Chapter 152: The Flower Princess

Abel strode through the expansive hall, his footsteps echoing softly against the immaculately polished marble floor.

The space seemed otherworldly, crafted from radiant white marble adorned with intricate golden trimmings that wove delicate floral patterns up the walls and across the towering pillars. Embedded within these carvings were luminous gems that pulsed faintly, casting a warm, ethereal glow throughout the corridor.

The scent of flowers filled the air, an intoxicating mix of sweetness and mystery that seemed to follow him with every step, at times this flowery scent would materialize in the shape of a petal abruptly, before fading to the invisible world of smells.

As Abel moved, his sharp eyes scanned the scene with practiced vigilance.

Signs of the Murman family’s passage were everywhere—walls stripped of decorative gems, shelves emptied of their contents, and a trail of carelessly discarded gold coins and precious crystals littering the pristine floor.

He bent down, picking up one of the coins and rolling it between his fingers before letting it drop again with a metallic clink. "Typical scavengers," he murmured to himself.

He continued down the hall, pausing when something caught his eye—a small cloth bag, inconspicuously discarded in a corner near the base of a pillar.

Its plain appearance seemed out of place amidst the castle’s opulence, but Abel’s instincts urged him to investigate. He approached cautiously, kneeling to inspect it.

Lifting the bag, he immediately felt a strange pull of energy emanating from it. When he loosened the drawstrings and peeked inside, his brows raised in intrigue. “Interesting…” he muttered, reaching his hand into the bag.

To his astonishment, his hand seemed to sink much farther than the dimensions of the bag should allow.

A realization dawned on him—it was a Bag of Holding, a popular ancient artifact capable of holding far more than its external size suggested.

Testing his discovery, Abel began transferring his belongings into the bag. Gold coins, gemstones, vials, and other materials he had collected were swiftly placed inside, disappearing into the bag’s seemingly bottomless interior.

It was a miraculous find, eliminating the burden of his cumbersome luggage freeing him to move with more ease, and allowing him to possibly carry more things. He tightened the drawstrings with a satisfied smirk, placing the bag into his robe.

Continuing down the glowing hall, Abel’s steps grew quieter as he approached a grand set of doors, slightly ajar.

The doors were crafted from the same pristine white marble as the hall but inlaid with intricate gold floral designs that seemed to shimmer in the ambient light. Each flower appeared lifelike, as though it might bloom at any moment.

From beyond the doors, a low murmur could be heard, muffled yet distinct. Abel paused, his keen ears picking up fragments of indistinct voices. He leaned closer, his curiosity piqued.

Tightening his grip on the bag of holding, he pushed the door open just a little more, careful not to make a sound, and peered into the room beyond.

Inside the resplendent throne room, the air was heavy with the mingling scents of gold, flowers, and power. The room itself was a masterpiece of architecture and artistry—every surface was adorned with golden floral motifs that radiated a potent, almost blinding light. The intricate designs sprawled across the walls and ceiling, shimmering like living veins of energy, illuminating the breathtaking space.

Pillars carved from gleaming alabaster stood tall, each wrapped with golden vines that seemed to pulse faintly with life. It was a place that seemed less like a room and more like a shrine to divine opulence.

At the center of this dazzling hall stood the Murman family, their faces unmasked and their arms laden with loot. Bags stuffed with glittering gems, piles of gold coins, and priceless relics bulged from their packs, the weight of their haul evident in their strained postures. Yet, their expressions were jubilant, their earlier fears and losses temporarily forgotten in the face of such an unimaginable bounty.

Mr.One, his face streaked with dirt but alight with glee, laughed as he jingled a bag of gold. “Worth it! All of it!” he exclaimed. “Our brothers might be gone, but their sacrifice wasn’t in vain. We’re going back as kings!”

Mr.Three, his grin wide and predatory, added, “No one in Reinhart or Bask will dare look down on us after this. We’re untouchable now.”

The brothers reveled in their success, their voices echoing through the vast chamber. To them, this was the culmination of their ambition.

They had the flags, the key to entry, and the belief that no one else could possibly breach this place. To their minds, secrecy was no longer necessary, and their masks now lay discarded on the floor.

But while his sons celebrated, Ike Murman stood apart from them, his eyes locked on a far more compelling prize—a gigantic seed suspended above a pedestal of twisting roots and vines.

The seed was massive, nearly the size of a person, its surface a dull, earthy brown. Despite its muted appearance, it exuded an unmistakable aura of dormant power, as though it were alive but slumbering. A faint hum seemed to emanate from it, vibrating through the very air.

Ike’s lips curled into a calculating smile as he regarded the seed. “This,” he said, his voice low but commanding, “is the true treasure. The inheritance of the Flower Princess herself. If we can crack this shell, everything inside will belong to us.”

The room grew quieter as his words sank in. Even his jubilant sons turned to stare at the seed with awe and trepidation.

“The Flagbearrer's notes spoke of her soul being within the seed. The Flower Princess, It’s sleeping now,” Ike continued, stepping closer to the pedestal. “But it won’t stay that way forever. If we act now, the power inside—her legacy—can be ours after killing her if we can't subdue her.”

He beckoned his fifth son forward. Hall, a younger version of his brothers with sharp features and an air of quiet determination, stepped up to his father.

Around his neck hung a golden necklace, its surface inscribed with symbols that glowed faintly. The artifact radiated a unique, almost otherworldly power, the air around it charged with energy.

“This necklace,” Ike said, pointing to the glowing trinket, “is your key. Use its luck to strike true and break the seed’s shell.”

Hall nodded, gripping the axe in his hands tightly. The weapon gleamed under the radiant light of the throne room, its blade sharp enough to split stone. He approached the seed cautiously, the weight of the moment palpable as the room fell silent.

The hum of the seed seemed to grow louder, almost as if it were aware of the impending strike.

As Hall raised the axe above his head, the tension in the room was electric. The Murman family watched with bated breath, their anticipation mirrored in the shimmering gold and gems scattered around them.

Just as Hall prepared to bring the axe down, a sound shattered the silence—footsteps.

They echoed from beyond the grand door, slow and deliberate, the sound cutting through the room like a blade. The Murmans froze, their eyes snapping toward the door, dread creeping into their expressions.

Hall lowered the axe slightly, his grip tightening as he exchanged a glance with his father. “Someone’s coming,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ike’s face darkened, his calculating mind racing. “Who else could have made it here? We have the flags…” His voice trailed off, and for the first time, there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

The footsteps grew louder, each one measured and unhurried, like the approach of someone who had nothing to fear. Ike barked a command, his voice sharp. “Prepare yourselves. This castle may hold more dangers than we anticipated.”

The room was tense, the earlier jubilation replaced by a creeping sense of unease. All eyes turned to the door, waiting to see who—or what—would enter.

Abel strode through the grand doorway, his calm steps echoing in the vast, resplendent hall. His arrival was like a thunderclap in the serene chaos of the Murmans.

The sight before him was surreal—Mr. Five standing near the enormous seed with his axe raised, Ike positioned beside him, and Mr. One and Mr. Three laden with oversized bags stuffed with gold and gems.

Their faces, once smug and triumphant, twisted into masks of shock and disbelief. It was as though reality itself had fractured for them, unable to reconcile how Abel had entered this hallowed space.

Ike’s voice trembled with anger, his tone sharp and ferocious as his eyes burned with fury. “You… How in the hell did you get in here? You're like a cockroach, and won't die! This place is ours! You’ll not stand in the way of our rise to greatness!”

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The tension crackled like static in the room. Mr. One and Mr. Three set their burdens aside and stepped forward, their postures radiating hostility.

Mr. One’s arms morphed into dual longswords with a sharp metallic sheen, the transformation accompanied by the grinding sound of steel on steel. Mr. Three’s ulna bone radiated a sinister white aura that enveloped his entire forearm, pulsating like a beating heart.

Abel responded with a cold, cynical smile. His voice, calm and cutting, carried an unsettling weight. “Someone was generous enough to donate a red flag to me.”

The realization hit the Murmans like a blow. Hanz’s disappearance suddenly made sense. Fury darkened their faces as the connection became clear—Abel, or rather “Blue,” was the one responsible for their brother’s demise.

“You bastard!” Mr. One spat, his voice a venomous growl.

He lunged first, his sword-like arms slashing fiercely. Abel met the assault head-on, his knife clashing against the metallic blades in a cacophony of sharp, ringing impacts. Sparks flew as Abel masterfully parried each strike, his movements fluid and deliberate.

“I’ll kill you!” Ike roared. “Hall, break the seed! Now!”

The fifth son, Hall, hesitated only for a moment before obeying, raising the golden-glowing axe high above his head.

The seed, ancient and pulsing with dormant power, seemed to hum in response. The air grew thick, the promise of something terrible and unknowable looming.

Abel’s eyes darted toward Hall.

He couldn’t let the seed open—whatever lay inside radiated an aura that even his Rank 2 Apostle senses couldn’t fully comprehend. It was beyond him, a force too vast and dangerous to unleash.

He broke away from Mr. One’s assault with a forceful push using all of his new strength sending him crashing against a wall as creacks began to spread. Abel then acrobatically dodged several bone spikes launched by Mr. Three. The projectiles whistled past him, splintering against the golden walls, but Abel paid them no mind. He had one goal: stop Hall.

In a blur of motion, Abel closed the distance, his knife gleaming with starlight as he aimed for Hall’s head. The strike was clean, precise—an undeniable killing blow. But as the blade descended, something inexplicable happened.

The golden necklace around Hall’s neck flared with light, and Abel’s knife veered off course as if repelled by an invisible force. Instead of slicing into flesh, the blade shifted to the side, grazing harmlessly past Hall’s head.

“Luck?” Abel muttered, stunned.

The realization hit him like a jolt of electricity.

The necklace wasn’t just ornamental—it was an artifact imbued with the power of luck itself.

Memories of his early days in the tower flashed in his mind, of the ritual given by Nando that had unshackled him from illusions. Luck, elusive and intangible, was a force he hadn’t encountered since. Yet here it was, protecting Hall.

Hall, emboldened by the artifact’s protection, swung the axe in retaliation since his opponent was so close.

Abel dodged, but the blade grazed his side, leaving a shallow cut. The axe too, Abel noted, bore traces of magic—it wasn’t an ordinary weapon.

Mr. Three advanced next, wielding an oversized spoon radiating an eerie energy.

Abel extended his fingers, releasing a burst of starry spheres that rose toward the high ceilings, glowing faintly like celestial bodies. But Mr. Three charged recklessly, undeterred, swinging the spoon with brute force. Abel sidestepped gracefully, evading the clumsy attack.

With a snap of his fingers, the starry spheres sent out starry beams towards everyone involved. Ike got hit on the side as he rolled and crouched in pain. Hall luckily raised his ace in time as the beam of starry light seemed to deflect off of the axe and onto the white wall, leaving a deep char mark. Mr.One found cover and Mr.Three used his giant spoon weapon to block the beams.

Unsatisfied Abel switched plans as he ordered his starry spheres once more, and they descended, blanketing the room in increased gravity. The weight pressed down on everyone, causing them to stagger and struggle. Even Ike and Hall faltered, their movements slowed.

“Do it now, Hall!” Ike bellowed, his voice tinged with desperation and pain.

Hall, trembling but determined, raised the axe high again. The seed’s hum grew louder, resonating with a foreboding power.

Abel gritted his teeth, muscles tensing as ghastly blue hands clawed their way out of the ground, clutching at his legs like chains of ice. They radiated a spectral chill that seemed to sap his strength, locking him in place. He looked up, his narrowed eyes locking onto Mr. Three, who held the glowing blue flag aloft. The artifact pulsed ominously, a beacon of ethereal energy summoning these spectral restraints.

Mr. Three grinned wickedly, his confidence renewed by the artifact’s power. “What’s the matter, Blue? Can’t charge in like before? You think you’re invincible, but power like yours always comes with limits. Let’s see how far you can go while bound.”

Abel sneered, the fury in his gaze smoldering like embers about to ignite. “You think this will stop me?” he hissed, his voice laced with venom.

The air around him thickened as Abel’s mana surged, the starry energy within him responding to his anger.

With a flick of his wrist, he unleashed the Cosmic World of Rosette, the domain erupting with celestial thorns that radiated an otherworldly brilliance. The shimmering thorns shot out from beneath him, their sharp edges slicing through the ghastly blue hands like paper. The restraints shattered, releasing Abel from their grasp, and the thorns didn’t stop there.

The starry tendrils snaked toward Mr. Three, their radiant light cutting through the dim, oppressive atmosphere of the room. They coiled around him, tightening with brutal precision. The pseudo’s grin faltered, his smug expression twisting into one of horror as the thorns dug into his flesh, slicing through skin and muscle. Blood sprayed across the room, staining the once-pristine floor with crimson streaks.

Mr. Three’s voice cracked in disbelief, his words barely audible over his pained gasps. “This… isn’t… possible… How…?” His mind was overwhelmed, unable to comprehend the sheer power Abel was wielding.

Abel’s cold gaze bore into him, devoid of mercy. “You never stood a chance,” he said, his tone as sharp as the thorns that restrained Mr. Three.

With a sharp swing of his starry knife, Abel unleashed a Starry Slash, the energy-infused blade cutting through Mr. Three’s body in one clean motion. The pseudo collapsed in two lifeless halves, blood pooling beneath him in a grotesque display. Abel didn’t even flinch as the crimson liquid seeped toward his boots, his focus already shifting to the others.

He turned toward Hall and Ike, his resolve unwavering. Relief briefly washed over him as he saw both father and son ensnared in the thorns that now covered the room in celestial brilliance. Their movements were restricted, the jagged tendrils preventing them from reaching the seed. Abel exhaled, a small sense of victory creeping in.

But then, the faint golden glow of Hall’s necklace caught his eye. The pendant pulsed with an inexplicable energy, and Abel’s relief turned to dread as he saw the fallen axe, trapped between the thorns, begin to rise.

It floated unnaturally, as though guided by an unseen force, its blade gleaming ominously in the dim light.

“No…” Abel murmured, his voice tinged with disbelief. His thoughts raced. Luck? How can this even be real? How can something as intangible as fortune dictate the outcome of a battle? How is this even fair? Maybe I wasn't meant to stop them from the beginning, maybe this was meant to be?

With terrifying speed, the axe shot forward, its path unerring as it struck the seed dead center.

The force of the impact resonated through the room like a thunderclap, and a deafening crack split the air.

Abel froze, his eyes widening as fissures snaked across the surface of the seed, spilling out an intense pink light that bathed the room in an eerie glow.

The room quaked violently as the seed began to open, the potent aura within it radiating outward.

The energy was overwhelming—an ancient, profound power that Abel couldn’t fully grasp. The thorns and starry spheres he had summoned trembled under the strain, their luminous forms dimming and splintering. One by one, they cracked and shattered, the celestial domain collapsing under the sheer weight of the pink aura.

Abel staggered back, his vision blurring as the backlash hit him like a tidal wave. He coughed violently, blood splattering onto the ground as he clutched his chest. His knees buckled, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse entirely. The oppressive force of the aura pressed down on him, suffocating and merciless.

His gaze shifted to the seed, its radiant light growing brighter with every passing second. Whatever was inside was awakening, and Abel knew—this was no mere artifact or relic. This was something far beyond his understanding, something that should have remained sealed.

“Damn it…” Abel growled through gritted teeth, his mind racing even as his body struggled to stay upright. “What have they unleashed…?”

Mr. One lay unconscious against a shattered wall, bones broken all over his body, Mr. Three was dead, and Abel stood amidst the chaos, breathing heavily, his knife still dripping with blood, and so was he.

His sharp eyes locked onto the unfolding catastrophe ahead. Whatever was about to emerge from that seed, he knew it would change everything.

Abel’s gaze remained fixed on the massive seed as the web of cracks expanded, spreading like veins across its surface. The pink light within pulsed, growing more intense with each moment, as if it were alive and struggling to break free. The hum of power emanating from the seed was deafening, filling the throne room with an oppressive energy that pressed against Abel’s very being.

The seed finally gave way with a resounding crack, the shell breaking apart into pieces that dissolved into sparkling dust midair. Abel instinctively took a step back, his breath caught in his throat.

Floating amidst the pink mist was a humanoid figure, translucent and radiant, curled into a fetal position. The creature exuded an ancient presence, its very existence a testament to a bygone era of power and myth, the aura it exuded caused pink flowers to grow around the room out of thin air.

On its head rested a shimmering pink halo, glowing softly but with an undeniable weight of authority.

Behind it, delicate butterfly wings vibrated, each movement releasing tiny motes of pink light that drifted through the air like enchanted fireflies. The creature’s entire form seemed ethereal, otherworldly, as though it was made of the very essence of magic itself.

Abel’s eyes widened, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn’t deny what he was seeing. His hands trembled as he whispered under his breath, “A fairy… no, not just a fairy—an Elemental Spirit.”

His mind raced, recalling the ancient texts and lectures he had pored over and most importantly, the messages from the tower. The halo was unmistakable—a symbol of a being tied to the very essence of the world’s laws.

Elemental Spirits were thought to be long extinct, their existence confined to legends and stories told to inspire awe. Yet here it was, floating mere feet away, radiating a power so immense it felt as if the world itself bowed to its presence.

The pressure in the room intensified. Abel felt his legs weaken, as though the sheer aura of the spirit threatened to crush him.

His body quivered, not just with fear but with the overwhelming realization of what this meant. If the Murmans truly intended to claim this spirit’s power, they had unleashed a force they couldn’t possibly hope to control.

Ike Murman and his sons stared in awe, their greed evident in their wide eyes and parted mouths. They didn’t understand—they couldn’t. To them, this was merely the culmination of their ambitions, the ultimate prize that would secure their dominance over Reinhart and beyond.

Abel’s hand slipped into his robe, clutching his Tower badge. His fingers pressed into the smooth surface as he poured his mana into it, sending a desperate message.

The badge glowed faintly, the message sent.

Abel kept his focus on the spirit as it began to stir. The pink mist surrounding it started to dissipate, revealing more of its form. Its translucent skin shimmered with an inner light, veins of radiant energy pulsing beneath its surface. The wings fluttered gently, but even the smallest movement sent a ripple of energy through the room.

The spirit’s presence was overwhelming. Abel felt his instincts screaming at him to retreat, to leave the Murmans to their fate and flee while he still could. But something inside him refused to move, afraid of gaining the attention of the spirit.

Ike stepped forward, his voice trembling with both awe and arrogance. “This… this is ours. This power belongs to the Murman family! We’ve awakened you, Flower Princess. Serve us!”

The creature’s pink halo flared, and Abel’s heart skipped.