Long ago, in a kingdom ruled by a man praised for his kindness, a darker truth festered beneath the golden halls. The king, though beloved by his people, was consumed by desire. His palace overflowed with wives and concubines—some noble, others mere servants, many drawn from brothels for their beauty.
From this tangled web of lust and power, countless sons and daughters were born. As the king aged, whispers of succession stirred unrest. His children, each hungry for the throne, turned against one another in a silent war of ambition.
Among them was a boy—unwanted, unacknowledged. Born of a brothel woman and the king, he was treated as filth. His siblings mocked him, nobles scorned him, and servants dared not speak his name. His mother, once radiant, was crushed beneath the cruelty of the palace and eventually killed by those who saw her as nothing more than a stain on royal blood.
But the boy endured.
In secret, he trained. In silence, he watched. And in the shadows, he built an alliance of the forgotten and the betrayed. By the time he became a man, his heart had hardened into steel, and his sword thirsted for justice.
One by one, he struck down those who had tormented him—the princes and princesses, the queen, the concubines, and finally, the king himself. The palace bathed in blood, and the throne, once unreachable, now belonged to the son they had tried to erase.
He did not take the crown for glory.
He took it for vengeance.
But vengeance is a hunger that never fades.
As years passed, the boy who once sought justice became a man consumed by power. The blood of his enemies no longer satisfied him. He turned his gaze outward, conquering neighboring states, razing cities, and slaughtering innocents. Children, elders, and those who dared speak against him were silenced by the blade.
The weak boy was gone.
In his place stood a tyrant cloaked in the ashes of his past—a king feared not for his birthright, but for the wrath he unleashed upon the world.
The palace was quiet now—not with peace, but with fear.
Servants moved like ghosts through the marble halls, eyes lowered, breaths held. The scent of blood still lingered in the throne room, where the tyrant king sat draped in crimson robes, his sword resting beside him like a loyal hound.
He was no longer the boy they once mocked.
His gaze was sharp, his voice colder than steel. The crown on his head was forged not from gold, but from the bones of those who stood in his way. He ruled with an iron fist, and his name was spoken only in whispers—King Lucan, the son of the brothel, the butcher of bloodlines.
Outside the palace, the kingdom trembled. Villages burned. States fell. Children cried for fathers who would never return. And in the shadows, a rumor began to spread—of a girl marked by prophecy, a saintess born under a dying star, destined to end the reign of the bloodthirsty king.
But Lucan feared no prophecy.
He had killed gods in his dreams and saints in his sleep.
And if this girl truly existed, he would find her.
And he would silence her.
The glow of the screen was the only light in the room, casting pale shadows across the cluttered floor and the towers of unread books beside the bed. Midnight had long passed, but sleep was a stranger she hadn't welcomed in days.
She sat curled in a blanket, thumb hovering over the title: Throne of Ash and Vengeance. It pulsed faintly, like it knew it was about to be chosen.
She murmured the title aloud, voice barely more than a breath. It sounded cruel. Dark. Dangerous. And exactly what she craved.
Outside, the world was still. No dragons. No tyrant kings. Just the hum of a broken fan and the occasional bark of a stray dog. But inside the story—there was fire. Blood. A boy who rose from nothing and burned everything to claim his place.
She envied him.
Not the destruction. Not the madness. But the certainty. The clarity of purpose. Something she hadn't felt in years.
She tapped the screen.
The next chapter loaded.
And then—something shifted.
The words shimmered. Just for a second. She blinked, rubbed her eyes. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe—
The screen flickered again. The letters rearranged themselves, forming a single line:
"The Saintess has awakened."
Her breath caught.
Before she could react, the room darkened. The light from her phone pulsed like a heartbeat. And then—silence.
Not the kind that comes with power outages.
The kind that feels alive.
And then—
She was no longer in her room.