The execution square had never been this quiet.
The capital was used to blood. Public executions were entertainment here—cheers, curses, rotten vegetables thrown with enthusiasm. Yet today, tens of thousands stood packed together in unnatural silence, their eyes fixed on the raised platform at the center of the square.
Black stone. Iron chains. Sealing formations carved deep into the ground.
Everything had been prepared to kill one person.
She stood at the center of it all.
Her knees were forced to the cold stone, but her back remained straight, unbent. Heavy chains wrapped around her wrists, her ankles, her neck—each etched with complex runes meant to suppress aura, crush magic, and weaken the soul itself.
They were unnecessary.
If she wanted, even now, she could still kill them all.
But she didn't move.
Long black hair spilled down her back, tangled by dried blood and dust from weeks of imprisonment. Her face was pale, yet striking—sharp eyes, calm features, not a trace of fear. The woman kneeling before the empire looked nothing like a traitor awaiting death.
She looked like a ruler judging her executioners.
Above her, crimson banners fluttered violently in the wind, emblazoned with the golden crest of the imperial family—the very symbol she had once sworn her life to protect.
How ironic, she thought.
She had never been given a name.
To the empire, she was merely Shadow Knight Number One—the strongest weapon forged in darkness. From the age of three, she had known no family, no home, no mercy.
Kidnapped from her birthplace. Dragged across borders. Thrown into an underground facility where children were sharpened into tools.
They trained them brutally.
Starved them.
Broke bones and spirits alike.
Those who cried died early.
Those who survived learned how to kill before they learned how to speak properly.
At seven, they were sent to war.
At eight, they were expected to return alive.
By then, every surviving child was already a Sword Master—strong enough to face grown soldiers. The only thing stopping them from becoming Sword Grandmasters was time. Age.
And she—
She had been different.
Talented. Adaptable. Ruthless.
At twelve, she had stepped into the realm of Sword Grandmasters, aura blazing in defiance of everything they thought possible. She became the leader of the shadow knights soon after—feared by enemies and silently worshipped by her subordinates.
She had found a forbidden sword art by chance.
A terrifying art.
One strike that could erase an army.
Even she had trembled the first time she felt its power.
And yet, no matter how strong they were, the empire treated them as disposable. Injuries were ignored. Healing magic was considered a waste on shadows.
That was when she had learned magic.
Secretly.
Painfully.
Patiently.
Sword and magic fused into one.
A Sword Mage.
The strongest of her generation.
Strong enough to make the emperor afraid.
That fear had sealed her fate.
"Shadow Knight Number One," a voice boomed, pulling her back to the present.
The emperor stood from his throne, robes heavy with gold and false authority. His face was solemn, almost sorrowful—if one didn't look closely enough to see the fear behind his eyes.
"You are accused of treason against the imperial family. Of conspiring with foreign powers. Of seeking to overthrow the throne."
A lie.
Every word.
She lifted her gaze slowly, meeting his eyes.
For a brief moment, the emperor flinched.
The nobles seated beside him—dukes, marquises, ministers—watched intently. Many of them had benefited from her victories. Many had smiled at her while plotting her end.
She laughed.
Softly.
The sound echoed across the square like the breaking of ice.
"Treason?" she asked quietly. Her voice was calm, controlled, almost gentle. "If I wanted the throne, Your Majesty… you would not be sitting on it now."
The crowd gasped.
The emperor's expression twisted.
"How dare—!"
"I gave you everything," she continued, her eyes sweeping over the nobles. "My loyalty. My silence. My life. I bled for this empire while you slept in silk."
Her gaze returned to the emperor.
"And yet, you were afraid of your own shadow."
The silence shattered.
"Enough!" the high priest roared. "Carry out the execution!"
The executioner stepped forward, gripping a massive blade engraved with holy seals and anti-magic arrays. It radiated killing intent powerful enough to make ordinary men collapse.
She closed her eyes.
Not because she was afraid.
But because she was tired.
Tired of being loyal.
Tired of protecting those who would never trust her.
If I am ever given another life…
I will never serve an empire again.
The blade descended.
Pain lasted only a heartbeat.
Then—
Darkness.
Warmth.
A strange, suffocating warmth replaced the cold.
She tried to breathe.
Tried to move.
Her body refused to obey.
A weak sound escaped her lips.
"Ah… ah…"
Her eyes snapped open.
Light—too bright. Shapes too large. Faces hovering above her, blurred and unfamiliar.
She tried to speak.
Only a baby's cry came out.
Panic surged—then froze.
This body…
Tiny hands. Fragile limbs. No aura. No magic.
She wasn't dead.
She had been reborn.
As a three-month-old infant.
Hours passed before she fully accepted the truth.
A second life.
A second chance.
Her eyes darkened with cold resolve.
This time…
I will rule from the shadows.