The sun was high.

  The cruel and honest daylight illuminated everything, leaving not a single dark corner to hide in.

  Arka stood on the temple terrace, staring at the stone courtyard that had been the stage for a miniature apocalypse last night.

  There were no enemy corpses. Shade Walkers left no bodies; they only left nothingness. However, the ground remembered.

  The ancient granite stone floor was shattered. Craters from purple energy explosions scattered like pockmarks on the face of the earth. The charred remains of John Foster’s golden pillar of fire still left a perfect black circle in the middle of the yard. The smell of ozone and magical sulfur still hung thin in the air, refusing to leave despite being chased by the mountain wind.

  Arka exhaled a long breath, his eyes sweeping the downward path in the distance.

  He saw the last squad of reinforcements.

  The black banners of Black Keep and the blue banners of Fort Rivermarsh grew smaller, moving away like ants returning to their nest after the sugar feast was over.

  The image of that parting was still painted clearly on Arka’s retinas.

  Just an hour ago, he saw Lenn Dyora bow respectfully, stiffly yet sincerely. He saw Wang Leiyin—that arrogant Lion of the North—bow his head deeply before Rajendra Sagara, expressing gratitude with a voice no longer condescending.

  They came. They fought. They got applause. And now, they left.

  Leaving House Sagara alone again with these ruins.

  "Cheats," Arka mumbled softly, the corner of his lip lifting bitterly. "They get the hero's cheers, we get the yard-cleaning part."

  The wind blew softly, scattering the dust of the battle's aftermath.

  This mountain returned to silence.

  Deafening silence. No more war cries, no clinking metal, no monster shrieks. Only the sound of pine leaves rustling and the echo of Arka’s own footsteps.

  This silence felt heavier than the battle itself. It was the silence of isolation. The silence of gatekeepers forgotten by the world as soon as the danger passed.

  Arka turned, looking at his grandfather's back standing quietly looking at the damage to his temple.

  Under that scorching sun, the Sagara Temple looked old, tired, and lonely. Just like its inhabitants.

  Heavy yet calm footsteps approached.

  Arka didn't need to turn to know who it was. The muffled void aura and the distinct smell of old incense explained enough.

  Rajendra Sagara approached him.

  The old man didn't stand tall full of authority like last night. This afternoon, his shoulders slumped slightly. He threw his old body down to sit on the temple terrace stone steps, right next to Arka.

  They both sat side by side, staring at the severely damaged empty courtyard.

  Silence for a moment. Only the sound of mountain wind whistling through cracked stone crevices.

  "Only Black Keep and Fort Rivermarsh came..." Rajendra murmured softly. His voice was raspy, not from war cries, but from disappointment swallowed for years.

  Those old eyes gazed far away, piercing layers of time.

  "Three hundred years ago, Arka..." he began, his tone turning into a tragic bedtime story. "When this family was led by Matriarch Shitarya Sagara... the sight wasn't this quiet."

  Arka listened, his chin resting on his knees.

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  "Back then, one word from Shitarya's lips... just one word... and all the rulers of Carta would kneel to obey her. Kings, generals, merchants... they would all mobilize their best troops. They were willing to climb this mountain, crowding in this yard just to defend one Sagara Temple roof tile from falling."

  Rajendra smiled bitterly, pointing toward the now empty gate.

  "In the past, that path was jammed with banners of pride from all corners of the country. Now? We have to beg for help just to survive."

  Those words stung Arka’s pride.

  He looked at his Grandfather, then looked at his own palms still calloused from holding swords.

  The frustration he had kept buried all this time, finally leaked out.

  "Look at us now, Gramps," Arka cut in sharply.

  He turned, looking Rajendra straight in the eyes.

  "Why has this family become this pathetic? Why has the great Sagara now just become a spectacle?"

  Arka snorted roughly, his voice rising.

  "We are like rare animals, Gramps. We are like an endangered species kept in a cultural reserve by Ironseat. Given enough food, left living reluctantly but not wanting to die, just so they can say 'Oh, we still respect history'."

  Arka saw Rajendra’s chest rise high.

  His grandfather held a deep breath. That old face tensed.

  Arka closed his eyes for a moment, preparing to receive a slap or shout for his insolent mouth. He knew he had just insulted ancestral heritage.

  But the punishment didn't come.

  Arka opened his eyes.

  He saw the expression on Rajendra’s face. It wasn't anger at his grandson. It was anger at fate. And behind that anger, slipped a sadness so deep and dark.

  The expression of a king realizing his palace was being gnawed by termites, but his hands were tied.

  Rajendra exhaled a long breath, his shoulders slumping again. He didn't argue. He didn't correct. The silence was the most painful justification.

  Arka felt cold creeping down his spine. Not from the wind, but from realization.

  He brought his face closer a bit, his voice turning into a serious whisper.

  "Is our family meant to be finished off like this?" Arka asked softly.

  His eyes demanded an answer.

  "Is this not just a decline of the times? Is someone intentionally stunting us?"

  Arka swallowed, then threw the ultimate question that had been haunting him.

  "By whom, Gramps? Who wants Sagara to die slowly?"

  Rajendra didn't answer a name. He averted his gaze from Arka’s demanding eyes, returning to stare at the courtyard ruins.

  "House Sagara is too dangerous for them all, Son," Rajendra answered, his voice heavy avoiding the topic of "who".

  "You know... Aksesa isn't just an ordinary magic talent. It is an anomaly inherited in Sagara blood. A flaw we call a gift."

  Arka frowned. His memory flew to his time in the Capital.

  "But Gramps," Arka interrupted, "When I was in Ironseat... I felt the vibration. Faintly, but it was there. A youth from House Sanjaya... he had an aura similar to ours. He also had those 'eyes'."

  Rajendra shook his head slowly, a mocking crooked smile carved on his lips.

  "You misunderstand, Arka. What you felt in Sanjaya was merely an artificial spark. An imitation."

  Rajendra turned, staring at Arka sharply.

  "Son, you must know their own kitchen history. For centuries, House Sanjaya maintained their Aksesa line in a brutal way. They force-awaken an Aksesa."

  That old hand clenched into a fist on his knee.

  "With complex rituals. Long. Consuming wealth that could buy a city. And painful... so painful that half the candidates die mad before the ceremony is completed."

  Arka fell silent.

  Those words hit him like a sledgehammer.

  Force-awaken? Painful ritual?

  Arka replayed his own memory. He remembered when he turned 19 a few days ago. No priests, no special preparation, no torture ritual.

  He was just sitting daydreaming staring at incense smoke, and suddenly... click.

  The world opened. He saw spirits. He saw the void. His power awakened just like that, natural like flowers blooming in spring. Without force. Without pain.

  "I..." Arka thought, realizing his own oddity. "I went through all that easily."

  He lowered his head, hiding the tremor in his eyes. He began to understand why his Grandfather always looked at him with a mix of awe and worry. Arka wasn't the result of a ritual. Arka was pure.

  "Gramps," Arka’s voice was soft, refocusing on the main topic. "Is it because of the power in our blood that makes them all terrified? Is it because we are... different?"

  Rajendra answered firmly, one word killing hope.

  "Yes."

  The mountain wind blew harder, fluttering Rajendra’s white hair.

  "A mature Aksesa, a perfect one... like Matriarch Shitarya back then..."

  Rajendra’s eyes glinted, as if he saw the ghost of that great woman standing in the middle of the yard.

  "She was able to manifest her Void into this physical world completely. She didn't just see ghosts, Arka. She could summon and solidify Totems from nothingness, then crush everything under her feet."

  Rajendra pointed south, toward where the Capital was.

  "Even Ironseat back then... that arrogant iron throne... trembled before her."

  Arka swallowed hard. Imagination of power that massive gave him goosebumps. Bringing another dimension into the real world? That wasn't human power. That was the power of gods—or demons.

  Arka cut in quickly.

  "That's because Matriarch Shitarya showed the ultimate power of an Aksesa?" he mumbled, half asking, half concluding. "The ace card that outsiders shouldn't have seen?"

  Rajendra stared at his grandson, then nodded slowly. Heavy.

  Arka felt his heart pounding fast. That curiosity was now mixed with a bad premonition.

  He looked at his grandfather's old face intently.

  "Then at that time... what really happened, Gramps?" Arka pressed.

  His voice demanded the truth.

  "Why did Ancestor Shitarya have to be so reckless? Why was she forced to slam our Family's ace card in front of the world's face?"