At the Central Temple, Guardian Azalea had prayed for the nation's fortune this morning at 6 a.m.
After the prayer, she delivered a speech to the people:
"As the Guardian of Bagan, I can only pray for peace.
My title is worthless if the world is on fire and all I can do is watch my people burn.
It is you who can make a change.
I know you're afraid—we all are. But if we let injustice devour the earth, we won't be the only ones to suffer.
Our children... the next generation will ha—"
The video suddenly glitches.
"That damn censor," I mutter.
Trying to hold myself back, I lock my phone and start piecing the whole situation together.
Our nation, Bagan, is ruled by a monarchy—and it's a disaster.
A brutal tyrant holds absolute power. He'll do anything to keep it.
Selling off the country's natural resources.
Imposing outrageous taxes.
Even bombing entire villages just because he suspects revolution.
This is truly the dark era of the Bagan nation.
But even in the darkest night, stars still shine.
Right now, Guardian Azalea is our star.
And for once, I should thank our old traditions.
Bagan has a custom: every four decades, we choose a new Guardian.
The current one is Azalea. Just... Azalea.
Her blood type is confidential, so she has no first name.
The government has no power over the Central Temple. But they do control the media—hence the censorship.
Why don't they touch the Temple?
Because Azalea is respected not just in Bagan, but around the world.
If anything were to happen to her, it could start a world war.
On the flip side, as long as she's safe, other nations won't interfere in Bagan's politics.
"What a lethal being," I whisper.
Anyway... where's that nurse?
She's been gone for hours.
Okay—fine. Thirty minutes. I'm just being dramatic.
But still. I hope she comes back soon.
Then I hear footsteps.
Or... are they even footsteps?
They're so soft and light, almost like silence itself.
A woman enters the room—and the entire space seems to glow with her presence.
She's wearing a plain white dress.
Her silver hair is tied back so neatly that not a single strand touches her face.
As I stare at her, only one word comes to mind:
Pure.
Despite her rare beauty, her face is full of fierceness.
That's her.
That's the actual Guardian of the nation.
What the hell is she doing here?
Am I in trouble?
Am I about to be sacrificed in some national ritual?
A flood of questions rushes into my mind—
But my mouth refuses to open.
She breaks the silence with just one sentence:
"You're coming with me."