"In certain moments, stillness is not peace… but a sign that the storm is about to break."
Time still seemed merciful to those lands. Ruin had not yet taken form, nor had the shadows claimed the throne.
Before Sajibro became a feared commander, he was but a wanderer, carrying questions too heavy for anyone to understand—eyes filled with a solitude that felt older than the world itself.
Back then, he bore no great sword. Instead, he carried only a small dagger, said to have been inherited from a nameless teacher who left no grave behind. Sajibro wandered from ruined temple to forgotten shrine, chasing fragments of a prophecy that whispered to him in dreams:
"One day… you will not know who you are, for you will be everyone."
The world was then said to be divided—between human kingdoms, bloodlines of light, and scattered remnants of fleeing shadows. Yet Sajibro belonged to none of them. Born in no place, raised by nothingness.
Or so the story claims.
One day, he stood upon the peak of an abandoned mountain, where only his breath and heartbeat could be heard. There… it is said everything began.
He whispered to the sky: "Do I seek power… or a salvation I do not believe in?"
And in that silence, he heard the voice for the first time—an ancient murmur that would haunt him forever:
"Power is never given. It is torn from your own heart. Salvation… is the lie you must believe to start the war."
They say this was where Sajibro's fall began.
They say this was where he began at all.
And thus, the tale of his sealing begins.
Or so the shadows remember it.
End of Chapter Fifty-Two.