The forest was quiet, but not empty. Every rustle of leaves, every whisper of the wind, every tiny chirp seemed to speak directly to Ostina.
She knelt by a patch of moss, her fingers brushing the soft green, feeling the faint pulse of mana under her touch. For the first time, she sensed a rhythm beyond her own small heart—a rhythm that seemed alive, patient, waiting for her to understand it.
Her long black hair fell like a curtain around her face, silky and smooth, brushing her shoulders as she bent closer to the moss. In the reflection of a nearby puddle, she glimpsed her almond-shaped teal eyes staring back.
Who… am I really? she whispered to herself, voice trembling. She had always been called the Trash Saint, the weak child, the one unfit to serve. But in her gaze, in the quiet power that responded to her touch, there was something else—something unspoken, something ancient.
The nuns and priests never described the Demon Lord in detail, yet she couldn't ignore the resemblance.
Her hair, her eyes… the pulse of dark magic within her. She touched the ring of shadow she had shaped yesterday, the faint shimmer wrapping around her finger. If I am his daughter… why am I here, hiding? Why did they put me in the Church, weak and afraid?
A soft flutter caught her attention. A bird perched nearby, tilting its head as if waiting for an answer. Ostina smiled faintly. "I… I don't know yet," she admitted, voice low. "But I need to find out."
She stood slowly, testing her small body.
The scars on her arms itched slightly, reminders of a life that had demanded she be small, weak, and obedient. And yet, each movement felt lighter than before. Her fingers brushed a branch, and she felt the faint warmth of the tree's mana mingling with her own dark power. I am not just weak.
I am… more. But what does that mean?
She knelt beside a tiny sapling, whispering words she barely understood. Dark magic curled around it like water, and for a heartbeat, the plant shimmered with life, glowing faintly in the dappled sunlight. Ostina gasped. "I… can do this," she whispered. But the words felt strange on her tongue—proud, powerful, and almost frightening.
Her reflection in the puddle caught her eye again.
The black hair, the teal eyes, the frail body that could bend but not break… it was all her. And yet, it wasn't. Who am I? she repeated, louder this time, as if speaking to the forest itself. Am I just Ostina, the weak Trash Saint… or am I… something else entirely?
The leaves shivered, the birds hushed, and for a moment, the forest seemed to hold its breath. Ostina's heart pounded. She could feel the dark magic coiling within her, waiting for direction, responsive to her intent but independent, vast, and infinite. She didn't yet understand it fully—but she would.
And when she did… the Church, the world, and even she herself would never be the same