“W-wait. You said the Valkyrie? An Eastern Valkyrie? That’s impossible—like thunder in a cloudless sky.”

Memory rose like mist, and Aphelia’s doubt thickened like ink in water; her gut knew the gentle woman was strong, yet… a legendary Valkyrie, like a myth walking out of moonlight?

“Your memory got handled by her, right? Unless you gave the arts willingly, no one can breach that veil and plunder your martial inheritance—like thieves barred by a jade gate.”

Zhe cut in like a knife through silk, laying bare one of Aphelia’s buried secrets like a stone under swept leaves.

She kept a calm mask like frost on still water, so Zhe sighed like wind past eaves and went on.

“We have the same kind of barrier, though not set by the Valkyrie’s own hand. We get it through the inheritance—like a seal stamped into the soul.”

He tapped his temple, a little pantomime, like a woodpecker pecking bark—absurd yet vivid.

“Even secondhand, the barrier works the same. That’s a miracle—like starlight woven into a net. Of course it’s a miracle; it’s the Valkyrie’s legacy.”

“You’ve said plenty. Why hand me your clan’s secrets, like pearls tossed into a dark pond? And hear me first—I won’t teach you the arts, like a gate that won’t open.”

The more he spoke, the sharper Aphelia’s suspicion rose like a blade under silk; the youth’s face looked mild as spring, yet his intent felt like a knife kept in snow.

Maybe we share the same lineage, she thought; beneath that soft face, she sensed ferocity coiled like a serpent under grass, a scholarly mask she rejected like thorns in the palm.

“Hush. Even a Titleholder could use some patience, like a candle steadying in wind. Let me finish.”

Zhe propped himself up and leaned in, finger to lips like a moon-white blade, eyes narrowed to slits with a smiling curve like a painted fan.

That smile felt wrong, like a crack in porcelain; Aphelia sensed the mania beneath like fire behind paper.

When she stayed silent, he looked pleased like a cat by a warm stove, drew back, restored the gentleman’s mask like a robe smoothed flat, and continued.

“No doubt—you’re stronger than any of us, like a peak above the sea of clouds. You hold the Valkyrie’s core legacy and became a Titleholder. Even without a True Art, this canon can serve as your True Art—sharper than steel. Because, so far, as far as we know, you’re the only one who became a Titleholder after receiving the inheritance—like a lone star in a black sky.”

He stopped cold, a string cut on a zither, as if he knew she would ask and wanted the question to ripen like fruit on a branch; his gaze burned with zeal like a torch in a cave.

“Hmph. Thanks for the praise—like incense offered to an idol. If what you’re saying is real, then your clan must be vast as roots under a mountain, hidden and gripping lifelines in the Eastern lands. How could a clan like that fail to raise a Titleholder with these arts—like a well without water?”

Zhe laughed hard, sound rolling like stones down a slope; he rose, then suddenly struck at Aphelia—step and torque familiar as footprints in snow.

“Ancient Martial Flow—Thrusting Palm!” His shout cracked the air like a whip.

His palm shot out, yet lacked her earlier force—like a wave without a storm; if not for its speed like a darting swallow, Aphelia might’ve ignored it.

In that instant, his face warped like a mask melting by fire, and the twisted grin made her skin prickle like frost at midnight—two men in one face.

Aphelia punched, no holding back, Arcane Power flooding her fist like a river in flood, but without a named Ancient Martial Flow form—only raw force like thunder.

Palm and fist met midair, and power bloomed—like a gale ripping through petals, rockery, and bamboo, a shockwave sweeping the garden like a typhoon.

“You… you’re also a Titleholder?” Her voice ran cool, yet her heart rang like a bell.

She shook her right arm of Arcane Power; the lattice within trembled like a spiderweb in wind, and she pinned Zhe’s strength like a needle on a map.

“Of course… not. Or rather, I was—like ash that once was flame.”

He drew back his palm; a wide black robe hid his hand like night hides a blade. Even when she tried to pierce it, glyphs rose like a glassy lake, blocking her sight with a spell array’s haze.

She readied a question, but he gestured please like a host in a teahouse, and both sat again at the stone table like two cranes by a pond, cups in hand.

“After we got the legacy, we didn’t sit idle like old stones. We did more than you think; we raised Titleholders. But early on, those Titleholders held both the inheritance and their specialized True Arts—oil and fire in one lamp. They clashed, and bodies burst like stars collapsing. For a Titleholder, it was ugly—like mud on a jade seal.”

He shook his head, smile cutting like a thin knife, mocking the dead like crows on a wall.

“After those incidents, the old powers in the clan did more tests—like ants dismantling a hill. In the end, the ‘best’ method was this: before a Titleholder is born, use a shard of his own soul and grant him a second soul—two moons forced into one sky.”

“That’s impossible! With that, they’d be stillborn or fools—like lamps without oil.”

Disgust rose in her like cold from a tomb, but experience hammered logic like a carpenter at a bench; such a crude trick shouldn’t work.

“Don’t look so shocked—drink some tea and cool your fire like dew on leaves.”

Zhe refilled her cup, steam curling like white snakes; the gentleman’s mask returned, all softness like silk over steel.

“It’s full of flaws—like a boat with hairline cracks—but not without ‘success.’ Look at me. Not perfect, but alive, sitting here like a stone you can kick. Do I look like a fool?”

Her surprise froze her like a sparrow midflight; complex light flickered in her eyes like ripples under moonlight, words catching like thorns in the throat.

So his mania made sense—like weeds from poisoned soil—born of that second-soul gambit.

“Then… you said ‘was’ a Titleholder. So now you’re not—like a banner torn by wind?”

He nodded. “That’s where the elders miscounted like merchants with broken abacuses. They thought stuffing more souls into one body spreads the load—like extra pillars under a roof. They forgot the road to becoming a Titleholder piles pressure like a mountain on a reed; it crushes a single soul, let alone two.”

His features wavered again like a face in disturbed water, yet he forced it down like a lid on a boiling pot, wrestling shadows no one else could see.

She saw it all, every tremor, like a hawk catching the twitch of grass.

“I understand. So why tell me all this—like pouring wine on bare earth? Do you think I can change it?”

“Of course. Not now—like a seed not yet spring.”

He smiled, pupils fever-bright like wildfire in dry pines.

“What do you mean…” The unease in her chest spread like ice, and a defensive spell array spun in her palm like a silver wheel, quietly humming like bees.

Even as a Titleholder, she found his instability headache-sharp, like a drumbeat behind the eyes; a man like this could snap like a bowstring.

“Remember the spear Jasmine drove into the magic array? That’s the Valkyrie’s weapon—like a starfallen lance. Only those it recognizes gain its help—like a tiger lending its back. And you are the one it recognized… no, when you got the weapon’s legacy, the Valkyrie had already chosen you as heir—like a seal pressed in wet clay.”

Zhe’s words sped up like rain on tiles; zeal flared in his eyes like coals blown bright, and Aphelia’s array thrummed toward release like a bow at full draw.

“All you need is to join us, accept our help, and we’ll—”

He leaned so close his whisper brushed her ear like a snake in grass.

“Make you… a god.”

The syllables curled like a demon’s breath, stirring raw revulsion like bile, and beneath that, a thin blade of fear like winter water.

“Don’t be absurd!”

Her spell array fired in a snap like lightning, blasting Zhe away like leaves before a squall. He’d once been a Titleholder; she didn’t hold back—killing intent glinted like frost on steel.

“Ah, you caught me off guard—like rain on a clear day. But tell me, weren’t you tempted, even an inch? Becoming a Titleholder felt good, didn’t it—like peering into your origin-spring? Everyone’s taste differs like teas from distant hills, but once you glimpse your root, don’t you want to dive deeper and become—”

“Allow me to refuse!” Her voice cut clean like a sword across silk.