Chapter 177: Chapter-177

“Debatable.” Elara paused. “Final question: What happens to you if I fail? If I die, or the cosmic purpose fails, or whatever catastrophe is supposedly coming actually happens?”

The woman blinked. “Why do you care?”

“Because if you’re personally invested in my success beyond just cosmic duty, then your wellbeing becomes a factor in my calculations. Understanding the stakes for all parties improves decision-making quality.”

The woman—the divine entity, the goddess, whatever she was—sighed at last. Long and deep, like a parent finally giving up on convincing a stubborn child.

“Listen,” she said, voice losing some of its cosmic weight. “You don’t have much time. Your body is filled with poison and you need to go back. You’re slowly returning—looks like your people are trying really hard to save you.”

Elara glanced down at herself.

Her form was becoming transparent. Not dramatically—just a little. But yeah, slightly. Like watching frost melt on a window, edges going translucent, substance fading incrementally.

She looked back at the woman.

“So if I die this time, I won’t come here, right?”

The woman nodded. “Yeah. You came here this time because you’re not completely dead. You’re between life and death—suspended in that space where the body hasn’t given up but the soul hasn’t fully committed to staying. It’s rare. Usually, it’s one or the other.”

She paused, expression growing more serious.

“The original Elara won’t come back this time. She’s gone—dissolved, recycled, at peace. So now that you’re sure of that, please try to *stay alive* and make sure those things that happened don’t repeat.”

Elara tilted her head slightly, watching her own hand fade another fraction.

“And if I follow your rules—act with compassion I don’t feel, treat people as more than resources, optimize with ethical constraints—what do I get?”

The woman sighed again. Actually sighed, like divine patience was being tested to its absolute limit.

“Fine. If you follow the path, make this life *good*—not just efficient, but genuinely better for the people around you—when you come to the natural end of your lifespan, when you die of old age or natural causes rather than assassination…” She paused. “I’ll grant you your biggest wish.”

Elara processed this.

“Biggest wish?” Her tone was flat. Skeptical. “I don’t think there is any.”

The woman looked at her—really *looked* at her, with those ancient eyes that had witnessed countless souls across eons.

“Think about it, Elara. Is there *really* nothing? Nothing at all you want? No desire buried so deep you won’t even acknowledge it to yourself?”

Elara opened her mouth to respond—

And paused.

Because there *was* something. Wasn’t there?

Somewhere in the back of her mind, in spaces she didn’t examine because examination felt dangerous, there existed a want so fundamental she’d built her entire personality around its absence.

To understand.

To *feel* what others felt.

To know—just once, just for a moment—what connection actually meant instead of just intellectually modeling it.

But that was impossible. Alexithymia wasn’t curable. Neural architecture didn’t rewire itself. Wishing for normal emotional processing was like wishing to be a different person entirely.

Wasn’t it?

The woman watched these thoughts cross Elara’s face—or whatever passed for a face in this translucent, fading form—and smiled slightly.

“Think about it,” she repeated. “You have time. Not much, but some.”

Before Elara could respond, the falling sensation hit.

That swift, stomach-dropping pull of consciousness being yanked back into a body it had briefly abandoned.

“Ah,” Elara said, almost conversational despite the circumstances, “this falling feeling is too irritating.”

The woman’s laugh followed her down into darkness:

“*Goodbye, impossible girl. Try not to die immediately after all this effort.*”

Then—nothing.

Just falling.

And falling.

And—

.

.

.

—

Muffled voices. Distant but growing clearer.

“—pulse is strengthening—”

“—Your Highness, can you hear—”

“—someone get the physician, NOW—”

Elara’s eyes opened slowly. Everything was blurry. Shapes moved above her—dark blobs that gradually resolved into faces.

Demerti’s face appeared first, hovering directly above her, eyes red-rimmed and wet. Actually *wet* with tears that hadn’t quite spilled over yet. His expression was caught between relief and breakdown, like a man who’d been holding himself together through sheer willpower and had just run out.

Behind him, five beast knights stood in ready positions—the core team she’d personally selected. Their ears were forward, alert. Their expressions were carefully controlled, but their tails betrayed them: twitching, lashing, coiled tight with tension that was only now beginning to release.

Elara blinked a few times, bringing the world into focus.

“What happened to you?” she asked, voice rough from disuse. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

That broke him.

Demerti’s face crumpled and tears actually fell—streaming down his cheeks as he grabbed her hand with both of his, squeezing probably harder than he realized.

“Your Highness, at last you’re awake! God, I was so worried—we were so worried—” His voice cracked. “Doctor! Doctor, check her! Make sure there’s nothing wrong!”

The physician—Cullens, looking even more exhausted than usual—appeared beside the bed. He took Elara’s wrist with practiced gentleness, fingers finding her pulse, counting silently while his other hand pressed a diagnostic crystal to her forehead.

After a moment, he nodded.

“There’s some weakness. Significant magical depletion. She’ll need rest and nutrient-rich foods for the next week. But…” He smiled, actually smiled, relief clear on his face. “She’s fine now. The poison has fully metabolized. The magical overflow damage is healing. She’s fine.”

“Very good, very good!” Demerti was already pulling Elara into a sitting position, movements gentle but urgent. “Now let’s move. Your Highness, please, we need to get you functional—there’s so much work piled up—”

Elara let herself be pulled upright, still too disoriented to properly resist.

Wait.

She’d just woken up from a *death-like situation* where she’d literally had a conversation with a goddess about the nature of suffering and cosmic justice, and this damn bastard was immediately pulling her to do *work*?

She really wanted to ask that so-called goddess: *Is THIS what you meant by ’people worried about me’?*

But then Demerti practically dragged her out of the bed—supporting her weight carefully but moving with unmistakable purpose—and guided her down the corridor toward her office.

The door opened.

Elara stopped dead.

Iris sat slumped in a chair, glamour dropped, her real appearance showing. Her hair looked like someone had grabbed fistfuls and pulled in random directions—completely ruffled, sticking up at odd angles, bits of it falling into her face. Dark circles under her eyes. Clothes rumpled. Expression hovering somewhere between exhausted and homicidal.

She looked like death.

Beside her, on Elara’s desk, three *mountains* of paperwork had accumulated. Not metaphorical mountains. Actual, physical stacks of documents that towered precariously, threatening to avalanche at any moment.

Elara stared.

Turned slowly to look at Demerti.

“How many days was I away?”

Demerti avoided her eyes, suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall.

“About three days, Your Highness. We were *so* worried about you.”

Three days.

THREE DAYS.

And somehow, in that time, her administrative responsibilities had spawned enough paperwork to bury a small building.

Iris lifted her head with visible effort. Her voice came out hoarse, cracked, barely above a whisper:

“Your Highness. Welcome back. Please. *Please* take this.” She gestured weakly at the desk. “I’ve been pretending to be you. Making all your public appearances. Maintaining the facade. But Demerti kept bringing documents for ’your’ review and I couldn’t actually *make* any real decisions so I just kept deferring everything and now there’s—” She made a helpless gesture at the paper mountains. “—*this*.”

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