. With a weak pulse of will, she summoned a small vial of milky-blue liquid—a high-grade healing potion from her family's stores.

Her movements were slow, robotic even. She uncorked it with her teeth and drank it in one bitter swallow. A cool wave spread from her stomach, knitting together the worst of the internal strain, soothing the blistered skin on her shoulder and leg. It wouldn't fix her drained core, but it would let her move.

She pushed herself up to a sitting position, wincing. Her beautiful white hair was matted with sweat and grime. Her ice-blue eyes, though tired, were clear and focused. She needed prana.

She crossed her legs, closed her eyes, and sank into a deep, urgent meditation. The air around her, still hot and dry, yielded little. But she was an Undine. She pulled moisture from the very rock, from the distant steam of lava flows, drawing it in, cooling it, and cycling the refined energy into her hollow spiritual core. It was a slow, thirsty process. Minutes stretched like hours.

When she had gathered just enough energy to stand and sustain basic movement, she stopped. She opened her eyes and stood, her body protesting but functional. Her first thought was Nero. A sharp, cold lance of worry pierced her calm. She had felt the titanic clashes, the eruptions of fire and lightning and wind, and then… a terrible silence.

She had no way to find him. Their battleground was a pocket dimension, shattered into fragments. He could be anywhere.

Her eyes turned to the other point of conflict she could still faintly sense—the biting, dry cold of the frozen lake where Elreth had fought.

Khione's lips tightened almost imperceptibly. The idea of seeking out the Samael princess, of needing her help, was a bitter draft. But logic was cold, and it was all she had. Two were stronger than one. Finding Elreth was the fastest way to then search for Nero.

Without a word, without a sigh, she began to walk. She followed the fading ribbon of frost-energy in the air, a trail left by the dying Frost Ogre and Elreth's own fiery law. She moved with quiet purpose over the broken landscape, her pace steady despite her weariness.

She found the frozen lake. It was a zone of devastation. Great swathes were melted and refrozen, scarred by impacts and stained with dark patches—blood, both red and golden-ichor. In the center of it all, half-collapsed against a spire of shattered ice, was Elreth.

The princess was a ruin. Her fine clothes were shredded and burned. One arm was clearly broken, bent at the wrong angle. Cuts and deep bruises covered her visible skin. She was unconscious, her face pale, her fiery hair dull against the ice. But she was breathing—shallow, pained breaths that fogged in the cold air.

Khione stood over her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. There was no sympathy there, but there was a stark, professional assessment. Alive. Functional, with aid.

She knelt. From her ring, she produced another healing potion, a lesser one. She did not gently lift Elreth's head. She simply supported it enough to pour the potion between the princess's parted lips, making sure she swallowed.

Then, Khione placed her hands on Elreth's broken arm. A soft, controlled chill emanated from her palms, not to freeze, but to numb and temporarily stabilize the shattered bones, crafting a crude cast of reinforced ice.

The cold and the healing energy did their work. Elreth's eyelids fluttered. A groan escaped her. Her amber eyes opened, blurry with pain, and focused on Khione's cold face looming above her.

No words were spoken. Elreth's eyes asked a question. Khione gave a single, short nod toward the chaotic, shimmering borders of their pocket dimension. The message was clear: Get up. He's not here. We need to move.

Understanding dawned in Elreth's pained gaze, followed by a fierce, stubborn light. Gripping Khione's offered arm with her good hand, she hauled herself to her feet, biting back a cry. She stood, swaying, leaning heavily on the ice mage.

They did not speak. No 'thank you,' no 'about time.' There was only the shared, urgent priority.

Together, a limping princess of fire and a weary mage of ice, they turned away from the frozen lake.