The farm road of Herda Village was ringed by wheat fields bathed in the morning sun. The early summer wind stirred the ears of grain, and golden waves flowed quietly across the land. The figure of a woman seated on the stone wall beside the road seemed terribly out of place in this landscape. Kestra. The name of the great archmage once known as the "Spire of the Verdant Ridge" existed now only in the whispers of village children. She was in her mid-thirties. Chestnut hair fell to her shoulders, bound back, with bangs that faintly obscured her forehead. In her deep brown eyes dwelt a shadow of something distant. Her body was slender, and the muscles hidden beneath her farm clothes spoke of days long past in battle. A white shirt, black slacks. Simple, yet bearing a certain refinement. And on her left wrist, a faint tattoo in the pattern of ancient magical script. "Now then, the character 'Vel,'" Kestra said. She drew the letter in the soil with a wooden branch. Her movements were careful, practiced—the hand of one accustomed to teaching. Around her sat fourteen children, their eyes fixed on a flat stone that served as a blackboard. Ages ranged from six to twelve. Children of the village farmers. "In this world, it's the character that gave Versahn its name. Long ago, great mages drove enormous 'pillars' deep into the earth to protect the world. This character is the source of that power. 'Vel'—an ancient word meaning 'the heart of the earth.' All seventy-two sealing pillars that protect the world are animated by the power of this character." Kestra traced the letter with her finger. In that moment, curiosity bloomed in the children's eyes. Good questions would come in seconds. "Teacher, do those 'pillars' really exist?" asked Tom, an eight-year-old boy, raising his hand. His gaze was innocent and pure. "Yes. In places far away. Though none of you have ever seen them." Kestra laughed—a gentle laugh, as if soothing the children. Her smile seemed like that of someone without a care in the world. But— "Is it true you used to be a mage, teacher?" asked Emilia, an eleven-year-old girl. Innocent curiosity. Children harbored no malice, no intent to conceal. They simply wished to know. In that instant, Kestra's expression froze. A tower burning. The tower called the Spire of the Verdant Ridge. Three years ago. The final, desperate battle of the Ash Ruin War. Screaming boys and girls. Her disciples—the ones she could not save. Her own helplessness. She had reached out her hand then, but it had not reached them. A promise unfulfilled. A promise made to those who survived. Old memories crashed over her like waves. "...That was long ago," Kestra said, her voice deliberately kept flat. Her smile had become something constructed. "Three years ago, the Ash Ruin War ended. That was when. I am different now. Just a teacher. And now—" In that moment, the soil beneath her feet trembled faintly. The children did not notice. But Kestra felt it. Something stirring within her. The alien power she had forced deep into the seal, beginning to move. Three years. For three years, she had desperately suppressed it. Every day, every night. With each breath, each blink. Unlike the common magic of Versahn—"Seal Resonance Sorcery," which drew upon the world's primordial magic through the sealing pillars as a medium, a safe method—her power was direct. It responded to emotion. It connected to the world's source not through the pillars, but directly from her own heart and body. That was why it was dangerous. Frightening. That single word was where it all began. Her fingertips began to tremble faintly. Her heartbeat quickened. Her breathing grew shallow. "Are you all right?" Emilia asked, her expression full of concern. That gentle gaze shook Kestra all the more. She wanted to protect them. These children. But she was dangerous. If her power spiraled out of control here— When that contradiction crossed the threshold— A transparent shockwave radiated outward from Kestra's body. The sound of air tearing. The children were unharmed. Kestra, without knowing it, had protected them. But— The neighboring farmhouse's storage shed, twenty meters from the stone wall, shattered with a deafening roar. Wood, hay, scattered through the air. Roof tiles fell to the ground. Dust rose in a cloud. "What happened!?" "Is it a monster attack!?" Screams erupted throughout the village. Farmers burst from their homes and rushed toward the scene. Kestra fell to her knees. Both hands clutching her head. "It was me... It was my fault..." Tears traced her cheeks. Three years. Three years of quiet living. She had bought peace, or so she thought. But the power—the power— "Kestra, calm yourself," said Eda Pelsohn, the village elder, in a steady voice. Sixty-two years old, her white-streaked hair bound severely back, a former teacher. Composure was her entire being. "First, we must check for injuries. Send the children home." Eda's instructions were clear. The villagers gradually emerged from their panic and began practical actions. Checking for the injured. Assessing the shed's condition. Kestra apologized in a trembling voice, again and again. "I'm so sorry," repeated endlessly. After sending the children home, she retreated to her cottage. The cottage stood at the eastern edge of the village. It had been an empty house three years ago when she rented it. A modest structure of only two rooms. In the garden, she tended a medicinal herb garden of her own making. In the darkness of the room, Kestra stared at her reflection in the mirror. Gray eyes. Eyes once praised as "the eyes of a mage." Those eyes now brimmed with terror. "I cannot hide it anymore. This power will..." Her voice would not come. Instead, her lips trembled. "...lead me to ruin again..." Outside the window, villagers whispered among themselves. "So it's true, Kestra used to be a mage." "Something must have happened in the Ash Ruin War." "It's dangerous. How can we trust someone like her..." Kestra covered her ears. But those voices pierced her heart without mercy. Three years. Three years of peace had ended today. Night fell. Kestra could not sleep. She gazed out the window at the dark landscape beyond. From deep within Moswood Forest came an eerie animal cry. Once, then again. Repeated howls. That voice told her something. The seals were breaking. The seventy-two sealing pillars driven into the earth were reacting to the magic leaking from their cracks, transforming wild beasts. Gray-horned deer. Rift insects. Mud corpse soldiers. Abyss moths. All of them, called by that power, were gathering in this region. And— Kestra's own power was beginning to resonate with those cracks. The tattoo on her left wrist emitted a faint light. Long ago, when she had been the great archmage of the "Spire of the Verdant Ridge," she had carved this mark. A "soul rune"—the pattern of her innate magical power—a seal of contract binding the earth's sealing structure to her heart and body. That seal, now— Was resonating with something. Something vast, ancient, and profound. The night outside the window was silent. Yet beneath that silence lay quiet movement. The earth was slowly awakening from its slumber. Tomorrow. A new chapter would begin in Kestra's life. And she did not yet know that within that chapter awaited an encounter that would transform her greatly. Hours remained until dawn. The village slept in silence.