Chapter 7: The Last Wish

The day Derek regained his power and attacked Phoenix Ridge, the fog was thick. He held the phoenix coven leader by the neck, dangling him over the cliff, smiling cruelly as he demanded Lila’s whereabouts.

The scene was brutal—Derek’s hand tight around the old phoenix’s throat, the wind whipping off the Blue Ridge Mountains, the scent of pine sharp in the air. The fog swirled around them, hiding the blood.

The phoenix coven leader’s face was dark and purple, stammering, "Lila’s soul scattered long ago. You still have a wisp of her essence to recreate in a hundred years. After she stabbed you, she turned the sword on herself and slit her own throat."

The words hung in the air, heavy as a funeral bell. Derek’s grip loosened, shock and pain flickering across his face.

Derek’s expression after hearing this was as devastated as when he was stabbed by Lila at their wedding a thousand years ago.

He looked like a man struck by lightning—frozen, hollowed out. I wanted to reach for him, but I knew he wouldn’t let me.

Pale and confused, he looked up at me helplessly, his lips moving silently. I understood; he said, "How could this be?"

His voice was a whisper, a plea. I wished I could answer, but there was nothing left to say.

These immortals and gods always believe fate is above all emotions. Lila truly loved Derek; perhaps their first meeting wasn’t intentional, but later she was used by the celestial council.

It was a cruel game, one neither of them could win. I saw the truth, even if Derek never would.

For fate, Lila stabbed Derek, then died for love.

It was the oldest story in the book—love and duty, sacrifice and regret. I hated it, even as I understood.

Such a story, yet I felt sad for Derek, because after so many years together, Lila never truly knew him.

She loved the idea of him, the legend. She never saw the man beneath the mask.

He was indeed the strongest dark lord, but he never had the ambition to unite the three realms.

All he wanted was to be loved, to be chosen. It was so simple, and yet so impossible.

Derek asked me, "How could this be?"

His eyes searched mine, desperate for an answer. I could only shake my head.

Yes, how could this be? His thousand years of obsession and hatred have nowhere to go. If Lila is gone, he’ll never get an answer, never let go of the past.

He was trapped in a story with no ending, a question with no answer. I pitied him, even as I bled.

But fate is fickle. In this confusion, Derek and I both remembered the tail feather he plucked from Lila when they first met. Lila had turned it into a bracelet on Derek’s wrist, telling him it contained a wisp of her essence.

The bracelet glowed faintly in the dim light, like Christmas lights in a lonely living room, a reminder of everything lost and everything still possible.

I watched Derek touch the fiery red bracelet on his wrist, then look at me with deep, searching eyes.

His gaze was heavy, full of unspoken demands. I knew what he wanted before he spoke.

Yes, I could use my blood for five hundred years to recreate him; why couldn’t I use it for five hundred years to recreate Lila?

The logic was simple, brutal. I was a tool, a means to an end. My heart twisted, but I nodded.

At first, I was imprisoned in the Hidden Monster Valley.

The cell was cold and damp, the air thick with the scent of mold and graffiti scrawled across rusted iron bars, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Derek visited every day, his eyes never leaving my chest.

Derek held me tightly in his arms, apologizing while cutting open my chest with a scalpel, his hands cold as the ER at midnight. I looked at him gently and said, "It’s useless, Derek. No matter how endlessly my hearts can grow, there is a limit. These five hundred years have exhausted all my energy; I don’t have enough blood to recreate another immortal body."

My voice was soft, resigned. I wanted him to understand, to let me go. But he wouldn’t listen.

Derek held me, taking my drop of blood, saying, "We have to try to know. Morgan, help me, just treat it as repaying a favor."

He pressed the blade to my skin, his hands shaking. I saw the desperation in his eyes, the fear of losing her again.

I didn’t reply. He saved my life, gave me a human form, showed me the three realms. Without him, I’d have died in that cramped cave—a debt I could never repay.

I remembered the promise I made to myself, the oath I swore in the dark. I would pay my debt, no matter the cost.

But five hundred years, 182,500 days, one drop of blood each day—I endured 182,500 days of heart-cutting pain. Ordinary monsters suffer unbearably and lose their souls after one cut. I’m a monster, can endlessly grow hearts, can provide blood.

The math became a kind of comfort—a way to measure my suffering, to give it shape. Each Thanksgiving, each Fourth of July, another year gone, another drop given. Each day was a victory, a step closer to the end.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t hurt.

The pain was always there, a constant companion. I learned to live with it, to hide it behind a smile.

Each time it hurt, I thought of the first time I met him, the light pouring into the cave behind him, enveloping me. That was the first light I ever saw.

That memory kept me alive, even as everything else faded.

We both know, I’ve long since repaid my debt.

But some debts can never be paid in full. I kept going, because I didn’t know how to stop.