"Steel remembers its wielder, even when the hand that held it has turned to dust."
The corridors of the Aserra Mansion were quiet that night. The faint glow of spirit lanterns cast long shadows against the polished stone floor as Crystal Aserra walked through the hall, her footsteps echoing softly in the silence.
When she entered her room, the first thing she saw was her sister — Aria.
The young girl was curled up on her bed, clutching the blanket like a shield. Her small shoulders trembled as if expecting pain at any moment. The sight made Crystal's chest tighten.
"Did you fear me like this… even back then?" she murmured under her breath.
The guards standing near the door stiffened. But before any of them could react, Crystal waved her hand lightly. "Leave us."
They obeyed immediately, bowing low and retreating from the room. The air grew quieter.
Crystal turned to Mari, who stood by uncertainly. "Take care of Aria. Don't let anyone disturb her."
Mari blinked. "My lady?"
But Crystal was already walking away, her expression unreadable.
She left the room, her steps carrying her through the mansion's silent courtyard. The night air was cool, the moonlight washing the Asura banners in shades of silver and crimson. The distant sound of training swords clashing echoed faintly through the grounds — a reminder that the clan never truly slept.
Her path led her to the one place she hadn't visited since her return — her grandfather's War Room.
The heavy doors opened with a low groan. Inside, the space was vast and dimly lit by floating spirit flames that hovered in the air. Weapons adorned every inch of the walls — swords, spears, halberds, and relics from past generations. Each one carried a name, a story, and the weight of victory or loss.
It was not just a room. It was a legacy of war.
Crystal's lips curved faintly as she stepped inside. "Still as cold and beautiful as ever."
The air here was different — sharper, heavier. It carried the faint scent of iron and incense, mingling into something that felt almost sacred. Every weapon seemed to hum faintly, resonating with the residual will of those who once wielded them.
She walked slowly past each wall, her eyes scanning over blades she remembered from her childhood.
Then her gaze stopped.
There, mounted on the central rack, were two blades — a daisho, one long and one short. Their black hilts were bound with faded red cloth.
Her fingers brushed against the longer sword. "My old companion…" she whispered.
In her previous life, she had used this very daisho through countless battles — the weapon that carved her path as the General of Death. With it, she had earned glory… and blood.
But now, even if she wanted to wield it again, she couldn't.
Her cultivation pathways were sealed. Her body might be alive, but her meridians were like frozen rivers — nothing could flow through them.
Yet the blades stirred something inside her — a flicker of old pride, old wrath, and the faint ache of betrayal.
But that wasn't what she was looking for tonight.
She turned her gaze away and moved toward the far end of the room. There, resting under a glass case, lay a small dagger — simple in design, its blade etched with faint chaos runes.
When she saw it, a rare smile crossed her lips. "There you are…"
Her reflection shimmered faintly in the blade's polished edge.
This was the weapon that had once saved her life during her first real battle — and the same weapon she had left behind when she became queen.
A dagger forged for the weak, yet always striking true.
As she lifted it gently from its stand, her mind drifted back to the memory that had haunted her for days — the Grand Banquet.
It was supposed to be a royal celebration, a gathering of all noble houses under the Crown Prince's command. But in her previous life, that night had become something else entirely — a massacre.
Blood spilled across the golden floors of the Grand Hall. Factions turned on each other, blades flashed, and the royal court itself became a battlefield.
That single event had torn the kingdom apart.
The chaos that followed led to civil war — and though the royal family had quelled it temporarily, the wound never healed. When the king died years later, the war ignited once more, consuming everything.
The Asura Clan… her family… had been dragged into it.
And in the end, her husband Noah had used the bloodshed to crown himself king.
Crystal's hand tightened around the dagger.
"Not this time."
Even if she couldn't survive past the system's three-week deadline… even if she failed to create the impossible Soul Sea… she could still make sure Noah never reached the throne.
If the banquet was destined to be a bloodbath again, she would simply make sure the blood that spilled first — was his.
A cold smile curved her lips as she sheathed the dagger at her waist.
"Three weeks is enough."
With that thought, she turned and walked out of the war room, the faint echo of her steps blending with the soft hum of the spirit flames.
The door closed behind her with a quiet thud.
Outside, the moon hung high above the Asura estate, bathing the courtyards in pale light.
But miles away, deep within the vast Verdant Forest, the peace of the night shattered.
A shockwave of chaotic energy tore through the trees, scattering leaves like sparks. Birds fled into the night, their cries echoing through the silent expanse.
At the center of that storm, a lone figure stood atop an ancient tree branch.
A long blade rested casually against his shoulder, its edge glinting beneath the moonlight. The man's posture was calm, his aura sharp enough to split the wind itself.
From the shadows, a small spirit bird flew toward him, landing neatly on his outstretched hand. He untied the note from its leg, scanning it silently.
The parchment was short. Only four words were written on it.
She is awake.
For a moment, the forest was utterly still.
Then, a faint smile curved his lips — a smile that held both amusement and danger.
He folded the note and slipped it into his robe.
With a single step, he vanished from the branch — the air where he stood rippling from the force of his departure.
When the moonlight caught him mid-descent, his face was briefly revealed — sharp, composed, and undeniably royal.
The Fourth Prince of Asterion.
The wind whispered through the trees, carrying his quiet words into the night.
And somewhere, far away in the mansion, Crystal Aserra opened her eyes beneath the same moonlight, the faint trace of a smirk on her lips — as if she could feel that a new piece had just entered the board.
"In every war, those who smile first already know who will bleed last."