Chapter Thirty: The Undisputed Strongest

The Chosen.
Only those truly destined can become the Chosen—an ultimate awakening of the ancient bloodline left by the ancestors to the mortal world, born as a favored child of the realm of Order. Even in the Age of Kings, when royal authority was supreme, the Chosen were entitled to follow the royal banner, to sit at the round table beside the invincible monarchs, to discuss statecraft, to patrol the vast lands, and to suppress the restless chaos and fiends at the borders of order.
But now, with the crowns of kings dulled and dim, the city-states are severed and isolated by the Deepest Night, and those who inherit the glorious blood of the ancestors each fight their own battles. Perhaps it is due to the blockage of information, or perhaps due to the deliberate machinations of certain parties, but the Chosen have become a legend whispered among the Glorious—a tale most yearn for, yet none truly believe. At least, in the centuries-long history of Hermetica, none has ever awakened the deepest power within the bloodline of Order, and become a true Chosen.
And now… to become stronger with the Chosen as the goal?
Amy fell silent at the thought.
“What’s wrong, are you afraid?” The Grand Swordbearer of the Order noticed the furrow in the youth’s brow and let out a wry, self-mocking chuckle. “If this alone makes you shrink back, then the idea of controlling your own fate will always be nothing but empty words. You must have seen it yourself—even someone as high and mighty as me, a Grand Swordbearer, is but a powerless ant before the inscrutable tides of destiny. There’s no need for deliberate harm, just a single coincidence, a single push, and I’m reduced to this pitiful state.”
He gave a bitter smile.
He was dying—
By rights, one of his rank would have a solemn and dignified funeral; even the Prelate of Hermetica would set aside all affairs to attend.
But he had refused.
Death itself was not terrifying—it was dying in such a wretched manner that was unbearable.
Who was he? One of the three Swordbearers stationed in Hermetica, the oldest and strongest among them, and even at the Order’s headquarters, where the mighty abound, he was renowned. Who would have thought he would fall in this unremarkable city, perishing miserably from the ravages of a plague… his body covered in hideous black spots, foul black blood seeping from his wounds…
He did not wish for anyone to see him in such a disgraceful state.
No one.
But perhaps it was fate, after all. He thought he could quietly depart from the world, yet he encountered someone of the Glorious with the strange power of resurrection. Despite his aversion to these Glorious, despite the fact that his death was somewhat intertwined with this youth, in the end, it was someone he could converse with—a presence that made his death in the morgue, in the shadow of the Tower of the Highest, less lonely and less desolate.
Only now did he realize he was afraid of death.
Had he known, he would not have chosen to stay behind alone, leaving his juniors only a dashing figure. In quiet moments, he sometimes regretted it, but only fleetingly. If time truly flowed backward, if the world allowed for ifs, he would still walk the same path of fate, forward without regret, even unto death.
Unstoppable, inescapable.
Such is the terror of fate.

And now—this reckless youth dares to ask how to become strong enough to grasp fate by the throat? What a joke. He himself had never achieved it; how could he offer guidance to another? Mere accumulation of power will never shatter the chains of fate upon each person. Even the Chosen, proclaimed as the mightiest in the mortal world, cannot hold fate in their hands.
Yet, perhaps there is a sliver of hope.
After all… His Eminence… truly broke the shackles imposed by blood, carving a new chapter in history.
But how could a mere Glorious compare to His Eminence? After revealing the limits of power over one’s fate, the old man watched the youth’s expression closely. Noting the unease on his face, he couldn’t help but let out an awkward laugh—understandable, really. Even he could not face the fate to come; how could a Glorious, untouched by the world’s hardships, confront it?
However, in the next moment, his bitter smile froze on his lips.
For the youth asked,
“But, how can one become a Chosen?”
“There’s no need to ask me such things,” the old man raised an eyebrow. “Your family should have preserved the method for tempering the bloodline. Just repeat what’s recorded there, over and over, and then, by sheer force of will, break through the shackles of blood and ignite the dormant flame within. Then you can become a Chosen.”
It sounded simple, but in truth, it was not—tempering the bloodline was a matter of physical effort, but to rely on one’s own will to surpass all limits was not something that could be done with mere words. If one in a thousand could succeed, it would already be a remarkable rate—and those thousand must all be Glorious of pure and potent lineage. Otherwise, no matter how much you expand the pool, it would not suffice.
Perhaps it was precisely because the breakthrough was so rare that the Chosen were rightfully the strongest among mortals.
Greater Fiends, Grand Swordbearers, Dark Lords, Chosen—these four ranks of power are often grouped together by the curious, but setting aside individual differences, in general, the Greater Fiends are at the bottom tier, Grand Swordbearers a step higher, Dark Lords above them, and at the very top, rarest and strongest, are the Chosen among the Glorious.
Only they have the right to roam unrestrained within the lands of Order.
“Wait! Do all Glorious families have such methods?” Amy was a little dazed. In his memory, his irresponsible parents had never mentioned any bloodline tempering method, nor had he ever seen his sister Yulia undergo the training required of the Glorious. It was as if they had already given up on raising their children as proper inheritors. “Is it possible this is a regional difference? Here, I’ve never heard of such methods.”
“If you believe that, in peaceful Hermetica, the self-important Glorious have lost the legacy of their forebears, then forget what I said.”
The old man shrugged.
“You’re right.” Amy had no argument to offer. In nearly a thousand years of Hermetica’s history, there had never been any great turmoil. Even conflicts with the Order had never been severe enough to sever the Glorious families’ heritage. At worst, a few lines lost the bloodline tempering methods due to various accidents. “Looks like I’m one of the unlucky ones whose line was broken.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” the old man spread his hands. “The Swordbearers’ system is quite different from the Glorious. There’s little I can offer in this regard.”
“No, even pointing me in a direction is something I’m deeply grateful for.” The young Glorious shook his head. “Without so much as a direction, there’s no way to move forward. No matter what, you’ve at least given me hope.”
“Hope?” The Grand Swordbearer of the Order laughed in spite of himself.

Truly, ignorance is fearlessness—
Even with the bloodline tempering method, it is rare for one Chosen to be born out of a thousand Glorious, and even those who become Chosen cannot act freely in the face of overwhelming fate. Only those who, like His Eminence, take a step further, have the right to choose their own path, to steer their destiny in the mighty current of fate. And that is nigh impossible.
For centuries, across the entire realm of Order, kings have risen and fallen, but only one has ever earned the right to be called Eminence.
A mortal, reaching the ears of Heaven—
He is the undisputed legend, the strongest of all.
His name is…
“By the way, Grand Swordbearer, could you tell me about the Order?” The boy’s voice interrupted the old man’s thoughts. “Personally, I’m very interested in the Order. I’ve already asked Mr. Franks about some things, but with limited time, much remains unclear.”
“What do you wish to know?” The old man was not averse to giving instruction.
“The history.”
The Order is a mysterious organization shrouded in enigma, said to have branches in most cities touched by the Deepest Night, with its headquarters established outside the domain of the Flame, deep within the darkness. Amy’s curiosity about how the Order came to be, how it mastered technology ahead of its time, and grew to such strength was intense—for, as things stand, it is the single most powerful force on the side of Order.
“The history of the Order? Now that’s a difficult question.” The Grand Swordbearer instinctively reached for his beard, only to grasp nothing. “A thousand years of glorious legacy cannot be explained in a moment. If you truly wish to know, you’d best visit the Department of Records. I can tell you little; after all… the time left to me is scant indeed.”
“The Order is the Order of the Lord, carrying out the will of the all-knowing, all-powerful Lord of Order. Its purpose is to lead the sinful masses of this world back to Canaan, the land flowing with milk and honey.” The old man gazed into the distance, as if seeing that promised land illuminated by the light of Order, a place without conflict, without strife, where all were as siblings. Unconsciously, his voice grew low and sonorous. “It was founded at the end of the Age of Kings, perhaps a bit earlier, perhaps later, but roughly in that era.”
“It began as nothing more than a prototype, a simple secret society. But under His Eminence’s guidance, the Order grew and prospered. The grace bestowed by the Supreme Lord granted ordinary men extraordinary power. As the expansion into the Deepest Night progressed, new technologies were constantly discovered and applied. Many pioneers fell upon this thorny path, but all the blood and sweat they shed was worthwhile. For thanks to their sacrifice and devotion, we now stand proudly upon this earth, reclaiming the lands of Order from the predations of darkness, advancing step by step into the Deepest Night.”
“How truly… magnificent,” the young Glorious uttered from the heart. The first Glorious must have been much like the Order’s founders—undaunted by hardship, unafraid of sacrifice, carving out a path with their own blood and lives for those who followed. But alas, with the turn of time, all has changed beyond recognition.
“Yes.” The Grand Swordbearer of the Order murmured softly, then closed his eyes. “May the Lord have mercy.”
“—May the Lord have mercy.”
After a brief silence, the youth echoed the words, gently drawing a pure white shroud over the old man.