Novel's Extra: I Awakened The Strongest Physique From The Start

Silas spun around, dagger drawn, eyes scanning the alley like a cornered animal. The shadows stretched unnaturally long, as if silently mocking him.

"Who's there?!" He barked, but there was no response, only the rustle of wind.

He stepped back toward the square—and froze.

The soldiers.

They were gone.

Well, not gone but disappearing.

Their bodies, once sprawled in a grim display of death, were breaking apart… not into blood or bone, but light.

Tiny motes, pale and shimmering, floated upward like fireflies into the sky.

"No," Silas whispered. "No, no, no—this isn't real. I killed them. I killed them."

His hands shook violently. He looked down—his blade was clean. No blood. Not even the scent of iron in the air.

It was like none of it had ever happened.

A perfect illusion.

Not the kind of street performer to fool drunks—but one that touched his nerves, his breath, his senses, and his mind.

"I didn't… I didn't sense a spell. Not even a mana trace... How—!?"

He had felt it all too well—the feeling of slicing through a human. It was real—he knew it—so how did it turn into an illusion?

Then came the footsteps.

Measured. Slow. Unhurried.

He turned again, eyes wide with disbelief and fear.

From behind the bulletin board, two figures emerged.

One was a young man, divinely handsome, with snow-white hair that fell lazily over eyes like glacial fire—ice-blue and piercing.

His expression was one of casual detachment, hands buried in the pockets of his long coat, like he wasn't walking through a warzone but just another evening stroll.

Beside him walked a girl.

Equally striking—graceful, calm, but with an elegance that felt… untouchable.

Her long, soft purple hair flowed behind her, and her violet eyes reflected the moonlight like polished gems. She said nothing, her gaze locked on Silas.

Silas took a step back, recognition dawning in horror.

"You—You're the ones—! The ones who were with that bitch—!"

He recalled seeing them when he was thinking of assassinating Zahara. The boy... he was the one approached by that floating girl who was responsible for everything.

His voice, however, was cut out instantly. He wasn't even able to complete his words.

He wasn't sure what hit him first—the pain in his throat or the pressure lifting him off the ground.

One moment, he was speaking, and the next, he was dangling—his windpipe crushed by fingers cold and steady.

Alex stood in front of him now. Gone was the lazy gait, the aloof stare.

His eyes had gone sharp. Merciless.

"Say that again," Alex said, voice calm.

Too calm.

Too still.

Like a predator enjoying the silence before the snap.

Silas's mouth moved, but no sound came. His legs kicked.

Lilia, unbothered, walked closer. Her gaze didn't waver.

"He's the one," she said quietly. "The spy."

Taking a closer look at Silas, she continued. "It was a good idea to plant the bait. After all, a failed spy always needs some news to save his life in situations like this."

Alex didn't glance at her, but the cold around him broke as a sly smirk tugged at his lips.

"I told you," he said smugly.

Lilia gave him a faint smile.

Silas couldn't think anymore. His thoughts were spiraling, thinking of nothing but escape.

His breath was getting short. With his windpipe pressed so hard, it was difficult for him to breathe, but he didn't want to give up.

The moment he gave up would mean his death. After all, a spy is killed after all the information is extracted from them.

He was sure his fate wouldn't be any different.

But then—

Darkness.

It swallowed him.

Being unable to breathe for this long with his brain working overtime without any oxygen made his mind shut down.

Alex let go, letting Silas crumple like a discarded sack of grain.

The spy was out cold, unconscious, before his knees hit the cobblestones.

Alex dusted his hands and turned to Lilia, eyes gleaming with fire.

"Well," he said, looking toward the direction of the palace. "Looks like it's time."

Lilia tilted her head in curiosity.

"For what?"

Alex's grin widened.

"To counterattack."

It was time to keep his promise to the goddess.

........................

Two hours later. Underground prison of Simharia.

The air was cold in the underground cell—the kind that crept into one's bones and stayed there. A quiet, gnawing chill that mocked the idea of comfort.

Silas knelt on the stone floor, drenched in sweat. His shirt clung to his back, bloodied in places where his nails had torn into flesh.

The wounds weren't from torture, at least not inflicted by others. He had done it himself, trying to resist the pressure in his skull, the sheer wrongness that gnawed at his sanity.

But he had failed.

Now, he didn't resist. He couldn't.

His shoulders trembled faintly as he stared blankly at the boots before him.

Alex sat on a wooden chair, arms crossed, one leg lazily propped over the other. His posture was relaxed, but his expression was devoid of interest. His eyes, normally sharp with a hidden fire, looked at Silas like one might glance at a rusted tool—useful for now, but destined for the trash.

"Memorize it," Alex said without emotion, handing Silas a folded parchment.

Silas took it with trembling fingers. He unfolded the paper and began to read, the words sinking into his mind with mechanical precision.

It was a letter.

There was a report in the letter—one that Silas had to memorize. It was false news of the kingdom's capital being in disarray.

The letter made it seem like the capital was on the verge of destruction and was somehow holding on, completely different from the reality, where people were informed about the upcoming war.

Silas's eyes didn't flicker as he read. No curiosity. No hesitation. Just obedience.

When he finished, he looked up and nodded. His lips didn't move.

"Good," Alex murmured, standing. "You'll write it in your secret language. The code that only they can read. Deliver it to your contact. No deviation. No hesitation."

Silas bowed his head.

The faintest hum of footsteps echoed from the corridor behind them. Zahara and Lilia entered, both dressed in their combat uniforms, the scent of fire and steel lingering on them.

Lilia leaned against the wall near the door, arms folded. Zahara approached Alex's side with a concerned look.

"He's completely broken," Zahara murmured, glancing at Silas. "He won't be messing up, right??"

Alex didn't answer immediately. He stared at Silas for a moment longer, then turned toward Zahara.

"I removed his emotions so he wouldn't mess up," he said, his eyes glinting with something dangerous. "He's now a tool that only does what his master would ask him."

Zahara stared at Silas, frowning but staying silent, believing in Alex.

For what that guy had done, she wanted to kill him, but since Alex was going to use him first, she would let the guy be for now.

Instead, Lilia asked, "What's next?"

Alex turned to her, voice low but firm. "We maintain the lockdown. No one leaves the capital. Not a single bird, not a whisper of what's happening here. Only then will the empire believe the story that Silas would feed them."

He turned his head upward, staring at the ceiling of the cell before he continued.

"I want everyone on the outside to think something major had happened in the city while keeping order within the city. The citizens are cooperative after the recent incident, anyway."

Lilia gave a small nod. "And the reinforcements?"

Alex scoffed, his expression darkening.

"Denied."

Zahara blinked. "What about Father? He was the one who suggested them."

Alex looked at her, and for a moment, he wasn't the calm strategist but something colder.

"They'll walk into a trap," he said. "Not ours but the empire's. We have control over the nobles, yes. But the soldiers? The battlemages? The commanders? We don't know which ones are truly loyal."

He paused, eyes sharpening.

"I can't enslave them all, Zahara. And we can't risk handing our enemies a blade to stab us from behind."

There was a silence as he recalled his talk with Reganath.

..............................

One day ago.

Raganath Thorne stood before the war table, jaw clenched, his age-worn hands bracing against the carved wood.

"You need to let them in," he said, his voice stern. "The Northern Division has sworn loyalty. They can help us secure the eastern wall before the next assault."

Alex sat across from him, silent.

"They're good men," Raganath continued. "Loyal to the throne."

"Loyal to your throne," Alex said, finally. "Not to the truth. Not to us."

The king's brows tightened. "You think I don't know my men?"

"I think the empire knew you," Alex countered coolly. "They had spies in your court for years. Who's to say they didn't infiltrate your soldiers too?"

He leaned forward, voice calm but unrelenting. "We've already seen what happens when we underestimate them."

He wasn't fighting Reganath; he was simply trying to open the guy's eyes. After all, he knew from the plot that the biggest challenge in this war was betrayal.

With Zahara, one of the heroines, on their side, the only way they would lose was betrayal—that was what had happened in the plot.

Raganath scowled. "And what would you have us do? Fight alone?"

Alex smiled faintly.

"No," he said. "We'll make them believe we're fighting each other while I..."

..............................

Back in the cell, Alex grinned, wondering what kind of expression the people from the empire would have when he did what he had planned to do.

Zahara, looking at his grin, sighed. "Your plan... It's dangerous, isn't it?"

"All plans are," Alex said, his smile fading and his tone unreadable. "But this one is ours. And we control every piece on the board."

He turned to Silas, who had risen and now stood like a lifeless doll awaiting orders.

"Go," Alex ordered. "Deliver the message. Begin the deception."

Silas bowed and walked out, his figure vanishing into the torch-lit corridor, steps eerily steady for a man so recently broken.

As the door shut behind him, Lilia spoke again, her voice quiet.

"You're planning something bigger than this."

Alex didn't deny it.

He looked toward the high ceiling of the prison chamber again, the flickering flames reflecting in his eyes.

"It's not about winning," he said. "It's about making them believe they're winning... until the moment they lose everything."

And as the flames danced around him, casting shadows on the stone walls, it became clear—

The war had already begun.

But it wasn't a war of swords.

It was a war of minds.