Twelve years later...

  The joyous chime of the church bell echoed through the air, carrying with it a melody of celebration. White doves soared into the heavens, and flower petals rained down upon the jubilant crowd to honor the newlyweds. It was a scene of bliss, a perfect moment of happiness. Yet, tucked away in the quiet solitude of the church garden, a golden-haired girl sat alone, her delicate shoulders shaking as silent tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Her head throbbed, and when she reached up, her fingers came away stained with blood. But the sharp, physical pain paled in comparison to the deep ache in her chest, one that refused to subside.

  "We don't want your blessing! Go away, Trash Goddess!!"

  The words replayed in her mind, each syllable like a dagger carving deeper into her heart.

  "Princess Celia?"

  The gentle voice startled her. Her head snapped up, and panic flashed across her face. She scrambled to hide in the nearby bushes, her golden locks peeking through the foliage. Peering through the leaves, she scanned the garden for the source of the voice.

  "You're a hundred years too early to hide from me." The words came from behind her.

  Startled, Celia jumped out of the bushes, hiding her face with whatever was in her hands. But soon, a warm, calloused hand reached out to hers, gentle but firm. "Let me see," he said softly.

  The golden-haired girl hesitated, but his patience and kindness left her no room for refusal. Slowly, he peeled her hand away, revealing the wound on her forehead.

  He was shocked and angry. "Who did this?"

  Celia averted her gaze, her voice trembling. "Don’t worry, Lord Avalon. It’s... it’s nothing. I—I just fell. Silly me, right?" She forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow even to her own ears.

  Avalon's eyes narrowed as they flicked toward the church in the distance. "That’s not a wound you got from falling," he said. "Did they do this to you?"

  The memory of a chalice hurled toward her, the cold disdain in their eyes, replayed in her mind. Her body shivered, and her voice came out weak. "I said it’s nothing!" She pushed against him with all the strength she could muster, but her frailty was no match for a seasoned warrior like Avalon.

  "Let’s treat your wound first," he said gently, ignoring her protest. "When you’re ready, you can tell me what happened."

  Hesitating for a moment, Celia finally nodded. But inside, her thoughts churned with self-loathing. What use was a goddess rejected by her own people?

  It had been 12 years since her Father passed away. Losing its guardian deity, their little realm. Hilfheim, pleaded with her Mother to protect them from Adam's army. Though weak and not suited for war, Mother raised her banner, defending her realm with much bravery.

  In those years, Cleo had risen as a shining star—a fierce war goddess who inspired hope in the hearts of their people. Her victories were many, repelling countless attacks from Adam's army.

  And then there was Celia. Meek, fragile Celia. A goddess with nothing to offer but the beauty she inherited from her mother, a beauty that seemed only to invite scorn and jealousy. She had no strength befitting of a god. Her magic power was abysmal, comparable even for the weakest mortals. Worse still, Celia lacked the courage to step forward and fight.

  No wonder the people of Hilfheim branded her as The Trash Goddess.

  In the castle's clinic, Avalon gently treated the wound on Celia's head. The room was devoid of warmth, save for his presence; the maids and nurses had long since abandoned any respect for the young goddess. They avoided her like a plague, their disdain unspoken yet palpable. To them, she was a traitor—a burden unworthy of their service.

  Celia broke the silence, “Lord Avalon... what use is a goddess if her people don’t need her?” She hesitated, staring at her hands. “What’s the purpose of my life if no one needs me?”

  Avalon paused, setting down the forceps. He turned to her, “Is your life truly defined by other people?”

  Celia blinked, her brows knitting together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  Avalon leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. His silver hair caught the dim light, “Princess Celia, if your life as a goddess is no longer needed by your people, wouldn’t that mean... you’re free?”

  “Free?” She tilted her head.

  “Yes,” Avalon said with a sigh, his voice heavy with the weariness of centuries. “If you’re considered useless, then no one can use you. You are no longer bound by their expectations. You have the rarest gift of all, Princess Celia: the freedom to choose your own destiny. That is the most precious treasure any god could hope for—freedom over their fate.”

  For a moment, Celia stared at him, her lips slightly parted in surprise. Freedom is the gift that every god wants. Well, Avalon wasn't wrong. That gift was given to Celia on the surface. However, beneath this shell of the pretty but good-for-nothing goddess, lay a tormented soul like many others. The foolish soul who had been imprisoned by the curse of immortality.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Ever since a year ago, this body was Celia no more. The soul inhabiting it was something else entirely—a fragmented being from a shattered future, the Nameless Pathfinder whose body was destroyed by Adam's spear.

  Thinking that her soul would finally be free, but destiny cheated on time. To correct the future, avoiding the doom that awaited the world in the hands of Adam, the world pieced together a fragment of The Nameless's soul. Knowing that nobody could ever host such a powerful soul in the present, the world decided to bend the rule of time and sent her to the past, to a poor goddess who poisoned herself to death.

  However, the process was imperfect, leaving the new Celia as a fusion of two identities: the powerless goddess and the battle-scarred Pathfinder. Her existence was now shackled by a deeper, darker fate—the curse of immortality, the endless cycle of the Pathfinder. No matter what she did to end her life or no matter how many assassins tried to kill her, the world would revive Celia. Of course, with a hefty price... a piece of her memory.

  That was now her curse, her fate, her so-called "freedom." To endlessly fight the impossible, in the hope of saving the world from its doomed fate.

  Celia broke into a faint smile. “Geez, you could phrase that a little more nicely, you big jerk.”

  Avalon chuckled, his deep voice resonating in the small room. “Why would I? This is an era of war, not a court full of politics. I don’t have the luxury of sugarcoating my words, even for a princess.”

  Celia huffed lightly, the smallest hint of amusement flickering in her eyes. “Still, you don’t have to call me useless to my face.”

  “And yet, here you are,” Avalon replied, his tone teasing but kind. “Not breaking under the weight of my bluntness. Perhaps there’s more to you than you realize, Princess.”

  Well, true, no words or terrible deeds could break Celia. She had been through even worse. A life that no living beings ever wanted to be. It had been years since the last time she saw her mother, who had been buried by her works... and her lovers. Cleo was away on the battlefield and never came back for years. Everyone avoided her in the castle. And that meant, no one would pay attention to Celia. No one would notice the truth that Celia was no longer the same weak girl they knew.

  "By the way, Step-Daddy, did you bring what I asked?" Celia asked.

  Avalon flinched, "W-What the fuc--! Hey, don't call me that, you ungrateful brat!"

  Celia smirked, her golden eyes gleaming with a dark amusement. "What's wrong with that? You call me useless, so it’s fine, right?" she teased.

  "Ugh, you know, no one messes with a warrior's heart," The old god frowned.

  Celia's thoughts turned, briefly, to her mother. It had been years since she had seen Nightingale, her mother whose grief had driven her to a point of no return. After her father's death, the mother had become consumed by her own sorrow, seeking solace not in her daughters, but in the warmth of fleeting embraces. Each lover seemed to fill the void left by the loss of her husband, and Celia and Cleo were left to the side, ignored and abandoned.

  And then, there was Avalon—this old, worn god who had tried to offer her mother something real, something lasting. But Nightingale, ever the broken woman, had rejected him. Not with malice, but with indifference. She had friend-zoned him so brutally, so completely, that it could be a best-selling comedy novel.

  Well, honestly, Celia felt indebted to Avalon. Her memories were mixed, but she could still clearly how remembered the time Avalon cared for Celia. When her father died, Avalon became Cleo and Celia's father figure, guiding and protecting them in this world. Yet sadly, one person wasn't enough to stop poor Celia to try forfeiting her life and ending up cursed.

  "Here, the latest article about alchemy," the old god gave Celia a beautifully crafted book.

  Celia gleamed, "Yay! It was hard to see this on the bookstore, ever since Adam Forces sieged the Magical Fortress of Halidom," the girl took the book gleefully.

  Avalon raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Celia’s sudden enthusiasm. “Alchemy, huh? The art of turning the mundane into the miraculous—an imitation of divine creation. I suppose human ingenuity is fascinating in its own way.” He paused, his gaze softening as he watched her flip through the pages of the book. “Though it’s not something I’d expect to interest you. You’ve never shown much curiosity for scholarly pursuits before.”

  Celia grinned, though the expression didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s because the ‘me’ you knew before was too busy trying to live up to expectations she could never meet. This me? I get to choose what I care about. Isn't that the freedom you talk about?”

  “Well, I won’t argue with anything that keeps you moving forward, Princess. But tell me, what do you hope to achieve with alchemy? Is it curiosity, or do you have something more in mind?” Avalon probed further.

  Celia flipped the page until finally, she stopped at the main headline in the journal, "The current update of magic theory: the possible future to achieve philosopher stone."

  Avalon noticed the peculiar expression on Celia’s face as her eyes lingered on the image in the journal. His curiosity piqued, but he tread carefully. “The Philosopher’s Stone, huh? The ultimate dream of alchemists is said to grant infinite power and eternal life. A lofty ambition, even for mortals.”

  Celia’s fingers traced the edges of the picture in the book—a young man with sharp, calculating eyes standing proudly beside an intricate alchemical apparatus.

  She chuckled darkly, “Lofty, yes. But sometimes, mortals achieve things gods can’t even fathom. And sometimes... those achievements come at a cost too great to bear.”

  Avalon leaned against the wall, watching her closely. “You speak as though you’ve seen it yourself.”

  Celia didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she closed the book with a soft thud, her golden eyes gleaming with a mixture of intrigue and pain. “Let’s just say I have... an interest in alchemy that goes beyond mere curiosity.”

  “An interest in him, perhaps?” Avalon gestured to the man in the picture. His tone was light, but his gaze was searching.

  Celia’s smile widened, though it was far from warm. “Maybe. Or maybe I just want to see if the Philosopher’s Stone is as powerful as the legends claim. After all, it’s said to defy the natural order. And isn’t that what gods and mortals alike have always sought?”

  Avalon studied her for a moment, then sighed. “Just be careful, Celia. Knowledge is a double-edged sword, especially the kind that tempts you to rewrite the rules of existence.”

  Celia nodded, her expression unreadable. “Don’t worry, old man. I know what I’m doing.”

  As Avalon left the room, a heavy silence settled over Celia. She opened the journal again, her eyes fixated on the image of that man. If she wanted to break the curse of the Pathfinder, she would have to face him sooner or later.

  The mortal who in the future could achieve the feats that no one ever thinks of. The man who would create an army of immortal prisoners, who marched through the war without fear of life.

  Her creator.

  Her number one enemy.

  The Father of the Pathfinder, The Savage Lord.

  “Freedom, huh?” Celia whispered to herself, her dark smile fading into a somber expression. “Let’s see if I can change the future.”