White lilies and chrysanthemums filled the entire room. A serene silence hung heavy with oppression.

A squad of armored soldiers stood rigid in the corners. White cloth bound their armor and spears. They stared at the open coffin in the center, surrounded by white blooms. Not a breath escaped their lips.

"Even after all these years, still so beautiful... heh."

I stood beside the coffin, a bright red handprint on my cheek. Gazing silently at the girl inside, I murmured those words.

The lovely girl lay with closed eyes. Her silver-white hair spilled across the sheets. A white blanket draped gently over her body. Her hands clasped over her chest. Her face, once painterly, was deathly pale. Her pink lips tinged faintly purple. Yet she remained enchanting as a sleeping beauty.

I rubbed my stinging cheek. After staring at her awhile, I turned to Hawthorn beside me.

"Too alike."

I compared the girl and the sword, muttering under my breath.

The girl in the coffin looked strikingly like Hawthorn. At first glance, they seemed identical—only their ages differed. Hawthorn resembled a fourteen-year-old. The one here was nearly an adult.

"Never expected this. Nearly three centuries, and we meet like this... I remember clearly. Your first words to me were about preparing my coffin... but now you're the one inside it."

Disrespectful as it was, I reached to touch her cheek. Before my fingers brushed her skin, Hawthorn seized my wrist.

"Do not desecrate the dead."

Hawthorn glared at me.

"...Let go. I need to examine her."

Where she gripped, my skin sizzled like fire. I met Hawthorn's eyes coldly. She hesitated, then released me. Instantly, the burn healed before my eyes.

My hand brushed the girl's cheek. My brow furrowed. "...Weakening curses and spells. Fatal blow: a shattered heart. And this shoddy fake Demon Race curse... heh, Hawthorn. Was it your own people?" I turned to her, standing blank-faced, and smiled.

"...

She stayed silent.

"Ha. Not us Demon Race, then. Any decent Champion could ignore this curse—let alone Daenerys. Good. Confirmed it's not our doing."

I withdrew my hand, scratched my head, and sighed. Hawthorn frowned beside me. "...You traveled all this way just to check if your Demon Race killed my master?"

"What else?" I spread my hands, grinning. "I'm the Overlord. When I heard Daenerys fell, I thought some junior finally did it. Prepared a big reward. Turned out to be frauds. Had to confirm our involvement. Lucky—zero connection."

I traced Daenerys's cheek in the coffin. "Such a waste. A beauty sacrificed. Three centuries ago, you weren't this strong. Casually lending power matched my full strike then. Spit it out—what happened?"

"...You're right. My strength now dwarfs my past self." Hawthorn's eyelids trembled. "I move like this today—all thanks to my master."

"Hey... you're not saying Daenerys spent three centuries helping you take human form?"

I froze. After a pause, I stared at Hawthorn in shock.

"...Yes." She nodded, gazing at Daenerys like a lost child. She bit her lip, voice thick. "I gained awareness three centuries ago, weak then... Master noticed me. She poured her power into me for three hundred years. Made me stronger. Helped me be born faster. To me, she was my mother too."

"...What a foolish girl."

I sighed deeply.

Champion artifacts remain tools at heart, tiered by power. The strongest possess self-aware spirits.

But evolving from awareness to human form takes centuries—even with aid. The owner must constantly feed the artifact their strength. This leaves them dangerously weak.

Humans, even mighty ones, live under a millennium without immortality. Champions relying on artifacts max out at five hundred years.

Daenerys spent most of her life shaping Hawthorn. She hid her fading power by vanishing from the world.

And then... I knew what came next.

"Daenerys sacrificed everything to give you form. Only to end like this."

I looked at her peaceful face in the coffin, smiling bitterly.

"So. Do you hate that Champion?"

"...Who?"

"The one from yesterday morning."

I turned to Hawthorn, malice in my voice.

"...I feel nothing beyond my master. He was just a temporary host... A good kid, but challenging you without mastering his power? Heh. Too naive."

"Then why ask me to spare him?"

"...He wasn't evil at heart."

"I see."

I nodded. Glancing at the oblivious soldiers, an idea sparked in my mind.

"Hey, Hawthorn."

"What?"

"Want to make a deal?"

"A deal?"

Hawthorn stared at me, bewildered, echoing the word.