Final Regression of The Legendary Swordmaster Chapter 79

The grand hall descended into chaos as screams tore through the sacred silence that had once filled the throne room. Nobles scattered in panic, their rich garments tangling as they tried to flee. Priests dropped their ceremonial staffs and stumbled backward in horror. Blood spread across the polished marble floor, mixing with shattered glass and overturned candles. The smell of iron filled the air, thick and suffocating. Sara stood frozen at the center of it all, her white gown stained red at the hem, her breathing shallow and uneven. In that moment, understanding came to her with terrible clarity. This was not random madness. This was not a simple nightmare. The dream was showing her something deliberate. It was showing her a path.

Edward, with or without his presence in this scene, was not the true cause of the coming disaster. The kingdom itself was fragile. The royal family sat upon a throne already cracked by ambition and hidden betrayal. If Edward had remained weak, if he had stayed the mana-less son everyone mocked, events would still move toward bloodshed. The Duke had already harbored intentions. The court had already been divided. The Church had already sought greater influence. The dream was revealing a possibility, an alternate reality where Edward never gained strength, where he never acted, and where she, Sara Vistro, continued walking the path of complete obedience until the very end. In that version of events, she married quietly, bowed politely, and trusted blindly. And in that obedience, she stood powerless while wolves devoured the kingdom from within.

As the chaos rained down around her, something inside her hardened. Fear was still there, clawing at her chest, but beneath it was resolve. Strength. That was the difference between a victim and someone who could choose her fate. If Edward had decided that strength was the most valuable substance in the world, then she would not remain weak. She would not allow herself to be a decorative piece moved across a board by others. Her hands trembled, but her mind became clear.

A sword lay near her feet, dropped by a fallen royal guard. The blade was slick with blood. She stared at it for a long second before bending down and picking it up. The metal felt heavy in her grip, colder than she expected. Around her, nobles screamed as they were cut down. Soldiers clashed in brutal confusion, some loyal to the king, others to the Duke. The high priest tried to shout for order, but his voice was drowned out by steel and death.

Without hesitation, Sara raised the sword and reached up to her long, flowing brown hair. That hair had always been praised. It was soft, beautiful, a symbol of her value as a noble lady. It was one of the many things that made her suitable as a bride for the prince. It was something meant to please others. Her grip tightened. In one swift motion, she sliced through it. Thick strands fell around her shoulders and onto the bloodstained floor. She cut again, shorter this time, until the length reached just below her chin. The bob cut framed her face sharply. It was not elegant in the traditional sense. It was practical.

The moment the last strand fell, the world around her shifted. The throne room dissolved like mist under sunlight. The screams faded into silence. The blood on the floor turned into empty stone. When her vision settled, she was no longer inside the palace hall. She stood in the middle of a ruined street. Smoke filled the sky, turning it a dark orange. The air was thick with ash. Buildings around her burned fiercely, their wooden beams collapsing with loud cracks.

She looked down at her hands. In her right hand, she still held a sword. The blade was completely stained with blood from tip to hilt. It was not fresh and bright like before. It was darker, thicker, as if it had been used again and again. Her grip was steady, but her stomach churned. In her left hand, something heavy rested against her palm. Slowly, her eyes lowered.

It was a head.

Her father’s face stared back at her, lifeless and pale. Marquis Vistro’s eyes were half open, frozen in an expression she could not fully read. Shock. Regret. Perhaps anger. His once-proud features were smeared with blood. The sight struck her like a physical blow. The sword slipped slightly in her hand.

She staggered backward and fell to her knees. The severed head rolled from her grasp and landed beside her. A wave of nausea rose violently within her. She leaned forward and vomited onto the cracked stone street. Her entire body shook uncontrollably. The image was too much. The weight of it crushed her chest. She had killed him. In this possible future, she had chosen strength over obedience, and that path had forced her hand.

Her breathing came in ragged gasps. She wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve and forced herself to look up. What she saw made her heart sink even further. The Luminaris Capital was in flames. Towers that once symbolized royal authority now burned like torches. Soldiers fought in every direction, not in organized lines but in desperate clusters. Some wore the crest of the royal house. Others bore unfamiliar banners. The Church’s insignia appeared on armored shields near the cathedral steps. Bodies lay scattered across the streets. Civilians ran with children in their arms. Horses screamed as they collapsed.

It was civil war.

The dream was not showing her a simple personal tragedy. It was showing her the collapse of the entire kingdom. This was what happened when hidden tensions finally broke. This was what happened when ambition, fear, and weakness were allowed to fester. Without someone strong enough to control the situation, the realm would devour itself.

Sara pushed herself to her feet slowly. The sword in her hand felt heavier now, not because of its weight but because of what it represented. In this future, she had survived. She had fought. She had even killed her own father. Yet survival did not look glorious. It looked dirty. It looked painful. It looked lonely. Strength demanded a cost.

She turned in a slow circle, taking in the destruction. Every direction showed fire and death. This was not a battle that would end quickly. It was a war that would scar the land for generations. The dream was a warning, not a guarantee. It was telling her that obedience alone would not prevent this. It was telling her that weakness would not save anyone.

A sudden movement behind her broke the silence of her thoughts. She barely had time to react. A sharp pain exploded in her back. She gasped as cold steel pierced through her body. The sword pushed forward until its tip emerged from her chest, stained red. The shock was overwhelming. For a moment, she could not even feel pain, only pressure and disbelief.

She looked down at the blade protruding from her body. Blood spread across her clothes, soaking into the fabric. Her legs trembled. The sword slipped from her hand and clattered against the stone. Behind her, she heard the heavy breathing of a soldier. She tried to turn her head, but her strength was already fading. The pain finally arrived, sharp and unbearable, spreading through her ribs and lungs.

So this is the end of this path, she thought dimly.

Her vision blurred. The burning city faded into distant shapes. The smoke above dissolved into darkness. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed forward onto the ruined street. The last thing she saw was the fire reflecting in pools of blood.

Then everything went black.

Sara’s eyes flew open. She gasped sharply and sat upright in her bed. Morning light poured through the curtains, soft and warm. The air in her chamber was calm and still. There was no smoke, no fire, no screaming. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she pressed a trembling hand against her heart. It was beating fast but steady. There was no wound. No blood stained her nightgown.

She looked around slowly, grounding herself in reality. The familiar furniture of her room stood untouched. The mirror near her dresser reflected her image clearly. Her hair, now cut short into a bob, framed her pale face. For a long moment, she simply breathed. The dream had ended, but its message remained carved deeply into her mind.

Only the living could make choices. And if she wanted to choose her path, she would need strength.