Chapter 439

Chapter 439

The swords floating in the hall began to hum where they hung.

Arnold stopped in his tracks and turned around, his eyes locking straight onto Norton. The humming meant his eldest brother's mental power was spiking out of control—Norton had always had the best control over his mental power out of all of them, and even those subtle slips had only happened once in a while when he was a kid.

Truth was, every time his brother lost control, he hid it well. If Baide hadn't deliberately picked those moments to mock him, Arnold never would've noticed a single one.

Arnold stood there frozen for a second, then turned and headed back toward Norton. His pace was neither fast nor slow, but the occasional stumbling step gave away the mess going on inside him. It'd been ages since he'd made sounds like that when walking—staying quiet had been carved into his bones like instinct since he was a kid.

But now, he didn't even want to keep up that instinct anymore. If Baide were here, he'd probably raise an eyebrow and sneer, saying no wonder he got his arm bitten off by the King Insect as a kid—he'd sucked at stealth back then, and he hadn't gotten much better since.

Just thinking about it made it feel like Baide's voice was ringing in his ears. What a pain.

Arnold's mind started wandering all over the place. These past few days, he'd been running around like a headless chicken, constantly thinking about the past—none of it good.

His favorite sword was back in the shop for repairs again. His eldest brother's mental power was suffocating, and he couldn't beat it. His adjutant never shut up. Baide was annoying and kept popping into his head. The air was too dry.

Finally, he thought—if only Ye Mo were still around.

Arnold climbed the steps and stopped two or three steps below Norton.

He clung to that fragile thread of hope again, studying the sword carefully, just like he'd done countless times before, lingering where Ye Mo had disappeared.

This sword was dead too. The blue gem on the hilt had gone dull—just an ordinary stone, nowhere near as famous as the one on Yinghui's hilt.

There was nothing special about the sword either. One look at the material and you could tell how many impurities it had, and the craftsmanship was rough. The only reason it hadn't been scrapped was probably that the Grath who'd used it died pretty early. But overall, there was nothing special about it—until today, it'd just been tossed in some corner of the royal vault.

Arnold couldn't see anything special about it, only noticing there was a small lion inside the gem. Maybe because of all the time that had passed, its edges weren't sharp anymore, just a little blurry.

The name carved on it was—Yisang·Grath.

He remembered that name—an ancestor who'd made his name before the Grath nation was even founded. He really had died young. The few generations of Grath around the founding had all died early from constant war and endless fighting.

The lion wasn't anything special either. At some point, people started linking lions with the Grath, and his eldest brother's choice of pet only made that stereotype worse. Wouldn't be surprised if some bored Grath had wasted his mental power decorating his sword with a gem like that.

A weird thought suddenly popped into Arnold's head—maybe this sword had survived because its owner had really treasured it?

In all kinds of records and memorial halls, the Grath's swords showed up all the time.

A sword stayed with a Grath from birth to death. When they were born, a short sword was placed in their cradle as a gift from their parents. When they formed a bond, the sword became part of them, given to their lover. After they had kids, the sword became a quiet shield of protection and love, placed beside the child. When they died, the sword served as their unspoken tombstone and grave goods.

But here's the thing that went against common sense—the Grath didn't really cherish their swords.

Especially during wartime, a Grath's sword was basically disposable.

It was just that—with such short lives, mostly spent fighting—they could hardly find anything else to represent them. So the sword, as part of them, carried that weight.

Unless the sword meant something personal to its owner.

Arnold looked at Norton, waiting quietly.

For a second, Arnold felt like he was back in the past—back when he'd lost his parents and siblings, lost and terrified, with only Norton by his side, forcefully propping up his trembling back and ordering him to keep going.

Norton reached out, like he was about to touch the gem, but then pulled his hand back, eyes dropping like he was thinking something over.

It went on so long that Arnold couldn't help pushing, "Brother—"

Only then did Norton look up. Their eyes met, and Arnold instinctively dropped his head, avoiding Norton's gaze.

Norton's voice came from right next to him.

"Arnold, go continue your work."

That was him telling Arnold to leave. Arnold raised his head again, but his feet stayed planted. His gut told him the key might be in this sword.

Norton didn't look away either. He stared at Arnold without a word, but Arnold could almost hear Norton's voice—Arnold, stand up. As your big brother, I'll carry everything.

Then came Baide's voice, dripping with amusement—Coward, gonna dump everything on your big brother again?

Baide was nasty, but he wouldn't say that.

Arnold wanted to say something, opened his mouth, but no sound came out. So he dropped his head again.

Norton watched him, waiting for Arnold to obey and walk away, until he was out of sight.

But Arnold didn't move. He felt angry for no clear reason—whether at himself or Norton, he didn't know. "Brother, I want to stay here."

Norton looked at him. There was a hint of anger in Arnold's voice, but he still didn't dare raise his head to meet his brother's eyes.

"Raise your head."

He watched Arnold, still with that same expression. "Very well, then stay by my side."

With that, he withdrew his gaze and, without hesitation, grasped the sword hilt. His mental power followed immediately, violently surging through the blade.

The sword, tempered by the mental power of an ancestor, resisted the touch of another Grath, emitting an even more intense hum.

But a sword already dead—no matter how domineering its former master had been—could only wail in lament before Norton's mental power.

Norton controlled his mental power, tentatively wrapping it around the blue gem on the hilt. The moment he touched it, he felt the familiar mental power more clearly than before.

Found it, he thought.

Norton's mental power carefully encircled the gem. The trace of mental power sealed within seemed to sense something and gradually stirred, responding.

Then, soothed, it curled up obediently within the gem.

A long time ago—so long ago that it was when Norton had first detected the fluctuations of time and space around Ye Mo—he had been thinking.

The Grath always seemed trapped by their own power, troubled by their ever-strengthening mental force. But what about Ye Mo? Had Ye Mo fully mastered the mysteries of time and space?

Arnold had said that time and space favored Cyril, turning his future toward a better direction.

So, would time and space always favor his Cyril? Would Cyril ultimately be blessed by time and space, attaining happiness and joy, or would he, because of this extraordinary gift and uncontrollable power, become lost in the chaotic and mysterious currents of time?

Cyril had crossed time and space to come to his side—so, might he also cross time and space again, leaving his side?

Greater power brought greater risk. Norton couldn't say whether death or being lost in time was the better ending.

He only knew that such a future, such a possibility, he could not accept.

At that moment, a thought had secretly taken root in his heart—he wanted Cyril to remain by his side forever. He wanted Cyril's future to always turn toward a better direction.

Norton had simulated and deduced it thousands upon thousands of times in his mind. Time and space were hardly the Grath's domain, but having heard Theodore's debriefing and, through Ye Mo's mental power, he had also glimpsed part of the mysteries of time and space.

His mental power had already grown to unprecedented vastness—far more immense than that of Cyril, who had once lain alone on that planet.

With overwhelming power to pry the door open, plus a trace of Cyril's mental power as a guide and anchor, maybe he could reach the same stretch of time and space.

Can he do it? Norton didn't know either.

Without hesitation, he poured his mental force into the gemstone.

The sudden surge of mental force startled Arnold, and he instinctively stepped back, but then reached out and firmly gripped Norton's arm, as if, even at the center of this mental storm, he could rely on sheer human strength to keep himself safe.

Norton couldn't spare a thought for Arnold. He closed his eyes, his hair, overgrown from days of neglect, whipping wildly in the raging mental force.

Grath had never had any faith, trusting no one but the sword in his own hand—but if there really were gods, then please, gods, keep watching over Cyril.

...

Yisang had waited outside so long that he couldn't help but take the gemstone off his sword hilt, replace it with the one Ye Mo had given him, and tweak and tighten it twice with his dagger before Ye Mo finally appeared. He hurried over to meet him. "You're so slow."

Ye Mo shot back, not buying it, "It's clearly Ambrose who's slow. He even made me stay with Elijah..."

And went on about all sorts of odd stuff.

"Ambrose definitely has his plans. Things are about to get busy—you behave and stick with Elijah."

Yisang adjusted his sword, finally realizing that no matter how he gripped it, he couldn't get the gemstone to show at just the right angle.

He re-gripped the sword. The gemstone was still a bit loose; he'd have a technician adjust it later. He reached out to ruffle Ye Mo's hair, then slid his hand down to the back of his neck. "I brought you something good too. Those people really know how to live. Come on, let's go see—"

Before he could finish, he stopped mid-step. The moment he looked down, the blue gemstone on his sword hilt cracked in an instant—in just a heartbeat, a dense web of hairline fractures spread across its surface, and the little lion inside shattered into pieces.

Yisang frowned, turned the hilt over, and examined it closely.

Ye Mo didn't think much of it—Arnold was always breaking his toys. "You probably pressed too hard when you put it on."

Yisang frowned. He hadn't used any force. Not even a little.