Chapter 69: The Coronation Clash
The day came faster than anyone expected—the very deadline the Master had declared would mark the beginning of his reign. To the villagers, it arrived not with joy, but like a shadow creeping over their souls.
Despite Elara and Ariella's reassuring words, the village was shrouded in anxiety. Children hid behind their mothers, elders lit old protective herbs, and the brave who once stood tall now sat in trembling silence. Nothing about the day felt right.
The sun was still rising when a loud, thunderous sound echoed through the sky. A gust of wind swept through the village as if announcing the arrival of something dark and powerful.
Then he came.
The Master.
He rode in with an air of grandeur—cloaked in deep maroon, gold accents lining his royal attire. A shimmering black crown floated just above his head, held up by dark magic alone. He walked with Percy trailing close behind, his face sharp, his injuries from earlier now hidden behind a hardened glare.
The Master didn't stop to greet anyone. He walked directly to the village square, expecting banners, crowds, trumpets. But what he found was… nothing.
Silence.
No stage. No seat of power. No royal welcome. Only a blank, dusty square under a grim sky.
Moments later, Elara and Ariella stepped into the square. Their cloaks billowed with the breeze, and their faces were marked by determination. Behind them, the villagers slowly emerged from their homes, eyes wide with fear.
The Master raised a brow, unimpressed. "This is not the reception I deserve."
"You'll get a reception," Elara said, "once you prove yourself."
"To be king," Ariella added, "you'll have to kill us first."
Gasps rose from the crowd. The Master's smile curved slightly. "You think yourselves a match for me?"
"We are the chosen ones," Elara snapped. "The Queens said it themselves."
The Master extended his arms in mock generosity. "Then go back to them. Spare your lives. You don't want to die trying to stop the inevitable."
But the girls didn't move. They closed their eyes, drawing power from within, from the soil beneath, from the belief of those watching.
The Master's eyes narrowed. "So be it."
The clash erupted like lightning splitting the sky. Blasts of power thundered through the square, cracking stones, scorching the ground. The villagers screamed and scattered, hiding behind whatever they could.
Elara sent waves of ice toward him, while Ariella rained down flames. But the Master moved like a phantom, shielding himself, deflecting their magic as if swatting flies.
With a growl, he raised both hands. A wave of dark energy surged from his palms, striking the girls with such force they were thrown several meters away. Their bodies hit the stone hard, a sickening crunch in the air.
Blood dripped from Elara's lips. Ariella struggled to rise, her arm twisted unnaturally. Still—they did not stop.
"They don't know when to quit," Percy muttered with a smirk, arms crossed. "Master's got this."
Another blast threw Elara into the corner of a building, leaving a smear of blood across the wall. Ariella lay beside her, gasping for breath, her eyes dimming.
Their vision blurred. The world tilted.
In that moment—at the edge of death—they remembered.
The Guardians of the Chosen Ones.
In unison, though their voices were cracked and fading, they whispered, "Guardians… we need you…"
A gust of divine wind swept through the square. Clouds gathered and then parted. A beam of light dropped from the sky, and in their place, the two battered girls vanished.
And from the light emerged two men.
Not just any men—suave, breathtaking beings who looked as if they had stepped out of a celestial painting. One wore a coat of deep blue and silver, his long hair tied loosely, his eyes like molten gold. The other was clad in white and indigo, his smile devilish, his gaze sharp as crystal.
The Master's mouth parted in disbelief. Percy blinked.
The one in blue glanced around and scoffed. "What a filthy, bloody mess. We're summoned and this is what we walk into?"
The other waved a hand in front of his face. "Smells like scorched hair and royal arrogance."
They both turned to the Master, giving him a once-over.
" Hmm....Nice outfit," the white one smirked. "Who's getting married?"
The blue-coated guardian crossed his arms. "Or is this your big coronation ceremony? Because so far, it looks like a bloodbath."
The Master's jaw clenched. "Who—what are you?"
"We are the Guardians of the Chosen Ones," the blue one said, now with a tone devoid of mockery. "And you…"
He raised a hand and with a flick of his finger, the Master was flung back violently. He crashed into the center of the square, landing face-down, his royal robes now torn and soaked with his own blood.
Percy's heart lurched. "No!"
As he prepared to dash toward the Master, one of the guardians lifted a brow. "Don't even think about it."
Percy was yanked into the air like a weightless doll. He hovered for a moment—shocked, limbs flailing—before being slammed into the ground.
The crack of his bones echoed through the silent crowd. He cried out, writhing, unable to move.
"Oops," the guardian in white said, dusting his hands. "I suppose he'll feel that tomorrow."
The Master, still groaning, forced himself to crawl over to Percy. Blood streamed from a cut above his eye.
With all his remaining strength, he hoisted Percy onto his back, whispered an incantation—and they vanished in a flash of black light.
Silence reigned in the square.
The two guardians stood still for a moment, then casually began brushing invisible dust off their cloaks.
"Honestly," said the blue one. "We're summoned to protect the Chosen, and we end up dealing with overgrown toddlers in royal cosplay."
"I hope the girls wake up soon," the other sighed. "We've got a mess to clean up."