The air was cold.
Not the kind of chill from a broken fan or a rainy night in Gusa—but ancient, biting, and laced with something… unnatural.
Elira blinked.
Her blanket was gone. Her room had vanished. She was no longer in the void of unfolding memories that weren't hers.
Instead, she stood barefoot on a silver-like lake, dressed only in her pajamas. The water was ice-cold, soaking her feet, yet it didn't ripple—it shimmered, still and unnatural, like glass holding its breath.
Above her loomed a massive, glowing purple moon—unlike anything she had ever seen. It pulsed faintly, casting eerie light across the lake's surface. The wind howled around her, not like a breeze, but like a chorus of screams—echoes of pain, rage, and something older than time.
"What is this…?" she whispered, her voice swallowed by the wind. "Where the hell am I?!"
Her voice cracked as she spun in place, scanning the endless horizon. Her heart pounded like a war drum. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.
Was she dreaming?
Was this still part of the story?
What were those scenes she'd just seen?
Shinng…
The sharp sound of a sword being drawn sliced through the air.
Then came the voice.
Deep.
Baritone.
Commanding.
"Who are you?"
She froze.
The voice didn't belong to her brother.
Not her father.
Not anyone she had ever known.
It was colder than the wind. Sharper than the blade. It carried weight—like judgment.
Slowly, she turned.
Behind her stood a man cloaked in black armor, his face half-hidden beneath a jagged steel helmet. His blade gleamed like obsidian beneath the moonlight, and his eyes—glowing red, sharp as daggers—narrowed as they scanned her from head to toe.
Pajamas. Barefoot. Soaked. Confused.
As if silently asking: What are you?
"Speak," he barked.
The word hit her like a slap.
She flinched.
The sword flicked forward, nicking her neck—just barely. A thin line of warmth trickled down her skin.
She gasped.
Her legs trembled.
Her voice caught in her throat.
She knew this man.
She had seen him.
In the visions.
In the void.
The boy who had suffered.
The king who had risen.
The monster who had survived.
"I-I don't know," she stammered, her voice barely audible. "I was just… reading. And then…"
He stepped closer.
The water rippled around his boots, but his presence was heavier than the lake itself.
He didn't lower his sword.
Instead, he reached out—gauntlet-clad fingers gripping her chin with cold, unyielding force. He tilted her face left, then right, examining her like a relic. A threat. A puzzle.
Her breath hitched.
His touch wasn't gentle.
It was clinical.
Possessive.
Dangerous.
"You don't have the mark," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "And yet… you are here."
She blinked.
Confused.
Terrified.
Her heart pounded so loudly she could barely hear his words.
"Who are you?" he asked again.
Softer this time.
But no less deadly.
She opened her mouth.
No sound came.
Her throat felt tight.
Her knees buckled.
"I—I'm Elira," she whispered, barely audible. "I didn't mean to come here. I don't even know how…"
His grip tightened.
"Elira," he repeated, tasting the name like poison. His voice lingered on it, slow and deliberate, as if weighing its meaning against the legends carved into his bones.
He paused.
And Elira didn't know how long he took.
Seconds felt like hours.
Her eyes darted between the blade and the man before her—his armor black as night, his presence suffocating. The obsidian sword gleamed under the purple moonlight, its edge so sharp it seemed to hum with anticipation.
"You're afraid," he said, almost amused. His voice was low, cruel, and laced with satisfaction. "Good. You should be."
He released her chin, and she stumbled back, gasping for breath as if she'd been underwater.
"I am the King," he declared, his voice echoing across the silver lake like a curse. "And if you are the Saintess they whisper about… then your life belongs to me."
King?
Her mind raced.
Lucan.
That name pulsed in her thoughts like a warning bell.
He must be the king I was about to read just a while ago… and now I'm here? The tyrant.
She staggered backward, heart pounding like a war drum in her chest.
The memories she'd seen—those haunting scenes of cruelty and blood—were his. The boy who had suffered. The man who had risen. The king who had wiped out his entire bloodline, even the innocent.
Lucan's grip had vanished, but his presence still pressed against her like a storm cloud ready to break.
Then—figures emerged from the mist.
Soldiers.
Dark silhouettes cloaked in armor, their boots splashing through the silver lake as they closed in. Their eyes glowed faintly beneath their helmets, and their weapons gleamed with menace.
Elira's breath caught.
Is this inside the novel?
Is this reality… or just a dream?
She pinched her leg just to be sure.
She flinched.
The pain was sharp.
Real.
Her skin stung where his fingers had gripped.
This isn't dream!
"Grab this woman and tie her!" Lucan commanded, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. "She might be the Saintess!"
Saintess?
The word echoed in her mind.
Her knees buckled.
And the lake rippled beneath her trembling feet.
She didn't know what Saintess meant.
She didn't care.
If this was reality, then she had to escape—because the man standing before her was him. The tyrant king from Throne of Ash and Vengeance. The one who slaughtered his bloodline. The one who hunted the Saintess.
And he had just said the word.
Saintess.
Her breath hitched.
Her heart screamed.
Run.
She turned and bolted.
The water clung to her ankles like icy hands, slowing her steps, but adrenaline surged through her veins like fire. Her breath came in sharp bursts as she stumbled forward, slipping across the shimmering lake surface.
Behind her, shouts erupted.
Steel clashed.
The chase had begun.
"Don't let her escape!" Lucan roared, his voice booming like thunder.
She didn't look back.
She couldn't.
The lake stretched endlessly, mist curling around her like ghostly fingers. But ahead—just beyond the fog—she saw it.
A flicker of light.
A tree?
A shore?
A way out?
Her foot caught on something beneath the water.
She fell hard, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs. Cold rushed over her, soaking her completely. Her hair clung to her face. Her hands scraped against the glassy surface.
A shadow loomed above her.
Lucan.
He didn't run.
He walked—slowly, deliberately—like a predator savoring the final moment before the kill.
"You think you can flee from me?" he said, voice low and cruel. "No one escapes my grasp."
She scrambled to her feet, trembling, soaked, and shivering.
"W—wait!" she cried, backing away from the blade that gleamed like death.
Lucan raised his sword, eyes gleaming with menace.
"Whether you are the Saintess or not… I kill you."
She clenched her fists, panic rising.
"I swear," she gasped, "if this is some twisted isekai plot, I'm gonna sue the moon!"
Lucan blinked.
Mid-swing.
"…What?"
He stared at her, visibly confused.
"Isekai?" he echoed, as if the word itself offended his entire bloodline.
This is my chance! She thought.
Before he could react, Elira turned and bolted again—splashing through the silver lake like a panicked duck in pajamas.
"Stop her!" Lucan roared, voice cracking with fury.
The soldiers hesitated for half a beat—staring at the girl flailing through the water, shrieking something about anime tropes and copyright lawsuits. Something they couldn't understand.
Then they charged.
And Elira ran like her life depended on it.
Because it did.
The soldiers charged forward, but Elira was faster than fear.
Her foot slipped on a slick stone and she tumbled face-first into the water with a loud, undignified splat.
"Okay, cool," she muttered, spitting out lake water. "I'm wet, confused, and possibly hallucinating. Ten out of ten fantasy experience."
She scrambled upright, legs flailing like a newborn deer, and bolted again. A soldier lunged at her—missed—and face-planted into the lake with a splash that echoed like karma.
"Sorry!" she shouted over her shoulder. "I'm new here!"
Another soldier reached for her arm—she ducked, spun, and accidentally elbowed him in the gut.
"Oh my gosh, I'm a ninja!" she gasped, just before tripping over her own foot and landing in a bush that had absolutely no business being in the middle of a lake.
Lucan watched from the shore, baffled.
"Is this… the Saintess?"
One soldier hesitated. "She fights like a drunk squirrel, Your Majesty."
Lucan's eye twitched. "She's either a divine trickster… or the universe is mocking me. Either way, killing her will be easier than understanding her."
Elira popped up from the bush, twigs in her hair, panting like she'd just run a marathon in a fever dream.
"I'm not the Saintess!" she cried. "I'm not from here! My name is Elira! Please let me go home! Killing me won't change anything!"
Lucan narrowed his eyes. "What a noisy creature."
"I'm not!" she yelled. "I have bills! I have laundry! I have a half-eaten burger waiting for me!"
The soldiers paused.
Lucan lowered his sword slightly, visibly thrown off by the mention of burgers.
"Did she say… burger?" one soldier whispered.
And in that moment of confusion, Elira turned and ran again—this time toward a glowing archway that hadn't been there before. It shimmered in the mist, pulsing with unstable light like a heartbeat out of sync with reality.
It might be a magic portal to go back home!
"Don't let her reach the portal!" Lucan roared.
But she was already halfway through, flailing like a cartoon character mid-fall and screaming, "I regret everything! I swear I'm not a Saintess and I'm not from here!"
Lucan's eyes widened.
She was escaping.
Not on his watch.
With a snarl, he sheathed his sword and broke into a sprint—his heavy armor clanking with every step, water splashing violently beneath him.
"Move!" he barked at his stunned soldiers, who scrambled out of the way like terrified ducks.
The portal flickered violently, unstable and wild.
Elira's pajama-clad figure was nearly swallowed whole.
Lucan lunged.
FWOOOSH.
The portal roared—and swallowed him whole.
Then silence.
The lake stilled.
The moon pulsed once.
And the archway vanished. Souldiers panic for their king is now gone without any companion.
Elira was so sure she'd made it back to her room.
She even smiled mid-air.
But instead, she landed hard—face-first into damp soil.
The ground was cold, soft, and smelled like moss and something… rotten.
She groaned, coughing out leaves. "Okay… definitely not my bedroom."
Around her loomed towering trees, their twisted branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Fog clung to the forest floor like a living thing, thick and pulsing. Distant growls echoed through the shadows.
Eyes watched her from the darkness.
Glowing.
Hungry.
She counted them—ten pairs. But what were they? Wolves? Lions? Tigers? Demon alpacas?
"Great," she muttered. "I landed in a horror game."
She sat up, brushing dirt and twigs from her hair, trying not to panic. Her soaked pajamas clung to her skin, and her heart thudded like a drum. She was covered in mud, moss, and regret. Thankfully, fear numbed the cold.
A low snarl came from behind a tree.
She froze. "Nope. Nope. Nope."
Before she could run, heavy armored boots stomped toward her. The fog parted like curtains.
King Lucan emerged—dripping from the lake, his cape torn and trailing mud, his glare sharp enough to slice through bone.
"You thought you could escape me?" he growled.
She stared at him, stunned. "How did you even follow me?!"
Lucan stepped closer, towering over her. "This is my kingdom. You dared play dumb with me. You piss me off."
He unsheathed his sword with a hiss of steel.
Elira stepped back, hands raised. "I also insulted your chin-grabbing etiquette," she muttered.
From the shadows, something growled louder.
Lucan's eye twitched.
"You are either the Saintess… or the most irritating creature I've ever encountered."
"Can't I be both?" she offered weakly.
Lucan grabbed her arm, his grip firm and cold, yanking her close.
"You're not afraid of death, are you?" he said, voice low and dangerous. "Let's see how long that bravery lasts."
Behind them, the growling intensified.
Three monstrous figures emerged from the mist—fangs bared, claws gleaming. Three to the left. Four to the right. Their bodies were twisted, fur matted with blood, eyes glowing like embers.
Lucan smirked. "Perfect."
"What do you mean perfect?" she asked, voice cracking.
She took a shaky step back, sensing exactly what this tyrant was about to do.
Lucan didn't flinch.
Instead, he turned to her slowly, his expression unreadable.
Then—without warning—he shoved her forward.
She stumbled, nearly falling face-first into the fog. "Hey! What the hell?!"
Lucan's voice was calm. Almost bored. "If you're truly the Saintess, the monsters will fear you."
"I told you—I'm not a Saintess!" she shouted, backing away from the snarling beasts. "I'm just a girl with anxiety and a questionable diet!"
Lucan crossed his arms. "Then prove it. Survive."
She turned to him, eyes wide. "You're seriously using me as bait?! How truly gentlemanly of you!"
"Consider it a test," he said coolly. "If you die, you were lying. If you live… I'll reconsider."
The monsters crept closer, sniffing the air.
Seriously, this tyrant has no mercy.
She raised her hands. "Okay, okay, let's think this through. I'm not tasty. I'm mostly stress and sarcasm. You don't want this meat!"
One of the beasts snarled louder.
Lucan watched, amused. "You're doing well. Keep negotiating."
"I will throw a rock at you," she hissed.
Lucan smirked. "Bravery and spite. Interesting combination. But also… irritating."
She stood frozen as the monsters crept closer, their growls vibrating through the fog.
She raised her hands, palms out. "Okay, listen. I'm not edible. I'm mostly stress and caffeine. You eat me, you'll get anxiety and regret."
The monsters snarled even louder.
She pointed at one. "You! You look like you've got digestive issues. Don't risk it."
Lucan watched from behind, arms crossed, unimpressed.
She took a shaky step back. "I'm not the Saintess. I'm not magical. I'm not even athletic. I trip over flat surfaces. Please—go chase something shinier. Something bigger. Something that makes you full."
Lucan twitched his brow.
Shinier and bigger? That must be him.
One of the beasts lunged.
She screamed and dove sideways, rolling into a patch of moss.
"I WAS KIDDING!"
Two monsters snarled and charged again—fangs bared, claws slicing through the air like blades.
Then—
CLANG!
A flash of steel.
Lucan stepped between them, sword drawn, cape billowing behind him like a drama king making his grand entrance. His blade met the monster's claw with a deafening clash, sparks flying in every direction.
"You dare touch what's mine to kill?" he growled, voice low and venomous.
Elira blinked from the ground, dazed and muddy. "Wait—what?!"
Lucan didn't answer.
He spun, slashing through the air with deadly precision. The monster shrieked and stumbled back, wounded and bleeding. The others hesitated, snarling but uncertain.
Lucan turned to them, eyes glowing with fury. "Leave. Or die."
The beasts retreated into the mist, tails low, snarling in defeat.
Elira sat up, panting, hair full of twigs and moss. "Okay. That was terrifying. And kind of hot. But mostly terrifying."
Lucan turned to her, sword still in hand, his expression unreadable.
She scrambled backward, hands raised. "Wait! You said if I survive, you'll reconsider!"
Lucan stepped closer, boots crunching against the damp soil, his shadow stretching long across the moss.
"You didn't survive," he said coldly. "I saved you. So now… it's your turn."
Elira clenched her eyes shut, bracing herself, hands trembling as they pressed against the ground. She waited for the blade. For the pain. For the end.
But seconds passed.
No steel met her skin.
No death came.
She opened her eyes slowly and looked up.
Lucan stood over her, his sword already sheathed, his crimson eyes glowing faintly beneath the moonlight. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between disdain and amusement.
"You bluff like a fool," he said, voice low and sharp. "And you looked utterly stupid talking to those monsters like they owed you rent."
Elira blinked, still breathless. "I was improvising!"
Lucan ignored her protest. "For now, I'll spare your life. But don't ever think of escaping again."
She squinted at him, pushing herself up from the ground. "It was your plan! You threw me at them like a chew toy!"
Lucan smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching with cruel satisfaction. "At least you survived. For now."
He turned away, his cape dragging through the mud, leaving a trail behind him.
Elira stood there, soaked, shivering, and covered in moss.
"Great," she muttered. "Saved by a tyrant with dramatic flair and zero chill."
Lucan paused mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder.
"I heard that."
"I meant for you to," she snapped.
Lucan turned to face her fully, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement. "Do you want me to leave you behind? I doubt you'd survive five minutes."
Elira blinked, caught off guard.
Then burst out laughing—sharp, breathless, and slightly unhinged. "Oh, please, lead the way, Your Majesty. I'd hate to die without a royal escort."
Lucan's smirk widened, slow and deliberate—like a wolf humored by its prey.
He said nothing.
Just turned.
And walked.
His cape dragged through the damp soil, his boots crunching with every step.
Elira followed, muttering under her breath, "This is fine. Totally normal. Just casually trailing behind a tyrant king in monster-infested woods. Living the dream."
The forest grew quiet again.
For now.