Content Note: Contains themes of psychological tension or disturbing content. Reader discretion is advised.

"When the light fades, and shadows rise, One will bear the golden flame.

A calamity foreseen, yet unprepared, The world shall tremble in her name."

“LIA… ST—STOP!”

The Guildmaster's voice tore through the air, loud and desperate.

She didn’t respond. Not right away.

Then—her head turned slowly, almost mechanically, toward him.

Their eyes met.

And in that instant, the world shifted.

Darkness fell around her like a curtain. Her vision changed, and she was suddenly staring into a place beyond the real—one she recognized… and feared.

In that void, she saw them.

People.

Dozens—maybe hundreds. Faces barely recognizable. None had eyes. Their features twisted and hollow, as though sculpted from smoke and pain. But their silhouettes… their mannerisms… they were familiar.

She knew them.

Her eyes welled up. But her face remained still—blank. Only tears followed her fear.

They opened their mouths.

They were speaking.

But she couldn’t hear them.

And then—

A voice broke through.

No, not a voice. A chorus. Ancient. Shattered. Unknowable.

It crawled beneath her skin.

V̶̮͈͉͉̲̗̋͒͗͑͂̌ą̶̛̭̠̰͕̄͛͝s̵̳̣͎̝͋̄̋k̴̨͕̘͎͔͎̏̎e̶̜͛͋͘͘̚l̸̨̖͍͒̂̐̄͐ ̴̛̹̬͈̫͓͋̓͜d̸̫͙̙̯̗́̔r̶͕͖̾ó̵̡̝̫̍͐̎̏n̵̺͚̟̩̳̉̀̑̚͠i̸̛͇͛͛̈ḿ̵͎̉͗̈͠͠ą̷̳͈͇̞͛͘͘͜͝͝ ̸͍͚̀̀̒k̴̳̠̑̇̀̈́́͠ê̸̦̫̭̠̭̐͒̓t̸̼̝̬̔̋̈̃š̶͇̳̲̀̿̋͘̕͝ ̶̜̦͝ͅų̵̧̭̫̜͍́̉̃l̷̺̜͕͈̓͑̉̋̈́̌͜͜'̶̫̠̠̮̳̠̑̋̽͛̋̚r̴̖̗̥͍̀͆ȇ̵͓̠̟͛͝n̸̨̛̽̈̉͜ ̵̧̧̬̳͍̱͊̋̓̎ț̴͆̊̾h̸͍̖̾̇̈͘͝ȃ̷̦̐̈́ṿ̵̛̺͈̼̇́͂̏ͅô̴̫̘̳͙̈́͘̕͝k̷͎̺͓̯͌̔̊̂̉̿͜ ̶͙̘̥̣̓̋̓͝m̷̳͉̺͋͛̽͜ê̵̙̭̹͗̏̾͠r̶̙̊̿i̵̫̠̙̒̎d̸̯̝̂́a̴̫̻̘͎̔̈́̈̈͑͠ ̴̡̘̬̼̊͑k̸̢̼͉̟͔̆̿̔̃ͅä̴̯̟́̍̀͆͂͠'̴̨͔͈̳̰̲͌̀̉̈́͂͝š̸̥̳̗̘͆̑̕e̸̞̠̗̗̙̋̆͝l̶̨̼̫̖̣̪̀ ̴͍͒o̴̧͇̬͙͖̠̍͑̓͗̋͝v̷̢̨̺́r̵̟͓̲͉̿̏̊̓̊͝e̸̡̗͎̗͐͐̑̏̽n̵̢̞̯͋t̵̜̯̒̓a̵̲͗͌̒̂̃͋ ̴̢̢̮͉͛̃ṁ̴̹̗̼͓̂͗̈̇͛í̴̲̀ș̸̢̛̠̤̲̹̆̈h̷̨̖̳̣̗͐͂́͑ë̴̖͖͇̪̍̏̈̀l̴̬͚̖̿̈́̒̒̎͂ ̶̩̼̱͓̎͗͜͝t̷̢̫̲̞̻̉̍͗̋̇̈́ͅo̷̧͓̘̺̰̳̿́r̶͋ͅn̵̨̫͂́ȁ̴̠̥̥͕͎̪̎̅͒̏̆ḱ̸̲̄̓̊̾ ̸͚̟̈́̃̾r̶̛͔̖̣̪̼͂́ͅu̶̼̼͐̎̀͒̕͝v̷͈̱͙̫̅̌̈́͊è̶̠̱̓̄̈͝ͅn̶̯̜̟͎̦̿ ̵͙̱͉̳̓́́̔̿͝a̴̖̪̺͇͋͗͛̌̌s̸̨̬̱̯̲͌͌͠h̷̥͗̈́̓̃k̴̯̳͈̫͈̯̆̈́͑̔a̶̼͎͂̌̇͂̐ ̴̘̳̜͠t̶̗̂͗͌̏̀ả̶̭͐̓̈l̶̡̋'̵̦͍̑́̈̈́͜ͅd̵̨͖̥̻̎̎͂̑̀̚͜o̴̦̓̅̇̊ŕ̶̢̢̪͌̽͂̃ͅḁ̸̡̘̹͚́̈͑̚ ̴̱͕̤̘̍͆̆k̸̝̾͋́̐ȩ̷̞̩̭͓̓̏t̴̤̺͑͛̽͑̒͆h̶̢͈̱͖͋́̍͌͊͠.̵͍̜̭̤̥͂͛

̵̧̛̹̬̹̗̞̇̒̔̔͝Æ̷͚̚̕͝ḻ̸͍̱̈́̽̚͜u̷͉͗̆͜n̸̛͇͓͕̫̑͌̿̀̚ͅ ̸̝͖̃̇̀̾͠v̵̨̲̲͙͖̈́͗͐̚͝͝ò̷̙̬̣̟͠r̶͚͈̖͂̊͝͝ị̵̬̞̹̹̒̽̓s̶̘̍̊͒̍͑k̸̲̅̉͛̀͊͛ ̶̒͐͒̀͘͠ͅǰ̶̛̫̔̉̃̏ḧ̴̲́̀́͐a̷̘͛̑͊̔̚͘n̸̝̣̈t̴̺̹͍̪͓͐͌ą̵̻͉̽͗̉͋ ̷͎̞͔͉̄̿̋̿͂͒ḿ̷͍̮̹̒͗̑͗͜͠ȅ̵̱̱̫̯͉̭ḽ̵̈́͑̇̈́̒o̶̢̗͙͛͜r̵͇̺̺̲͕̠͒̃̄́͊̊ā̶̝̱͉͚̂͑͂̿͝q̴̛͙̤̳̈̿̀̃u̵̞͓̟̼̮̇ȩ̴̡͓̙̪̹̀̉̊̔š̶̬̖̱̬͕͗̀͝ͅ ̸̹̓̄̒͠ṭ̸͔̼͐h̶͓̔̉é̴̼̝̘͖̠̅̐͝ͅr̴̡̡̜͕̫̉̃̽͝n̵̪̹̹͂ ̸͙̹̯̫̺̝͛͋̅̀͘͝v̶̳͖̉̕u̸͖̞̰̐̌͑̏ͅͅk̷̢̩̳͎̞̀'̷͇͎͈̠̔̏̚͜͝a̴̟̦̗̅̄̈̔̉a̶̢̛͚̺̥̥̓r̵̳͉̲̾͐͑̍ ̴̡̠̱̫̈́n̷̢̛͖̦̟͗̉̏ȁ̷̛̱͕̟̺̒̐ď̴̼͙͇̝͎ë̵̛̟͈̳͚͇̐̽ḷ̸͚̻̦͓͐̃̈́̚̕ ̷̬͎͕͓̇̊͑̂́́ͅķ̶̨͖̎̈́r̵̻̬̈̚e̵̛͇̻͐̀̇͋́n̷̛̲̠͕͗̈́̄̉́o̵̦̝̘̟͂͛͐́̀͠ş̵̬̏̀͒̀̾͜͠ḧ̸͙̹̪́̇i̸̛͉͛̄͋ ̵̧̫̮̫̀̏̐͜͠b̵̨́̈́̀̌̄͘e̴̘͊l̶̩͓̯̿̌̾v̸̧̦̗̑͑̑͊̈́̾ͅą̴͖̭̹̼̬͒̆r̷̡̛̮̮͒͛̈͠ͅ ̴̬̹͓̫͕̫̋͑̄ṷ̷̿͐̓̕ṃ̸͉̫͕̫̇͝'̴̡̩͍̂̿̊́n̵̯͕̹̈́̇͘͝͝ę̴͚̻̂̌͝͝v̴̩͍̰͉̙̺̍̿͐́͝į̴̝̘̭̻̈̿̽̕ͅ ̸̞͙̹̮̿͛̔̉̿t̷̛͎̯̭̗́͂̀ȁ̵̬̞̦̌̅̀́́ŗ̴̲̟̈͑͑̈̿͂s̷̢̫̋ͅ.̵̛̞̜̱̒̾̀͊͌ͅ

̴̻̣̪̦̒̈̇̀̈́M̵̯̹͍̽̂̽̽̚ͅi̸͖̳̰̤͉͆̓ë̸̛͓̖̝̘̘́̓͝r̷̡͚̰̼̉'̵̨͎͔̠̤̦̈́̿̾͝ã̸̦̹͇̌̅͂͂t̸̮̲͓̏̎h̵̨̨̳̙̺̦̽̔͌͊̽ằ̷̼͓͈̳̉̆͑͝ ̷̣͕̓̀̍̍̈̅n̷̛͐̅͝ͅó̸̦ͅs̷͍͓͑̏v̵̨̩͖͇̌͒̃e̸̞̱̭̯͈̊͑̾̏͝l̵̯̂ ̸̺̖̩̦͌̓̔͊͘͝e̴̡̱̖̩̩̅ķ̶̨̘̯̱̝̓̽̅r̸̢̫̳͈͐͑̐i̴̢̫̽̈́̅͗̈́ṇ̸̃̾̊̿̔͠ḍ̴͕̅̆̓͐̓̑a̷͎̋̒̇͒͝ ̸̡̙̼̂̎̒͘͝ṭ̸̲͖͕͑͛̏͠ơ̸̢̧͎̤͈͌̍́̉r̷̡̞̗͎̠̈̿v̶̯̣̥͎̝̅̔͋͐́͘ạ̷̣̘̈́͌͆̂͋ͅḥ̵̢̧̙̙̓͊͌l̵̡̗̒ ̶̡̳̣̺̜͈̀m̸̡̳͉̙̜̊̆͜e̷͚̩̺͒̒s̸͔͇̺̀̋̈̃h̷̝̻̰̿͝ḁ̵̧̜̗͇̻̋̈́͒͑̕ ̴̞͖̋̀̅̅̕d̶̮̲̑̅͜ͅr̴̤̩͓̭̪̿̓́͜ȁ̶͍̭̆̈́̀̏k̷̰̹͈̺̓̚u̵͈̐͗̈͠l̶̫̘̼̙͖̘̃͛͑̓͑ ̸͖̭̣̤̓̌̈́̎̄͝v̵̪͊̿̅͛ę̷̤̪̒̈́͂͊͝͝n̷̖̿̑̄̇̂o̶̳̟̥̱̖̓͌͝l̸̝͍̣̑͊'̶̤̪̈́̚ẗ̷̥͓̲̟̬̖́͠h̷͔͕̭̼́͐̂ ̵͉͎̉̍̋̈́͠͝s̷͈͔̮̤̹̮͆e̵̡͉̱̬͂̃̈́͜͠n̷̡̮̾͌̈́̑ã̶̯̱̲̓̒̉̅̈́d̶͉͔̘̙̹͇͋̉r̷̙̻̻͕͖̱̀̓̈́͝ǎ̵̲͈͎̱̦̐̉̔̒̀ ̵̱̰͒̏̔̏͑͆ḱ̸̡̛̭͚͈͍̒̍̊̚h̸̝͎͈͗a̴̢͊̌l̶̠̗̹̦͊̌̓̾̃͜ ̴̖̙̼͑̿m̸̱͛̊̕͝u̶̹͂̊̃̋̒r̵̯͇͆̀͑͝͠v̴̧̠̥̀̄̔͂͂a̸͓̙̲̳͓̞̒s̶̲̎͝ ̷̲͓̺̀̽̃̽ĕ̶̛̲̭̞̰̓͊̀̆ͅn̵̢̑̉̉̌̕̕t̷͓͆́̐͐́̑h̷͔̮̍̅͘̕͜à̸̫̠̘̎́l̷̟̯̳̰͎̼͋ẹ̷̼̳̽͗͛͝͝n̶̳̯̞̐̏̐̐.̵̡̝͇̝̽̇̋̈́̀

̴̯̺̱̈́̓̎̚̕F̸̧̖̞̘̱͙̀ä̷̞͚̞́͊͜ȓ̸̜̼͚̗͇̱͋n̵̳̯͍͒̂͗̽ė̸̪̰̓̆ẗ̷̛̰̜̬́̉͝h̸̬̣̽̏̕̕i̴̝̗̾ ̸͖͚̥͈͊̿̒͐̔ḋ̶͕̳̈́̈́̒͛o̵̧̘̹̱̩̾̿̀͜s̴̟̞̑̔́̾̆̈́͜k̸̘͙̹͈͇̆̀̌̅͛̚a̸͍̰͙̹͚͓͆̇͂́͑̓ ̶̬̱̱̬̞̊̈̕r̶̤̎͒̈́̎̚e̶̥̹͑ň̴͇̹͎̐̽̿͠v̵̛͔̝̱̖̱̹͌͝ä̶͉͔̖̭̇̀͘l̵͎̘͕͓͕̏͂̃̔̔̾ ̶̢̳͓̝̪͙̏̐̈́̓û̵͋͂ͅm̷͎̭̲̮̙͊͋͑̀ă̵̤̱͙͌̋͌̎'̴̦͓̎r̵͓̙̓̍͆͘ȋ̷̮̂̀̎̾ ̶̻́̌q̶̦́̽͝ủ̶̗͓̻̬ẹ̸̭͖͔̿̿͆n̶͍͂͋̔̃̂͝s̵̜͍̲͙͚͐͌͐́͂ȃ̷̰l̸̘̩̀̉̑̍͝͠ ̸̛̛̯̃̄́̚d̶̩̅͜ͅa̷̛̖̞̩̱̰̽͑z̷̗̝͗̾̓̄͠ŕ̵̡̼͕ẻ̴̼̗͙͖͕ͅt̶̠̞̟̐h̴͈͎̀ ̸̳̖̂̾͜m̶̡̖̼͗̒o̸̡̢̖͚̱͕̽͌͛̅̀l̷̨̫̭̬̹̄͋̿̆͂͝ķ̵͙͙̺͕̓͌ã̵̧͍̜̞̇̈́́̏̐r̵͖͓̟̜̿͝i̶̥̯̬̼̍̑͋́̆͜ͅs̷̢̘̭̗̿̽́̒͛̿ ̶͈̦̯̒ǫ̴͈̟̍̅̒̚n̶̤̞̞̰̮͊̊ṭ̷̨̛͎̱̩̊͠r̸̨͙̫͉͉̞̃̚å̸̬̃͊͝ ̷̗͚͜͜͜͝v̵̻̥̉̇̑̄̉̿e̶̖̯̝͍̿̐͌̒́̐k̷̼̳͈̥͍͒͒'̵̬͂̄h̸̛͓̓͒̉̄ắ̵̭̰̫͜d̶̺̗̠̭͔͖͊̒ ̴̛̛͇̠͎̺͎͑̀̕͜ş̸̖͈͍̼̞͋ơ̵̺͛̌͂́ĺ̸̳̖͓̑̋̌̕m̸̰̲̪̉i̵͎̝͍̯͍͇̓̐̑͐̕r̵̝͔̥͙͗͑̓̚͝͝è̴͉̬̗̈̍ǹ̶̲͙̗̲̈́,̸̬̯͖̣̤̣̔̒̐̈́͝ ̷̛͈̍̆̆̀͆t̸̻͐̂͒͛̆͠h̷̳̹̯̤̊̈́́͌é̶͎͚̥̍̎̍n̷̞͖͔͍̎̋͂̔ ̴̰͎̼̤͍̓ǰ̵̟͂́̿ą̶̨͓͋̉̽̿̍́r̵̨̲͚̫͉̙̆̿̈́v̷̢̺̪̲̻̲͋͠o̵̲̝̊͛͗̆̑̅ͅh̸̢̘̠̙͍͂̐́̀͌̄ͅ ̷̧̠̯̲̀̇̄̃̽͋k̸̛͍̗̖̻̗͚̓͐͋͠ę̶̬͕̣͚́͘͝t̶̰͓͒.

She clutched her head.

The voices. The laughter. The screams.

Every word the projection uttered felt like a burning blade chiselling through her skull. Her knees buckled. She stumbled back, breath ragged, eyes rolling across the vision before her—but nothing made sense anymore.

A pulse like fire surged behind her temples.

"Make it stop… please…!"

And then it hit.
A searing wave of agony, like a burning bullet tearing straight through her skull. Her vision blurred.

The ground beneath her felt miles away, her body numb. Her eyes fluttered open, barely able to focus through the dark blur. A little boy ran through the haze.

A child?

No eyes. Hollow sockets but bright where his gaze should be.
Tears streamed silently down his pale cheeks, lips trembling as he muttered something—a whisper echoed.

̶̙̯̈D̴̲̎̅̄̈́͘ṙ̴̙̗a̴̧̗̔̒̏̀͝k̸̭̭̉͆́̊͘̕,̶̢̘̭͍̳̀͋̈̅͑̒͜ ̵̠͍̒͛̍́û̸̼̱̫̳̹̪̇̂͘ņ̵͉̘͉̗̔̀͝'̷̛͚̯̤͔̏̎̔t̴͈͙̱̆̃͂̕h̸̻̬̯͆̈́̈́̈́͛͝ö̷̜̳͙͌̀̎͂͗͜ļ̴̢̠͕̗͓̓̾̉̑͆ ̵̫̳͍̙̍̽̑͝v̸̛̼͐̓͒e̴̫̗͊̑̔̃͊̅͜ņ̶̩̳̭̯͖̓̈́͠.̸͍̗̦̹͝ͅ... s̵̆͆͘͜į̶̪̥̽̆̊ś̴͇̪͠...s̶̪͑i̷̬̅š̵̤...s̷i̸s̶

The voice was haunting. Not because of what it said, but because it sounded familiar.

A distant echo in the dark.

A memory she couldn’t remember.

Then, just before darkness took her, she heard a single word.

One word.

Spoken with such clarity… it shattered everything.

A word that made her eyes snap wide in shock—pain vanished for a breathless second, drowned beneath a flood of emotion.

And then she fell.

Two years earlier

Year 17 Before Ascension

The village chief stood silently by the cracked wooden window of his small hut, his dim eyes gazing toward the jagged silhouette of the Crystal Mountain. Thunder rolled across the grey sky. The mountain shimmered with faint hues—blue, then violet, then bright purple—like it was alive.

A quiet prayer slipped from his lips as his frail fingers gripped a worn pendant hanging from his neck. It bore the sigil of an ancient spirit long forgotten by the capital but still revered here.

“…Protect us,” he whispered, the words barely audible over the wind. “Not for my sake… but for theirs.”

He coughed, the sound dry and gravelly, and turned away from the window. His back was hunched, his movements slow with age—but his eyes were still sharp. He straightened his robe and stepped into the adjoining room where the village council had gathered.

Candles flickered. The air was thick with tension.

“We’ve secured enough grain to last the season,” murmured a farmer, voice shaking. “But the monster sightings—”

“They’ve doubled again,” said the captain of the village guards, his brow furrowed. “They’re getting bolder. They used to only come down during full moons. Now... they roam in daylight.”

“We don’t have the manpower to hold another siege,” an elder said, his hands trembling around a steaming cup of herbal brew. “The capital won’t send help. Not unless we lose half the village first.”

The room grew quiet.

Then it hit.

A low tremor shook the floor. At first, they thought it was just thunder again—but then the sound came.

A roar!

Monstrous and deep, like grinding stone.

Screams erupted outside.

Guards spilled into the streets, weapons drawn. Villagers armed themselves with axes, pitchforks—anything. The Royal Guards stationed in the village leapt into action, their cloaks rippling as they activated their magic. Glowing sigils bloomed in the air. Orbs of flame and whips of wind crackled across the sky.

The entire village was thrown into chaos.

The battle dragged on into the night. The monsters—warped, creatures that looked like twisted combinations of bear, reptile, and insect—were driven back, but not without cost. Homes were destroyed. Lives were lost. And in every face, you could see it:

Fear.

That night, as the firelight danced across the cracked walls of his hut, the chief knelt before a small wooden shrine in his hut. The incense stick had nearly burned out.

“...Send us a sign,” he whispered.

His voice broke midway.

Sleep took him before the words could finish.

In the dream, there was only light.

A blinding, golden ocean of it. Warm yet terrifying.

A figure stood in the center—faceless, yet radiant. Not man or woman. Not old or young. It simply was. The figure raised a hand, and the entire dream seemed to resonate with sound.

The voice didn’t speak in words, but in vibrations, chimes that echoed through his soul:

“Prepare for the calamity.”

“Train the one who bears the golden light.”

Then came an image—brief, fleeting.

A girl, no older than twenty. Her hair, golden, whipping in a storm. Her pale skin glowed as if woven from mana itself. Her eyes burned .

And then—darkness.

The chief awoke with a gasp. Putting his palm on his forhead, he tried to collect what happened in his dream.

Two weeks passed.

In that time, eighteen monsters were slain by the village’s defenders, their blood soaking into the muddy fields. Scouts reported thirty more lurking near the forest edge. The villagers kept harvesting under constant threat. The rainy season came early, turning roads to sludge, leaving carts trapped in the muck.

Hope was wearing thin.

Then came the girl.

It was on a storm-wracked evening. The wind howled like a beast, and rain battered the village with unrelenting fury. Lanterns swayed. Trees bent.

A lone figure trudged toward the village gates, her cloak soaked and shredded. She stumbled more than walked, leaving a trail of blood drops and muddy footprints behind.

She knocked on doors.

Once-
Twice-
Ten times.

Each time she was met with silence or quick apologies and slammed shutters.

“Sorry. We can’t help. We don’t know who you are.”

Fear made even good people cruel.

Her strength waned. Her hand bled. Her cloak clung to her skin like a second layer of ice.

She reached the chief’s house just as her legs gave out. The faint glow of fire behind the cracks in the wood gave her hope. She knocked, weakly. Once.

Inside, the chief hesitated. He watched through the warped glass pane. She was little more than a shadow in the rain.

“…What harm could a lone girl do to an old man?” he murmured.

He opened the door.

The girl didn’t even raise her head. “Please… help me…” she whispered, her voice barely stronger than the storm outside.

The chief looked at her for a long moment, then stepped aside.

“Come in before the storm takes you.”

He gave her a towel, dry clothes, and a warm seat near the fire. The food was simple: rice, broth, and smoked rootfish—but she ate it like it was a royal feast.

She tended to her wounds quietly, with a strange grace—precise, calm.

“I’m Lia,” she said at last. “From the Kingdom of Euratia. I was heading toward the capital... to request aid for my village.”

Her voice shook, but her eyes didn’t.

“The caravan was ambushed. Everyone else is gone. I ran. Through forest, mud, beasts… I didn’t know if I’d make it.”

The chief listened in silence.

Her hair, now dry, caught the firelight—golden. Her skin held a faint, unnatural glow.

Just like in his dream.

He masked his realization behind a nod.

“You’ve endured much,” he said quietly. “Rest tonight. In the morning… we’ll speak again.”

The days that followed were peaceful.

Lia moved through the village like a breeze—offering to carry buckets, fix fences, help grind herbs. Her presence softened wary hearts. Children followed her with wide eyes. Old women offered her blessings. Even the guards began to nod at her.

But the chief watched her from afar.

Every time he looked at the mountain… the dream returned.

It was on the fifth morning, after days of quiet observation and sleepless nights, that Lia found herself walking toward the chief’s home. She found him seated outside, sipping quietly from a steaming cup of herbal tea, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the Crystal Mountain loomed.

He looked up as she approached, surprised.

“I’ve been thinking,” Lia said, arms crossed, not quite sure how to begin. “About this village… and why I ended up here.” She paused, then added,“It doesn’t feel like I came here just seeking help… more like I arrived here to travel..”

The chief didn’t speak, only nodded for her to sit beside him on the creaky wooden bench. She did.

“I’m have to leave for the capital,” she continued. “But before I go… is there something I can do for you? For this place?”

He studied her, eyes narrowing—not suspiciously, but with the kind of searching calm. After a moment, he set his cup down.

“I was going to ask you the same,” he said.

Lia turned to him, brows slightly raised.

“There’s a place,” he said, voice slow. “Near the Crystal Mountain. Sacred to us. Dangerous, yes, but… I believe you were meant to see it.”

Lia’s gaze fell to the dirt path beneath her boots, then lifted back to meet his eyes. “Why?”

“Because I think you were meant to,” he answered simply.

The wind stirred the trees around them, carrying the scent of pine and damp soil. She didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was steady.

“…Then I will go.”

And this time, when she spoke, it wasn’t just kindness. It was choice.

The path to the mountain was long and treacherous. Dense woods. Slopes slick with moss and half-frozen streams. As they climbed, the air grew thick with mana. Every breath was heavier than the last. Even the mages who accompanied them—three of the best the village had—moved with visible strain.

When they reached the base of the mountain, the surface shimmered faintly, like liquid crystal.

The chief gestured to the glowing circle etched in the earth, runes pulsating with dormant energy.

“Step into the circle,” he said, voice thin.

Lia hesitated—but stepped forward.

The moment her foot touched the circle, the world changed.

Air twisted.

Energy roared to life.

The mountain responded.

A pulse. A scream. A sound deeper than thunder.

Light burst from the ground, engulfing her in smoke and light.

The circle glowed—then shattered. The earth trembled. Cracks shot up the mountain’s surface, and then—

BOOM!

The Crystal Mountain exploded.

Shards of light rained down, followed by jagged purple crystals that embedded themselves in the soil. Trees groaned. The forest wailed as mana corrupted its roots. Birds fell from the sky. The mages collapsed.

Lia fell to her knees, clutching her chest.

A shape… inside the core of the mountain’s brilliant.

Not a monster.

Not a god.

Something worse.

From behind her, the chief’s voice trembled as he whispered:

“The calamity begins.”

Chapter End