Far to the east, the Hope race had established a grand kingdom stretching from one end of the east to the west, spanning 500 km², bordered only by the ocean.
With their expansive ambitions, it must be acknowledged—they were the strongest mammals of the ti, especially with their exceptional blend of technology and magic.
But now, that kingdom was on the brink of destruction.
"Tiph from Amiba District has rebelled and attacked Gluton District. We must send reinforcents."
"But wait, wasn't Jrahaln from Gluton District siding with the rebels?"
"If that's the case, tell the surrounding troops to retreat and regroup. Strengthen defenses until reinforcents arrive."
Amid the tense atmosphere, soone suddenly burst into the room, panicked. "Sir, it's an ergency! A grave ergency!"
The elders glared at the intruder in anger. "How dare a commoner like you enter the war council chambers uninvited? Do you wish to be shackled?"
The ssenger paid no heed to the threats, too preoccupied with the imminent danger upon them.
"Both Gluton and Amiba Districts have been destroyed! Jrahaln has been killed, and Tiph has vanished!"
"So, they were still enemies in the end."
"Does that an Gluton was still on our side before this?"
"Losing a great general like him at such a ti..." One elder struck the ground in frustration.
"Regret is pointless," a towering figure said, striding calmly through the doorway.
The ssenger, recognizing the figure's commanding presence, imdiately knelt and prostrated, resuming his submissive posture. "Your Majesty."
The elders followed suit.
Rhaemon's sturdy fra was imposing. His head was clean-shaven, and his facial features were sharp and resolute. Rarely did anyone see him smile, and when he did, it signaled sothing extraordinary.
Rhaemon walked past the council table and stood before the high-backed, gold-inlaid chair—the only seat in the room.
"Jrahaln was a Half-Blood; you must rember that. To die as a warrior defending this beloved holand was his ultimate destiny."
"Of course, Your Majesty."
"It was only fitting."
"Long live Your Majesty."
anwhile, in a more remote, foul-slling, and dimly lit part of the palace, a woman stood facing a set of iron bars.
"Lyuvanor, the Child of Lightning, are you certain about what you said?"
The person behind the bars was restrained in every possible way.
Both hands were tied behind his back with rough ropes that cut into his skin with every movent. An iron collar nailed to the wall gripped his neck, while his legs were bound by heavy iron chains.
"About Rhaemon possibly being an illegitimate heir of the previous king? Isn't that common knowledge? Oh, or are you referring to the gossip about Elder Saelorik smuggling a kaelith woman out of Gluton District—"
"Her na is Elyndra, and she's a Half-Blood!"
The prisoner chuckled. "What a disgusting lie. Everyone knows that those with kaelith blood are kaelith themselves. In your eyes, we're all the sa—nothing more than a kaelith, 'blights' and 'pests.' But you know what's fascinating? My people call you kaovren, embodints of terrifying, divine monstrosities."
The prisoner burst into a fit of laughter. "Truly, a reflection of genuine inferiority."
The woman chose to ignore his words. "About the use of magic that could poison civilians—is that also part of your vile slander?"
"Hm, your people seem to misunderstand magic quite a bit. Let's make it simple. What's your favorite food, Miss Warden?"
"What?" The woman scrutinized the prisoner, thinking he'd fall silent if she didn't answer. But as he remained insistent, she sighed. "Roast pork."
"Ah, I love that. Just imagining the fat lting as it's served makes my mouth water. How many portions can you eat in one sitting, Miss Warden?"
"Is that important?"
"Tut, tut, you won't get a prize if you keep arguing."
The woman sighed, following his ga. "One."
"Hm, say you were really hungry—could you manage two?"
"Maybe."
"What about three?"
"That's still possible."
"Five?"
"Impossible. Four is probably my limit, maybe even less."
"And if you forced yourself to eat more?"
"It would make uncomfortable, even nauseous."
The prisoner grinned. "Now imagine forcing yourself to eat six, ten, or even a hundred portions."
The thought alone made the woman visualize herself bloated, unable to walk, and bursting with the last bite. She shook her head, dismissing the horrifying imagination.
"Exactly."
"Huh?"
"Think of magic seeds as the food you consu. It enters your body; so is absorbed and converted into energy, while the rest is expelled. That's how it works for us Half-Bloods."
"We have a unique organ called the Magic Channel that optimizes magic seeds, facilitating their output as magic."
"But what about you? You kaovren lack that. And there's too much to expel. The residue lingers, eating away at you from within until it eventually kills you."
The woman stood stunned, finally understanding why most of the Hope race rarely lived past 40 years. "But that doesn't explain why people started attacking Half-Bloods. Weren't we all agreed to coexist?"
The prisoner shook his head. "My dear, you've missed the point. Listen, that's the process of magic seeds in normal circumstances."
"What do you an?"
"I an, imagine this: normally, you can't even tolerate ordinary magic seeds. How could you survive concentrated ones...
... like the residue left behind by Half-Blood magic use, for instance?"
The woman's eyes widened in shock.
"My dear, from the very beginning... we were never ant to coexist."
The woman left the place in a hurry. She finally arrived in front of the room she despised the most in this building.
"What do you want, Ishandril?"
Ishandril bit her lower lip in regret. "Your Majesty—no, Father, I... admit my wrongdoing."
Rhaemon scoffed and sipped his drink. "Your very existence was never wanted from the start. Why apologize for that now?"
Once again, Ishandril felt her heart sink. As the sole offspring of the king, she had been expected to be born a male from the very beginning.
Receiving sharp remarks from the one who should have cherished her had beco her daily reality.
If there was anything that could console her suffering, it was her friend, Elyndra—a Half-Blood and the child of a concubine.
With Elyndra, Ishandril finally experienced happiness and the life she thought she deserved.
However, Lyuvanor began spreading slander about the Half-Bloods, blaming them for the plagues and deaths, attributing it to their 'cursed blood'.
It was odd, given that Lyuvanor himself shared the sa bloodline, although he was raised as part of the noble warrior family of the Hope race.
The already anxious populace beca even more easily swayed. The Half-Bloods beca targets of curses, scorn, and violence.
So Half-Bloods in leadership positions couldn't bear seeing their kin treated so unjustly and led uprisings, plunging the kingdom into a prolonged civil war.
As Crown Princess, Ishandril took it upon herself to investigate and capture Lyuvanor, hoping he would confess that his claims were lies, putting an end to the atrocities in Antroseda.
Though many called her naïve, Ishandril believed this thod would succeed.
If only Lyuvanor's words truly were lies.
Ishandril would dismiss his claims as re boasting, if only she hadn't witnessed it herself.
Her three-month-old half-brother had suddenly fallen ill after seeing Elyndra practice fire magic. He succumbed to fever after two weeks.
'So... in the end, is this war truly unavoidable? Are we cursed to destroy one another?'
Ishandril didn't want to harm the Half-Bloods, especially Elyndra. But as a future queen, she bore the responsibility for the lives of her people.
"Father, I suggest we focus extermination efforts on the Half-Bloods. It doesn't matter whether they're rebels or—"
BOOM!
The throne room was suddenly engulfed in a massive explosion. Ishandril and Rhaemon were thrown, tumbling and burning.
The two could only stare helplessly as the crumbling debris, consud by roaring flas, slowly fell upon them.
In her final monts, Ishandril heard a faint voice.
A voice she had longed to hear all this ti.
Elyndra whispered softly into her ear. "Burn in hell, damn kaovren."
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