Hate Me, Witch!

The rolling sea of clouds churned, and all phenomena crumbled.

The so-called Imaginary Belt was never part of proper history to begin with—it was a rootless dream, a fleeting illusion. Precisely because of this, when the foundation of its existence was erased, this illusory world had only one fate: to collapse and dissolve under the washing tide of history's correction.

Xia Ya sat atop the highest point of the Holy City, on the Black Iron Throne.

Beneath him, the chalk-white city of Camelot—the sacred city—was disintegrating in a surge of mana.

First to go was the outer wall, then the buildings that had already been reduced to ruins by the nuclear blast within the city, and then the royal palace, which had survived the explosion earlier thanks to Isadella’s presence.

The collapse surged upward, from the foundation stones of the palace to its upper levels.

And finally, the tide of destruction reached the top of the royal palace—reaching the outer edge of the throne at the world’s end.

Xia Ya simply watched quietly as shattered bricks, dust, smoke, and chunks of pale stone disintegrated around him.

In the massive floor-length silver mirror beside the throne, the reflection of the youth appeared.

His handsome face was pale, and even those once-bright eyes had dimmed somewhat.

The effect of the “Watcher’s Dagger” had indeed kept him from dying for a time, but it merely left him with a sliver of life. The wound left by the Holy Sword remained on his body, and every limb and bone throbbed with weakness.

The prolonged overdrive while piloting the Black Knight mecha had also nearly drained his mental energy dry. His senses were numb, his soul exhausted, as though he might pass out at any moment.

"Truly… what a sorry sight."

"This is the price of pretending to be a grand hero even after losing immortality?"

Xia Ya looked at the weakened figure in the mirror on the throne and couldn’t help but smile a little.

"If Little Ai saw me like this, she’d probably feel bad to death."

Forcing himself to such a state didn’t match Xia Ya’s usual style.

But this—this was a path Xia Ya had chosen himself.

Ever since reentering the historical echo of Aeskania, he had already made up his mind.

“If it’s a road I chose, then no matter how absurd, I’ll see it to the end…”

"Never thought your teachings, Teacher, would end up being useful at a time like this."

Recalling the words of his golden elf teacher, Xia Ya shook his head with a wry smile.

The next moment, his mind stirred.

With a flicker of warped space, streaks of emerald light filled with vitality surrounded Xia Ya.

They were instantly absorbed into his body.

These were the many healing potions he’d stored in his dimensional pouch, now used all at once, sparing no cost.

And with the alchemical medicine stimulating his nerves, Xia Ya bit down hard on the tip of his tongue.

His dried-up spirit was jolted back to life.

He slumped against the throne, slowly lifting his hand.

In the next moment, ethereal lights shimmered as pale silver starlight began to gather above Xia Ya’s head.

A few breaths later, that silver glow solidified, forming in midair a crown of pure silver thorns.

This crown of thorns was the manifestation of the Imaginary Belt King's authority—stolen from Isadella via the Thief’s Gloves.

And Xia Ya simply let that silver crown descend slowly onto his head.

The authority fused with Xia Ya’s soul.

Almost at the same moment, his black eyes lit up with dazzling starlight.

His last bit of spiritual energy burned brightly, commanding the very authority that ruled the Imaginary Belt.

Within the throne room—continuously eroded by historical correction—the space suddenly convulsed violently.

An unprecedented, blinding radiance of starlight lit up the sky at the world’s end.

“Then, Your Highness.”

Within that brilliance—so bright it could swallow the whole world—Xia Ya whispered softly toward a certain girl down along the River of Time, now too distant to see clearly.

“Let me… do one last thing for you.”

“To rewrite that twisted, broken history…”

“And restore it to how it was meant to be.”

“And also…”

Xia Ya’s lips moved.

His final words drifted downstream through the River of Time, heard only by the two of them.

…

The River of Time roared, churned, surged.

All the erroneous tributaries were cut off, buried—and in their place, new streams aligned with the grand arc of history opened up.

And around the once severed and blocked off Imaginary Belt…

Everything was now being rewritten—personally—by its new master.

Isadella closed her eyes, letting her figure float in the tide of history, feeling the traces and marks she’d once left in the past, now slowly replaced by what her heart truly wished for.

In the 1st year of the Holy Calendar—

Amid a sea of celebration, the Freista Empire was founded in the Holy City of Camelot.

Yet at the same time, the Ever-Victorious Knight King—who had led all of Aeskania out of darkness and chaos, who had purged the abyssal monsters and the False King Vortigern—

Chose, at the moment of the empire’s founding, to pass the imperial crown to her kin.

She herself declined all offers of accompaniment from the Round Table knights and palace guards.

Alone, she returned to the border village where she had once drawn the Sword in the Stone and taken her first steps on the path of kingship.

Isadella wandered the wilds alone for a long time.

Eventually, she rested against a humble tree, embracing that golden sword, and slowly closed her eyes.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows and gentle warmth.

Just like the first time she and Xia Ya had met at the coronation ceremony.

“This time… let me sleep a little longer.”

The fall of the Knight King sent shockwaves through the entire Western Continent.

No one knew why such a young ruler—who had unified the realm and ascended to the highest throne—would make such a choice.

Her lifespan should have stretched for another two or three hundred years.

Yet she gave up the imperial throne, gave up the applause and glory that lay within easy reach…

Gave up everything a human could ever possess in the mortal world.

But only Isadella herself understood—

That it was only after she let go of the title of Knight King that she truly found redemption.

Of course, the public’s shock and confusion would fade over time.

A new king was chosen from the old King Uther’s bloodline—one with both talent and strength. The Round Table knights were granted fiefdoms, the Eight Oath Houses were founded.

Round Table knights clashed with nobles. The rise and fall of the Swordbearers. The ebb and flow of imperial authority continued in cycles…

The Freista Empire continued to surge forward, unstoppable in its growth. The wheel of history rolled on relentlessly, unmoved by any individual's will.

And the legend of the first Knight King and of Gaius was, under the quiet orchestration of the Eight Oath Houses, gradually forgotten with the passage of time.

Until it became little more than a tale sung by bards—fleeting, untouchable, and impossible to trace.

A thousand years passed. The past was buried beneath the weight of time.

…

Holy Calendar Year 903, Month of Sprouting, Day 4

Freista Empire, Imperial Capital, Camelot

Within the manor house of a secluded estate, a silver-haired princess slowly opened her eyes.

In her hand, the golden Holy Sword glowed with a sharp and majestic radiance.

“Your Highness Isadella, you’ve finally awakened.”

A respectful voice came from within the shadows, slightly hurried.

“You were unresponsive for a long time. I grew concerned and disobeyed your orders to check on you…”

“You are…”

Isadella’s gaze remained fixed on the light of the Holy Sword.

That fleeting, seared-into-the-soul memory was slowly returning to her mind.

She looked into the shadows for a long while, then finally—digging through the depths of memory—she found the name of her trusted aide.

“Fran?”

“It’s me, Your Highness.”

The voice from the shadows carried a note of surprise.

“I’m fine. You may go.”

“As you command, Your Highness.”

The attendant named Fran withdrew quietly. Isadella, however, continued to watch the flickering candlelight on the desk before her.

She had been through so much.

But regardless, she had now ascended to the rank of Throne.

And the full mystery of the Holy Sword had been unlocked.

With such power in her grasp, she now truly had the strength to become the Empress of the Empire, to bring peace across the land.

All of her original goals—had already been accomplished.

“But—”

A faint light shimmered in the crimson eyes of the Second Princess.

In her ears still echoed the final words of the boy seated upon that illusory throne.

“Forgive me for acting without your consent, Your Highness.”

“I am your Swordbearer, and this was the only way I could think of to save my sovereign.”

“And though we must part ways for now… please, give me a little time.”

“So that we may meet again, in this present timeline, in that true history.”

“And when that day comes—”

“It will be the continuation… of the dream between the King and her Knight.”

…

“The continuation… of our dream?”

Isadella repeated the phrase quietly.

“In that case, let me wait for your return here.”

“To wait for the day when that story between the Knight and the King is written anew.”

“To make you… my husband. The prince consort of this Empire—”

The Holy Sword in her hand dissolved into specks of pale golden light, gently fading away.

And Isadella simply sat there in silence, letting that quiet warmth in her heart gradually fill every corner of her soul.

“Until the day… you become the only male lead in my story.”

………………