In the beginning, before kingdoms carved their names into history and before crowns were forged to symbolize power, there existed only one origin of all things—the World Tree.
It stood beyond comprehension, vast and eternal, its roots stretching deep into the very foundation of the world, its branches reaching toward the heavens as if to bind the sky itself. From it, life was born. Every creature that walked, crawled, swam, or flew… every forest that breathed… every whisper of existence could trace its origin back to that singular entity.
Yet, the World Tree did not grant life alone.
It bestowed something far greater.
Mana.
An unseen force that flowed through all living things, binding them to the very essence of existence. It was neither visible nor tangible, yet it defined life itself. Without it, the world would simply… cease.
But the Tree was not equal in its blessings.
Some were born with an overwhelming abundance of mana, their very presence radiating power. Others carried only a faint trace, barely enough to sustain themselves. And then, there were those born without it entirely—empty vessels in a world defined by energy.
For those who possessed mana, it was not merely a gift.
It was life itself.
The moment it was exhausted… their existence would come to an end.
As time passed, those who carried mana began to understand it. What was once an instinct became knowledge, and what was once knowledge became control. They learned to shape it, bend it, and give it form.
Thus, magic was born.
But‚ no two manifestations were the same. Each being carried a unique connection to mana, a different expression of power that reflected their very nature. And with that, an age of wonder began—an era where the impossible became possible, and the world flourished under the brilliance of magic.
But as with all power… it did not remain pure.
Centuries passed, and by the year 900 A.D., the world had changed.
Those who wielded mana had grown not only in strength, but in intellect. Magic was no longer just a force—it had become a tool. Kingdoms rose, civilizations expanded, and life itself became easier under its influence.
Yet, alongside progress… came division.
Those without mana were cast aside, suppressed by those who possessed it. And even among the gifted, differences in power created a hierarchy of dominance. Strength dictated worth, and worth dictated authority.
But power, once tasted, is never enough.
The rulers of nations began to seek more—not just greater mana, but greater land, greater influence… greater supremacy. Their ambitions soon led their eyes to a single place.
The origin of it all.
The land of the World Tree.
The kingdom of Golgotha stood as its guardian, holding dominion over the sacred ground where the Tree took root. The lands surrounding it were unlike any other. Rivers flowed with such purity that they could never be tainted, no matter what touched them. The soil bore endless abundance, and life thrived in its most perfect form.
To live near the World Tree was to live in blessing.
There was nothing one could not obtain within its reach.
And so, a question began to spread among the rulers of neighboring kingdoms—
If all life was born from the World Tree… then why should its blessings belong to only one?
Greed turned to justification. Justification turned to desire.
And desire… turned to war.
What began as conflict soon escalated into something far greater—a relentless struggle between the Kingdom of Golgotha and the surrounding nations. Kingdom after kingdom rose against it, each seeking to claim the Tree for themselves.
The war did not last years.
It lasted generations.
For nearly a hundred years, the world burned.
Steel clashed endlessly, magic ravaged the land, and countless lives were lost in a battle that seemed to have no end. Yet, despite the chaos, the World Tree stood firm—until it no longer could.
Under the relentless assault of countless forces, the Tree began to weaken.
Its light faded.
Its roots trembled.
And slowly… it began to die.
Panic spread across the world.
For the death of the World Tree was not merely the loss of a symbol—it was the loss of all mana itself. If its heart were to cease, the source of mana would vanish, and with it, all those who depended on it would face inevitable death.
Only those born without mana would remain untouched.
For the rest… it was the end.
Desperation consumed the kingdoms. War lost its meaning, yet it did not stop. Power could no longer save them, and for the first time, those who ruled the world stood helpless before their own fate.
It was then… that a single decision changed everything.
The third king of Golgotha—
King Julias De Gramont.
He understood what others refused to accept.
The World Tree could not be saved.
But its heart… could.
And so, he chose a path no one else would dare to take.
To give the heart of the World Tree… a new body.
A vessel.
A life.
He chose his own daughter—
Miola De Gramont.
Young… yet burdened with a fate beyond comprehension.
Through a forbidden act, the heart of the World Tree was placed within her. The ancient essence, the source of all mana, now beat within the body of a single being.
And so…
The World Tree died.
But its heart… lived on.
Within Miola.
With the Tree gone, the war came to an end. There was nothing left to fight for. The land that once held the origin of all life became just another piece of the world.
Yet, something had changed.
No one dared to turn their gaze toward Golgotha again.
For within its borders lived something far greater than a kingdom—
The living heart of the World Tree.
Her existence alone altered the balance of the world. The presence of the heart increased the mana within the kingdom, strengthening both the land and those who lived upon it.
And so… time moved forward once more.
Years turned to decades.
Decades turned to centuries.
And Miola De Gramont…
Continued to live.
Centuries passed.
The chaos that once devoured the world had long since faded into history, spoken of only in tales and records. The great war over the World Tree had ended, and in its absence, an era of fragile peace took its place.
Kingdoms no longer clashed as they once did. Borders were held, alliances maintained, and the fear of the past lingered just enough to keep ambition restrained.
From the year 1300 A.D. onward, the world remained still.
Peace endured.
And at the heart of it all stood the Kingdom of Golgotha—unchallenged, unwavering, and untouched.
Because within it… lived the heart of the World Tree.
13th March, 1339
Time, however, spared no one.
Not even her.
Miola De Gramont—she who had carried the heart of the World Tree for centuries… she who had witnessed the rise and fall of generations, the laughter and deaths of countless loved ones… had finally begun to fade.
Her will to live… was reaching its end.
The burden she had carried for so long was no longer something her body—or perhaps her soul—could endure.
The royal chamber was silent.
Heavy.
Curtains of deep crimson draped over tall windows, dimming the light that tried to enter. The air itself felt still, as if even time had slowed in respect for the life that lay within.
At the center of the room, upon an intricately carved bed, lay Miola.
Her appearance defied logic.
Though centuries had passed, her face remained that of a woman in her thirties—unchanged, untouched by age. And yet… her body told a different story.
She looked fragile.
Weak.
As if a single breath too strong could shatter her entirely.
Her once radiant presence had dimmed, reduced to a faint, flickering existence.
Around her, royal physicians stood in quiet tension, their hands trembling slightly as they examined her condition again and again—only to arrive at the same conclusion.
One of them finally stepped forward.
His gaze lowered.
Before him stood a man of composed stature, yet with eyes that carried weight far beyond his years.
Lucas De Gramont—the second son of the Gramont family.
The physician hesitated… then spoke.
"...She cannot be saved, my lord."
Silence followed.
"It is not her body alone," he continued, voice heavy. "It is as if… she herself no longer wishes to live. If this continues… she may only have a few days left."
Lucas said nothing.
He simply stood there, his gaze fixed upon the frail figure of his great-grandmother.
Then, slowly… he exhaled.
A deep, quiet breath.
Then... footsteps echoed through the palace halls.
Firm. Fast. Unyielding.
A man clad in royal red robes walked with purpose, his presence alone enough to command silence. Behind him followed ministers and attendants, struggling to keep pace.
This was no ordinary man.
Leovan De Gramont.
The first son of the Gramont family.
The King of Golgotha.
His expression was set, unwavering—but the speed of his steps betrayed something deeper.
As he approached the chamber doors, the guards moved instantly, opening them without hesitation.
Leovan slowed.
Just slightly.
And then… he entered.
The room was filled.
Maids stood near the bed, tending to Miola with utmost care. Nobles and attendants gathered in respectful silence. And among them, Lucas remained, unmoving.
Leovan did not acknowledge anyone.
He walked straight forward.
Straight to her.
Without a word, the King of Golgotha lowered himself to the floor beside the bed.
Gently… he took her hand into his own.
It was light.
Too light.
He brought his forehead down, resting it upon their joined hands.
And for a few seconds…
He stayed like that.
Still.
Silent.
Then… he lifted his head.
His face remained composed—but the weight in his eyes could not be hidden.
He spoke.
"Mother…"
His voice was steady, yet carried something fragile beneath it.
"I know you have suffered… for years beyond measure. You have carried grief that no one else could understand… and yet, you never once turned away."
His grip tightened slightly around her hand.
"You fulfilled your duty… protected this kingdom… cared for our ancestors… for every single person who has lived upon the land of Golgotha."
A pause.
"I know you are strong. Strong enough to continue… to protect us still."
His voice lowered.
"But… I do not wish that for you anymore."
The room fell into complete silence.
"I want you to rest."
His words were gentle.
"To finally sleep… without burden. Without pain. Without fear."
He took a slow breath.
"I, and my brothers… would keep protecting what you have built. Everything you loved… everything you sacrificed for…"
His voice faltered—just slightly.
"We will carry it forward. No matter what it takes."
A brief pause.
Then—
"In the name of Julias De Gramont, the third King of Golgotha…"
His voice grew firm.
"I, Leovan De Gramont… ask you to rest."
A faint tremor passed through him.
"…and die peacefully."
As soon as he finished.
Miola's fingers moved.
Slowly… weakly...
Her trembling hand rose, reaching toward his face.
Her touch was soft as it rested against his cheek.
Then, her other arm followed, wrapping gently around him.
Drawing him closer.
Her voice, though faint, carried warmth untouched by time.
"Thank you…"
A soft breath.
"I could not have asked for more… I was waiting for words like these."
Leovan's composure broke.
He leaned forward, embracing her fully.
And in that moment… the King was no longer a king.
He was simply a grandson.
Tears fell—quiet, unrestrained.
Years of strength… undone in seconds.
Behind them, Lucas stepped away.
Silently.
Unnoticed.
He moved through the gathered crowd, each step heavier than the last, until he reached the balcony.
The cold air met his face.
Below…
The kingdom stretched endlessly.
Thousands had gathered.
Citizens filled the streets, their voices hushed, their prayers rising toward the palace. Hope… fear… desperation… all intertwined in the air.
They knew.
Everyone knew.
Lucas gripped the balcony railing.
For a moment, his composure cracked.
A single tear slipped down his cheek.
But only one.
He wiped it away.
Closed his eyes.
And steadied himself.
Then, slowly… he looked down upon the people of Golgotha.