Chapter 1: The Crown
The throne room of Arasia was silent.
Not the ordinary silence of an empty hall, but the heavy stillness of a place that had witnessed centuries of blood, oaths, victories, and betrayals. Massive pillars of white stone rose toward the vaulted ceiling, each carved with ancient runes that recorded wars long forgotten by the world. At the far end of the hall stood the throne—an object that no longer symbolized power, but history itself.
Upon it sat an old man.
A crown rested upon his head, forged from an unknown metal that shimmered faintly even in stillness. Set into the crown were nine gems, each a different color, each representing a path of power that had once shaken the world. Time had dulled neither their brilliance nor their authority.
The old man's body was lean, almost frail at first glance, yet anyone with eyes would know better. His bare feet rested on the cold stone floor, unprotected, uncaring. Golden jewelry circled his wrists, arms, and neck—royal ornaments that contrasted sharply with the countless combat scars etched into his skin. Some were shallow lines, others deep, brutal reminders of battles that should have killed him long ago.
He wore traditional royal pants, deep red in color, embroidered with golden threads depicting dragons, stars, and unfamiliar constellations. The fabric was old, but meticulously maintained, as if even time itself dared not disrespect the man who wore them.
His eyes were closed.
The old man sat half-asleep upon the throne, breathing slowly. Outside the towering windows of the throne room, the sun rose over the capital city. Warm sunlight slipped past stained glass and fell gently upon his face, illuminating the wrinkles carved by centuries.
Slowly… his eyes opened.
He inhaled deeply.
"Another day," he murmured, his voice hoarse yet steady. "Time truly flies."
No one in the world knew how long this man had lived.
Kings had risen and fallen. Empires had bloomed and crumbled into dust. Even legends had faded into myths—yet he remained, still seated upon the throne, still waiting.
Waiting for death.
Today… he thought. Today is my birthday.
The thought brought neither joy nor sorrow—only quiet irony.
He already knew what would come next.
My little ancestor will arrive soon, he thought, the corner of his lips lifting almost imperceptibly. And she will ask for a gift.
As if summoned by his thoughts, the massive doors of the throne room burst open.
"GREAT GREAT GRANDFATHER!"
The shout echoed across the hall like thunder.
The old man closed his eyes again, already bracing himself.
Footsteps—fast, light, reckless—rang across the stone floor. A small figure rushed forward without hesitation or fear, her presence completely out of place in a hall meant to terrify emperors.
She stopped directly before the throne.
"Today is your birthday!" the girl declared proudly, hands on her hips. "You must give me a gift!"
The old man opened one eye and looked down at her.
She was young—no more than twelve—but her posture carried a confidence far beyond her age. Her eyes were sharp, bright, and filled with an almost dangerous curiosity. Power slept within her blood, restrained only by time.
Before he could speak, she grinned.
"Great great grandfather," she added sweetly, "I came all the way here just for you."
The old man sighed.
"How many times," he said slowly, "have I told you not to kick open the doors of the throne room?"
She blinked.
"Respect," he continued. "Respect and respect. An important thing. Repeat it three times so it enters your head."
"Respect, respect, respect," she muttered half-heartedly.
"And how many times," he added, opening both eyes now, "have I told you that these doors are heavy for a reason?"
She shrugged. "They open when I push."
The old man pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Oh, so it was heavy," he said dryly. "Did I not tell you so many times?"
She tilted her head. "You forgot this time."
"…You win," he muttered. "Again."
She beamed.
"Now about my gift—"
"Enough," the old man interrupted. "Every time it is my birthday, you are the one who takes something."
He leaned back slightly against the throne.
"Last time," he continued, "you took my Nine Revolutionary Circular Method. I clearly said—if you do not reach the ninth level, do not ask me for anything this time."
The girl folded her arms, a smug smile forming.
"Oh? That?" she said casually. "I reached the ninth level two months ago."
The old man's eyes snapped open.
"And now," she continued, as if speaking of the weather, "I am already at the second level of the Blood Sea Realm."
The throne room fell silent.
For a brief moment—just a heartbeat—the world seemed to stop.
Genius.
No.
Absolute genius.
The old man stared at her, his mind racing despite his calm expression. That cultivation method had been created by his own hands, refined through countless life-and-death experiences. Reaching the ninth level before adulthood was already monstrous.
Blood Sea Realm at her age?
He suppressed the storm within his heart and spoke calmly.
"It is acceptable," he said. "When I was your age, I also reached such a level."
The girl looked unconvinced. "You say that every time."
He ignored her.
What kind of little monster is this… he thought inwardly.
As he looked at her, memories surfaced—memories buried beneath centuries of rule.
A gentle smile.
A warm voice.
A woman who had once stood beside him before blood, crowns, and destiny tore everything away.
Mother… his thoughts whispered.
When this girl had been born, he had personally chosen her name.
He had given her his mother's name.
Mira.
Mira—meaning warmth, peace, and quiet strength.
He gazed at the girl before him, seeing echoes of the past in her stubborn eyes.
Mother, he thought, you must be watching her somewhere.
His hand clenched slowly against the arm of the throne.
"One day," he vowed silently, "I will create a heaven of my own. I will defy life and death itself."
His eyes hardened with a resolve that had not faded even after centuries.
"And I will revive you."
Nothing could change that resolve.
The crown upon his head shimmered faintly as sunlight struck the nine gems—each glowing as if responding to his will.
The ruler of Arasia still lived.
And as long as he did, fate itself would never rest.