Supreme Hunter of Beautiful Souls
Chapter 224 224: The outcome of each of the three girls.

[Irelia…]

A few hours after a battle she didn't remember starting, Irelia sat in a makeshift tent. She was far enough from the front lines to breathe—but not far enough to forget the smell of blood, smoke, and dust that still permeated the air. Her hands, covered in fresh cuts, trembled slightly around a bowl of warm water. The reddish foam that accumulated on the surface was a silent reminder: she had killed. Again.

But for the first time since she had awakened in that body, she did not feel strange inside it.

The words of a messenger echoed in her recent memory—maps scribbled with urgency, enemy positions, retreat routes. Orders she had given without knowing where such authority came from. The soldiers obeyed. Not out of obligation. But out of respect. Out of faith. Out of love?

She wasn't sure.

"I didn't choose this," she whispered to the water before her. Her reflection gave her a weary look, but with a new sparkle—a glimpse of presence. She was still young, there were still doubts, but now... less vertigo.

She rose from the tent with steady steps, sword sheathed at her waist, her face marked by the grime of war. As she passed through the camp, the soldiers noticed her. Some stood up. Others just nodded, silent. There was something in the way they looked at her—not fear, but recognition. As if they knew who she was, even when she herself did not yet know.

Irelia stopped in front of a sergeant covered in bruises and mud. His gaze was empty, his shoulders weighing more than his body could bear.

"How many survived?"

"Less than half of the eastern detachment, my lady." He hesitated. "But we held the line. And we saved many... thanks to your leadership."

She did not respond immediately. She felt something grow inside her chest—not anger, not sadness. But a silent need. An ancient impulse. To stay. To continue.

"I am not a lady," she said at last. Her voice came out firm, almost harsh. "I am just someone who is still here."

And for the soldiers, that was enough.

Later, as night fell, Irelia walked among the ruins of the old fortress—now nothing more than broken stones and hot ashes. Children and wounded huddled in corners protected by shadows, sheltering from the cold and fear. The crying was muffled. The silence weighed heavier than the screams.

The war was not over.

But inside her, something had changed.

She was no longer just a frightened girl lost in a body she did not recognize. She was not just a reflection of others' expectations, nor a puppet of the story someone had written for her.

She was someone forged in the silence between stolen memories and the choice to continue.

She still didn't understand how she had gotten there, nor what life belonged to her—whether it was that of a revered warrior or a girl dragged along by fate. But that didn't matter as much as it had before.

What mattered was staying alive. One day at a time.

Until true memories formed—not by imposition, but by experience.

On the horizon, the drums of the next battle began to sound, low and deep like distant thunder.

Irelia raised her eyes.

And she walked—not because she had to, but because she had finally chosen to continue.

[Sylphie…]

The snow fell like soft ashes, gentle and indifferent to what had happened. When Sylphie finally stopped walking, the world seemed suspended—a breath held between an end and something that had not yet begun. Her boots were soaked, her skin cold, her hair stuck to her face in heavy strands of moisture. The male figure—that shadow shaped like Kael—had disappeared hours ago. Perhaps he had never been there. Perhaps it had been just the final test.

But something inside her remained.

The voices of the mirrors fell silent. The incessant restlessness that had gnawed at her was gone, as if it had dissolved with the mist. All that remained was the muffled sound of snow on the ground and the quiet rhythm of her own breathing.

She sat down on a rock half-hidden by ice and stared at her hands. For the first time in a long time, they were steady. No light flickered beneath her fingers. No spark pulled her in directions she did not understand.

Only silence.

But it was not the silence of loneliness. It was the silence of peace.

The kind that comes after the storm, when the body stops fighting, when the mind quiets down and the heart just... listens.

Sylphie closed her eyes.

And she remembered.

The covered mirror. The real face behind the illusions. The moment when, faced with all the versions of herself—the queen, the martyr, the murderer—she chose to be none of them. Not another. Just herself.

Not because it was easier, but because, in the end, it was the only choice that didn't destroy her.

She smiled. Small. Fragile. But true.

"I'm not what you expected me to be. And that... is okay."

The snow thickened. It danced in the air as if the world were celebrating in silence. And for the first time in a long time, she didn't want to run away. She didn't have to mold herself to expectations that didn't belong to her. She didn't feel the urge to be anything else. Every reflection she had seen in the mirrors — every possibility of identity, of destiny — had died. Not because she destroyed them with magic. But because she accepted them. And in accepting them, she let them go.

She would not be a savior.

Nor a villain.

Nor a name written in legend.

She would just be Sylphie.

Afraid, sometimes. Courageous, sometimes. Doubtful, sometimes. And certain, sometimes.

And that — in itself — would be enough.

Up ahead, a light broke through the clouds. Not a mystical explosion. But the sun. Simple, beautiful, natural. Warming the ice, clearing a path through the dense forest ahead. An invitation. Not a command.

A new beginning.

Sylphie rose slowly, as if returning to her own skin after a long absence. And as she took her first step, she felt the magic return.

But not as something that dragged her along.

It was calm, serene—as if saying, "I'm here, if you need me."

For the first time, the magic was not a prison, nor an imposed destiny. It was a companion. An extension of her, not her replacement.

She walked.

And as her feet sank lightly into the soft snow, Sylphie smiled. The world was waiting for her. But more importantly, she was also ready to meet it.

[Amelia…]

The coldness of the cell still lingered with her, even hours after she had left that place.

Amelia walked down an ancient stone corridor, following the sound of a distant bell. The key still weighed heavily in her hand. She did not open a literal door. There were no visible locks. But when she touched the key to her chest, she felt the world around her tremble.

The cell disappeared.

And in its place came the real weight.

She now saw the moments that would lead to that version of herself—the cold, cynical woman, determined to survive at any cost. And she understood why.

The world was cruel. Kindness was punished. Sacrifice was demanded without recognition. Love was an exploitable weakness.

And yet...

She refused to give in.

She walked through a forgotten temple, where echoes of past decisions lingered on the walls. Shadows watched her. Not enemies, but fragments. Moments. People she had saved. People she had let die.

She stopped in front of a double door. Tall, heavy. Behind it, a choice.

She could hear the words of her future self echoing in the silence:

"The choice is who you are willing to let die in order to remain good."

But now, with the hot key in her palm, Amelia responded with a truth she did not know she possessed before:

"And the one I refuse to let die... is myself."

She opened the door.

And she found an altar. Simple. Empty.

Above it floated a circular mirror—like the eye of a god watching in silence.

Amelia approached.

In the reflection, she saw her face as it was now—tired, yes, but alive. Determined. Capable.

She would not be the woman in the cell.

But she couldn't just be the naive young woman who believed that love, justice, and courage would always be enough.

She would be something else.

A woman who would dare to exist between extremes. Who would protect others — without forgetting herself.

She held out the key to the mirror.

And it didn't break.

It opened.

Light poured out. But it wasn't blinding. It was soft. Like a winter sun after a long night.

When Amelia left the temple hours later, her feet felt steadier. The world was still cruel. But she wasn't weak.

Now she knew what real strength was.

And from then on, every choice would be hers.

Not a future version's. Not a reflection's.

Hers....

"It looks like it's over..." Eleonor commented, with a half-smile on her face as she watched the three girls in front of her. "It was faster than I imagined."

The three didn't say a word. They stood still, firm, their eyes fixed on hers. There was something there—not anger, but a silent strength. An unshakeable certainty.

Eleonor tilted her head slightly, trying to keep her tone light.

"That look... are you angry with me?" she teased, as if it were still a game.

But none of them smiled.

The air between them seemed frozen.

And then it came, clear as the sound of a bell in the mist:

"The agreement."

Not said aloud. But in their eyes. In the silence.

"Keep it."

Eleonor felt a chill run up the back of her neck. For the first time, the smile faltered on her lips. The lightness gave way to an ancient weight—one that only those who swear something before the truth know.

She looked from one to the other. Irelia, her face dirty with ashes and her eyes steady as blades. Sylphie, serene as snow, but with the look of one who no longer bows down. And the third—yet to be described, but there, as real as the others.

None of them needed to say anything else.

The time for illusion was over.

Now all that remained was the choice.

And the promise made.

Eleonor took a deep breath, her smile completely fading, and for the first time... she nodded seriously.

"All right," she said, in a low voice. "A deal is a deal."