Final Regression of The Legendary Swordmaster Chapter 78

As Sara looked at her palm, the blood began to slide downward. It moved slowly at first, tracing the lines of her skin as if it were searching for a path. Her breath became shallow. She tried to wipe it away with her other hand, but the red stain only spread further. The warmth of it felt real. Too real.

A single drop gathered at the tip of her finger.

It fell.

The moment the drop touched the carriage floor, the world shattered again.

Sara gasped.

The rocking of the carriage vanished. The scent of leather and wood disappeared. The air changed. It grew colder and heavier, filled with incense and candle smoke.

She was no longer seated.

She was standing.

Before her rose a grand altar made of white marble and gold. Tall pillars lined the vast chamber. Light from enormous crystal chandeliers shone down in sharp brilliance. The walls were decorated with royal banners bearing the emblem of Luminaris, a golden sun surrounded by rays.

She was inside the throne room.

Her wedding was taking place.

The white gown remained on her body, but it felt tighter now. The veil still covered her face, though she could see clearly through it. Her heart pounded against her ribs.

Before her stood the High Priest of the Church of Light. He wore long white robes trimmed with silver thread. A golden staff rested in his hand. His eyes were closed as he chanted ancient words of blessing. His voice echoed through the hall, steady and calm, as if nothing in the world could disturb this sacred ceremony.

To her right stood the prince.

He looked as he had in the carriage. His expression was composed. His hands were folded before him. His eyes held no cruelty. No impatience. He seemed almost serene.

Sara’s gaze slowly moved beyond him.

At the far end of the hall stood the royal throne.

Seated upon it was the King of Luminaris.

Her breath caught.

The king’s head was slightly bent forward. His face looked pale. His skin had a faint gray tone beneath the golden crown. Even from this distance, she could see the sickness in his posture. His shoulders sagged. His hands gripped the armrests weakly.

He looked like a man already halfway to the grave.

Beside the throne stood Duke Charles Luminaries.

Her chest tightened.

The Duke was alive.

His sharp features were unchanged. His posture was straight and proud. His eyes were cold, scanning the room with quiet calculation. There was no sign of weakness in him. No sign of fear. His presence alone felt heavy, like a blade hidden beneath silk.

Sara slowly turned her head.

Behind her stood familiar figures.

Damian Vistro.

Her half brother.

He wore formal noble attire, the Vistro crest displayed clearly on his chest. His expression was blank, almost bored. His gaze rested on the altar without emotion.

Beside him stood Marquis Vistro.

Her father.

He looked strong and imposing, as he always had in life. His hair was neatly styled. His chin was lifted with authority. His eyes were steady, but there was something beneath them. Something sharp and waiting.

Sara’s stomach twisted.

All of them were here.

All of the dead stood alive within this dream.

The High Priest raised his staff slightly and continued the prayer.

"Under the eternal light," he intoned, "we bind these two souls in sacred union. May their marriage bring peace to the kingdom and strength to the throne."

The hall remained silent except for his voice.

Sara felt as if she were trapped inside a play where everyone else knew their lines.

The prince turned slightly toward her. His expression remained gentle. He reached out and took her hand. His grip was warm and steady.

"I will honor you," he whispered softly.

For a brief second, she wanted to believe him.

The High Priest motioned for them to step closer. The ceremony continued. Words of loyalty. Words of unity. Words of faith. Each sentence echoed through the chamber.

Sara’s gaze drifted again toward the throne.

The king coughed weakly into his hand. The sound was small but sharp in the quiet hall. Duke Charles leaned slightly toward him, his face unreadable.

The air felt tense.

Something beneath the surface was moving.

The High Priest raised his voice for the final blessing.

"May the light witness this vow—"

The sentence was never finished.

In one smooth motion, Duke Charles stepped forward.

Swish!

A blade flashed from beneath his cloak.

The sound was quick and wet.

Before anyone could react, the Duke’s sword sliced across the king’s throat.

Gasps filled the hall.

Blood spilled across the throne, dark and heavy. The king’s body jerked once. His hands clawed at the air. The golden crown tilted and fell to the marble floor with a sharp clang.

Sara froze.

The High Priest stumbled backward in horror.

The prince beside her turned in shock.

"Father!" he began.

He did not finish.

The Duke moved again with terrifying speed.

His blade shifted direction and cut across the prince’s throat.

Sara felt warm drops spray across her cheek.

The prince’s eyes widened. For a second, confusion filled them. Then the light faded. His body collapsed at her feet, the white of his clothing stained red.

The hall erupted into chaos.

Nobles screamed. Guards reached for weapons. The sound of steel rang out.

Sara’s heart pounded violently in her chest.

This was not peace.

This was slaughter.

She tried to step back, but her feet felt rooted to the ground.

Then she heard another sound.

The sharp whistle of steel slicing through air.

Swoosh—

Behind her.

She turned just in time to see her father, Marquis Vistro, draw his own sword.

His face was calm.

Too calm.

With ruthless precision, he swung his blade toward the other members of the royal family who stood behind her. The second prince barely had time to raise his arm before the sword cut across his throat. The princess screamed, but her voice was cut short as the blade struck again.

Blood sprayed across the marble floor.

Damian stood nearby, unmoving.

His expression did not change.

It was as if he had expected this.

The High Priest dropped his staff. It clattered against the stone.

The Duke and her father stood on opposite sides of the throne room, blades dripping with blood. Their eyes met across the chaos.

There was no surprise between them.

Only understanding.

Sara’s breathing grew uneven.

This was not a random attack.

It was planned.

The king had been sick. The throne had been weak. The wedding had gathered all important figures into one place.

It had been the perfect moment, and as that realization settled in her mind her knees felt weak beneath her. The dream was showing her something, not kindness and not peace, but betrayal hidden beneath ceremony and power taken through blood. Her gaze dropped slowly to her hands.

The blood that had first appeared in her palm was still there. It had spread further now, coating her fingers. It was no longer a thin line. It covered her skin as if she had dipped her hand into it.

The white gown she wore was stained.

Around her, the throne room descended into panic. Guards rushed forward. Some attacked the Duke. Others hesitated, unsure of who to defend. Nobles screamed and tried to flee.

Her father stepped forward calmly, wiping his blade against the robe of a fallen courtier.

His eyes met hers.

There was no warmth there.

Only calculation.

As if she were still a piece on a board.

The Duke laughed softly, almost amused, as if the chaos were nothing more than noise.

The High Priest knelt beside the fallen king, whispering desperate prayers.

The prince lay motionless at her feet, the gentle man from the carriage now nothing more than a corpse with empty eyes.

Sara’s chest tightened painfully.

This was the truth beneath the gentle horizon.

This was what power looked like when it stripped away its mask.

The dream elixir had shown her a good mood first. A peaceful carriage. A kind prince. A hopeful marriage.

Then it had peeled back the surface.

Her heart pounded as understanding slowly formed.

Peace without strength was fragile.

Kindness without power was vulnerable.

A throne without control invited blades.

The dream did not end.

The throne room began to blur at the edges. The screams grew distant. The blood on the marble floor spread outward like ink on paper.

Sara remained standing in the center of it all.

Alive.

Unharmed.

Surrounded by the dead.

And somewhere deep within her chest, beneath the horror and fear, a quiet thought began to rise.

If she wanted to live.

If she wanted to choose.

She could never stand in the center again without power of her own.