I Am The Game's Villain Chapter 736: [Final Event] [Blood Moon Festival] [18] Freyja’s Doubts

"The atmosphere is strangely silent this evening," Freyja remarked. She stood in solitude upon the marble terrace of her fortress, her gaze fixed on the moonlit expanse of Elyen Kiora stretching out below.

Under the silver glow of the moon, the capital of the High Elven Utopia remained a vision of breathtaking beauty. Typically, the peaceful night air of the city would bring her comfort, as Elyen Kiora represented the pinnacle of elven elegance. Tonight, however, her senses were on edge.

A subtle yet persistent sensation of unease tugged at her spirit.

She wondered if it was merely her imagination or a true flash of intuition.

"Does your heart weigh heavy with concern for Lord Edward, Your Highness?"

A raspy, deep voice echoed from the shadows behind her. Grukel made his way forward, the rhythmic tap of his walking stick striking the marble floor with every stride.

Freyja remained facing the horizon. "And why should he be a cause for my concern?"

A soft chuckle escaped Grukel. "It is no stretch of the truth to say that the continued existence of Utopia is owed to him, Your Highness. Furthermore, he holds the title of Guardian of the Tree."

Resting her palm against the cool stone of the balustrade, Freyja tilted her head. "Indeed... that makes him a significant concern," she conceded.

She replayed Amael’s parting words in her mind; his voice had been hushed and full of a strange acceptance, as if he were greeting an unavoidable end. It had the haunting quality of a final goodbye.

If he truly intended to vanish, it would be quite... regrettable.

She wasn't so idealistic as to place all her chips on him, but she had expected more. Being the one chosen and accepted by the Holy Tree of Ymir carried weight. That distinction alone should have guaranteed his survival.

If he were to perish now, it would be a double tragedy—a blow to Utopia’s strength and a disappointing testament to his own frailty.

"It appears the mood in Sancta Vedelia will be quite festive tonight," Grukel added, his voice regaining a bit of cheer. "Reports from our intelligence network indicate the Prophetess is scheduled to wed today."

A knowing, subtle smirk touched Freyja’s lips. "One can only hope she avoids the fate of her predecessor—meeting an early grave."

She thought of Sara Oceania, a woman whose potential was consumed by avarice long before her destiny was realized. Following Sara's passing, Claudia, the former Prophetess, had stepped back into the role until a new heir was found.

To Freyja, the entire situation was nothing short of miserable.

"Greed," she whispered, her eyes locked on the shimmering lights of the city below. "It has always been the downfall of even the most serene realms."

"When mismanaged, certainly," Grukel noted. "However, I maintain that ambition is a necessity, Your Highness. King Durathiel utilized that very drive to cement the power of Utopia."

A shadow crossed Freyja’s face. "And look at him now—dead, with nothing left but ash."

Grukel fell silent, offering a small bow. "I suspect His Majesty was aware his time was short. I believe... he departed this world without any lingering regrets, Your Highness."

"I suppose I can believe that. You were, after all, my brother’s most devoted confidant."

She couldn't deny that Durathiel’s reign was defined by cold, ruthless efficiency. Yet, it was his grand vision that had sharpened Utopia into a formidable power, even after the scars of the war.

Nevertheless, Sancta Vedelia remained the larger power, possessing far greater talent.

From the beginning, Freyja recognized this conflict as a suicidal endeavor, yet she had plotted to manipulate the outcome. Had Viessa played her part and seized her original vessel as intended, the tide would have turned. As a former Prophetess, Viessa had the means to do it. Her successful return would have destabilized the Holy Tree’s equilibrium, plunging Sancta Vedelia into total disorder.

It was a flawless strategy designed to solve two problems at once.

Yet, Viessa had failed to even attempt it.

Even now, Freyja struggled to process the fact that Viessa had not returned the favor.

To say she felt nothing would be a falsehood. The sting of betrayal lingered like a deep, internal ache—an old wound that refused to close. She had genuinely valued Viessa. There had been a rare, fragile trust between them, clear as crystal.

But like everything else in her life, that trust had been smashed to pieces.

It felt like an inescapable truth now: she could rely on no one, not even those she once considered her closest allies.

She let out a soft sigh. "Perhaps the only one I can still count on is that stubborn old elf," she whispered, looking toward the hallway where Grukel had just exited. "He seems far too resilient to die just yet."

Just as the thought crossed her mind, a sharp pulse vibrated through her left arm. Freyja’s breath hitched.

The Priestess’s emblem, etched into her very flesh, began to radiate a soft, golden light as the divine sigils flared to life.

Her eyes snapped wide. Without a word, she hurried away.

moments later, she arrived at the sacred base of the young Tree of Ymir. Its golden roots pulsed through the earth like living veins, vibrating with celestial power. The concentration of mana in the air was so intense it created a shimmering haze in the dark.

However, it wasn't the Tree that drew her gaze.

Near the trunk sat two amber-colored cocoons, thumping with a rhythmic, heartbeat-like cadence. Faint cracks were spreading across their surfaces, leaking a soft glow through the hardened resin.

Freyja moved closer, her footsteps silent upon the grass.

The fractures expanded. A delicate snapping sound echoed, and the amber shells burst open, releasing a golden fluid that sizzled as it hit the ground. A mist of white mana curled upward, glowing briefly before dissolving.

A small smile appeared on Freyja’s face. "The moment has arrived."

The shells split apart entirely, and two forms tumbled gently onto the earth.

Two young women lay there—unclothed and still, but undeniably alive.

The first possessed a cascade of silken black hair that shimmered under the divine light. Her skin was porcelain, and her pointed ears betrayed her elven blood. She looked to be in her late teens, possessing a cold, distant beauty even in sleep.

The second girl