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Where It Begins

Return from Oblivion

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The silence in the hall had stretched on for far too long—like the kind of silence that forces one to count their breaths, each one landing heavily on the chest.

Astia stood beside the pillars, motionless, her face concealed beneath a cloak. If she weren’t breathing, no one would have doubted she was a corpse—a body risen from the depths of darkness.

She had come from a place no one could imagine, a place no one would ever wish to be. Years spent far from the world, from family, from everything she once knew—lost in silence and solitude. Time had lost all meaning there, and even memories of the past could no longer touch her, like withered petals scattered in the wind.

No one ever called that place by its true name. On the celestial tablets, only a number was engraved: nine hundred and ninety-nine—a number that granted her neither heaven nor hell, merely suspending her in limbo, like a tree whose roots had been severed.

And now, after all these years, she had returned. Though she had come home, she was no longer the little girl of the past. The chill of years spent apart had followed her like an invisible shadow, lengthening with every step she took.

Whispers gradually rose from the far end of the hall, each word cutting sharply across her mind like jagged scratches, reminding her of her own fragility.

“Could it really be her?”

“How is she still alive?”

“She’s come back to take revenge on His Imperial Majesty?”

The murmurs slowly died down. All eyes were now fixed upon her.

Astia turned her gaze from beneath the hood, carefully scanning the grand hall. Every strand of mana, every flicker of energy, every subtle movement of those around her—she observed it all. Nothing could go wrong. She had spent far too long pinpointing the exact moment the assassination attempt on the crown prince would occur during the coronation.

Today was the day her older brother, Elin, would undergo his first coronation. To others, Astia was an intruder who might seek to steal the throne from her brother. But to her, the throne held no meaning. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was saving Elin’s life.

Suddenly, Astia sensed an unfamiliar mana. When her eyes met her father’s, they widened, and for a moment her breath caught in her throat.

At that very instant, both her father and brother stood upon the coronation dais. The imperial crown now rested upon Elin’s head—the reigning emperor had removed his own and placed it upon his son’s.

Both father and son were stunned to see their long-lost daughter and sister, especially Rian.

When Astia looked into her father’s face, she could not comprehend it. She had believed she alone had suffered through all these years, but now she saw that his eyes, too, were weary and half-lidded, dark circles beneath them that no cosmetic could conceal. His face was pale and lifeless; his head constantly heavy and dizzy, every small movement met with vertigo. Breathing came slow and labored, and even glancing around required effort. Only now did Astia realize that pain and torment had not rested solely on her shoulders—her father, too, had borne his share every night, every moment, through sleeplessness and worry, like a tree broken by storm.

Something shifted in the air—like a faint thread connected to many places, only its trembling segment visible to Astia’s eyes. It had no sound, no form—merely an unfamiliar sensation that refused to settle.

Astia stepped out from the shadow of the pillar. The hall’s light fell upon her face as the cloak slowly slipped from her head. Her light brown hair floated briefly in the air with her movement; her eyes of the same color gleamed—calm, precise, far too alert. Her expression was emotionless, so much so that her beauty seemed cold and unattainable, like a flower blooming in winter.

Her gaze remained fixed as she traced the thread.

“I’ve found you—”

It sounded more like a conclusion—as though something she had long sought had finally revealed itself.

Shock settled heavily and silently over the faces of those present. Astia was breathtaking—not only for the chill that radiated from her and the utter lack of emotion, but because that very detachment turned her beauty into a threat.

She slowly and deliberately raised her hand, causing everyone to take several worried steps backward in alarm.

Among the countless threads of mana floating in the air—each belonging to one of the people in the hall—Astia selected only one. A thread unlike the others, impure; a discordant blend of sacred energy and darkness—a thin, luminous strand encircled by a murky black halo.

She seized it—calmly, confidently—and the thread trembled under the pressure between her fingers. She followed its trail; it twisted and turned among the surrounding flows of mana, revealing its path until it led directly behind Elin, to the servant standing there. The servant’s appearance was impeccable, his expression profoundly calm; no danger emanated from him. Yet Astia’s eyes suddenly flashed—like a predator that had spotted its prey and would not retreat.

The problem was that Astia did not know how to hide her gaze. Her emotions always moved one step ahead of her. It took only exhaustion, anger, or a serious decision for something in her eyes to change—the very color of them—and betray her intent. She could remain silent, but her eyes could not. And that, for someone who must always be cautious, was a fatal weakness, like a flower that scatters its petals at the first gust of wind.

Her brown eyes suddenly shifted, like the rare gemstone pinite; their color changed from calm brown to a deep, heavy crimson. In that brief moment, everyone understood that Astia intended something—and when her gaze fixed upon her brother, there was no trace of benevolent intent in it.

The Archangel—the High Priest himself—pointed at Astia, his stare so piercing and filled with hatred that the hall froze for an instant. Every blink, every slight movement of his head and body, declared that he could not bear the sight of the rejected half-blood. Now he revealed his true face—before everyone, especially the emperor.

“That half-blood is a fraud, a damned devil who dares to stare insolently at the future emperor—she must be condemned.”

Whispers spread through the hall, fear creeping from every corner. Yet Elin, with the same indifferent expression, stared unwaveringly at Astia, as though the High Priest’s words had no effect on him.

When Rian heard those words from a man who harbored half the world’s conspiracies, his eyes suddenly blazed like twin crimson flames. His gaze settled on the High Priest like a blood moon illuminating the entire hall, leaving no one daring to blink.

The High Priest, meeting the emperor’s eyes, froze like stone for a moment. He took one step back, drew himself in, tried to conceal his fear, and fell silent.

Astia showed no reaction to the man’s insult—even before all the angels—and continued her indifferent demeanor. She grasped the mana in her hand like a frayed rope and tore it apart. The pain strangely twisted through the body of the servant standing behind Elin.

The servant’s face suddenly changed—like someone struck by a sword.

The servant raised his eyes and met Astia’s gaze. At first the servant thought that the crimson stare was fixed on Elin, but upon closer inspection he realized those jeweled, crimson eyes—like deadly poison—were seeping into his very veins.

Terror fully etched itself across the servant’s face. Realizing he had been exposed, he could no longer wait—he had to finish the task quickly.

The tray in the servant’s hand clattered to the floor. In seconds, a dagger crafted solely to kill angels emerged and aimed straight for Elin’s energy core.

But suddenly, just as the servant thought the blade had struck the back of the crown prince’s energy core, he saw the dagger caught by another hand, its path halted.

Astia’s hand was delicate, her slender fingers wrapped firmly around the blade. When the servant looked up, her slightly obscuring brown hair filled the servant with sudden dread.

Crimson blood dripped drop by drop onto the marble stone.

Elin and Rian turned and witnessed the scene: Astia and the servant locked in a tense, rage-filled confrontation.

Shocked and terrified, the servant released the dagger and staggered backward. Suddenly, a wave of energy emanating from Astia hurled the servant to the ground.

Despite the bleeding, Astia blocked the man’s escape and approached. She placed her foot on his chest and stared down at him with an indifferent face, showing no sign of pain—her black boot heel dug firmly into his skin.

The servant looped his fingers around her ankle, trying to push her away, but to no avail; Astia remained steady and unmoving.

Rian raised his hands, and suddenly a large number of royal knights surrounded Astia and the servant, their sword tips pointed at the assassin. Yet Astia had no intention of handing the matter over to the knights and did not budge.

The knights, too, were unsure what to do; the emperor’s order concerned only the man, and Astia showed no sign of yielding.

Rian was astonished, and Elin, eyes filled with worry, stared at his sister’s bloodied hands. Astia’s eyes remained crimson. She reached beneath her cloak and drew out a cross-shaped pendant—a silver necklace adorned with colorless gems, delicate and beautiful. To others it appeared merely an ordinary pendant, yet it possessed a particular glow, like light emerging from deep darkness.

As she attempted to reshape it into a new object, a voice echoed from the upper gallery of the palace.

“Enough, Astia—your task is finished.”

Astia halted; the pendant’s glow ceased. She lifted her head toward the voice—everyone, drawn by the sound, suddenly looked upward.

With the entrance of the Great Oracle of Heaven, the entire hall froze. His long, colorless hair cascaded over his shoulders, lending a mysterious aura in the darkness of the upper section.