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

While the court resumed war-related discussions, a suffocating silence filled the hall of the flame of judgment.

There was no ceiling, no floor, and yet Zahara stood—barefoot—on polished obsidian that reflected her like water.

The vast chamber around her shifted with golden and crimson fire, licking the invisible air, dancing like spirits.

Above her, a burning sigil turned in slow revolutions: the Eye of the Old Flame, a symbol of divine truth and ancestral law. It watched and judged.

In the distance, she saw the faint silhouette of Asphera, seated cross-legged in meditation.

The goddess would not interfere. The trial was between Zahara and the spirits of Simharia's past.

Then, a voice boomed—not spoken, but resonated in her soul.

"You who dares to ascend the throne of kings… daughter of fire… child of mortals… prove your worth."

And then, everything went blank for her.

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

Zahara blinked, trying to regain her footing, and saw that the hall had vanished.

In its place was a battlefield, soaked in blood and lit by moonlight.

Simharian soldiers screamed as beast riders tore through them while the walls of the capital burned behind her.

She stood alone on the hill—her hands shaking.

At her feet lay Lilia, bloodied, unmoving.

Across from her was Mira, breathing heavily, her arm broken.

Above them, a monstrous wyvern dove from the sky toward the throne's ruins.

Behind her stood a flickering image of the goddess, eyes narrowed.

"Choose," the voice said. "You can only save one."

Her heart clenched.

Her knees buckled under the weight of the choice.

But then, footsteps echoed beside her.

It wasn't from a real person; it was from a projection, a trial-born memory, yet she understood who it was.

Alex.

He appeared beside her, walking through the flames calmly, unburnt.

His hair was tousled, and his expression was soft. His blue eyes, filled not with judgment but understanding, stared at her.

Zahara stared back in disbelief.

She knew this was a test, that he wasn't real—but…

He smiled, exactly the way he did when she panicked during the dungeon raids in the dream world. "You know the answer already, Zahara."

"I…" Her voice cracked. "I don't want to lose either of them…"

"You won't," he said, crouching beside her, his hand reaching—not to pull her, but to steady her. "But the test isn't about them. It's about you. Who do you choose when your hands are bound, when sacrifice is demanded?"

She stared at the battlefield. The illusion twisted again.

Now it was Alex and Sophie lying there instead.

Then Kael and Bahir. Then herself, lying beside her father's tomb.

Each shift tore at her soul.

But no matter who it was—Alex's illusion remained unchanged.

He walked beside her each time, always telling her something she already knew.

Always gently pushing her to realize—

"You are not choosing who dies. You're choosing what you fight for."

The voice of the ancestors returned, bitter and heavy with judgment.

"You cannot be queen if you value love more than the law. Emotion clouds command. Let go."

But Zahara stood straight.

Fire rose in her chest—not destructive, but sacred.

"No."

The voice paused.

"I won't let go of the love of any of them. I don't believe love clouds a ruler. It sharpens her. It makes her fight."

Her hand curled over her heart. "I am not here because I was born to rule. I am here because I chose to fight for my people, for their peace—and I will keep choosing them, even if it breaks me."

For the first time, among the voices of the ancestors, a feminine voice was heard.

"I'm proud to see someone so much like me."

Zahara tried to look at the spirit whose voice it was, but before she could—

—The fire flared. The illusions shattered.

The battlefield faded, and she was back in the Hall—sweating, panting, but standing tall.

The burning sigil above pulsed once and began to descend.

Her body arched in pain as the fire branded her skin, searing her soul.

Not harmfully, but purifyingly. Every memory, every grief, every smile—they became her fire.

Asphera opened her eyes and watched silently.

The Hall blazed with light.

But just before it faded, Zahara saw one last thing:

The illusion of Alex stood at the far end of the hall, hands in his pockets, watching her with a grin.

Not speaking this time.

Just proud.

She smiled at him, knowing he wasn't real.

But also knowing the trial couldn't bend him to their will.

Because even the spirits of the dead could not replicate Alex in a way that distorted her belief in him.

His image in her mind was too deeply etched—through the soul-mark the system gave her, yes, but more than that...

Because she loved him completely.

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

While Simharia was preparing for war, things were getting tricky on the Empire's side as well.

The throne room no longer existed.

It had been buried beneath rubble and scorched obsidian, a crater now smoldering where once stood the heart of the beast empire.

But the survivors had still gathered in what remained of the southern war bastion—a bleak and angular fortress carved deep into the cliffs of Ul'kareth's underbelly.

The air was thick with silence, punctuated only by the hiss of extinguished fires and the whispers of disbelief.

Only two had survived the divine breath that ended their capital.

Emperor Tharagon Vaelix, who had been burned and bloodied during the attack, was now alive and healing.

And Vos'Renn Tal'vak, the Grand Minister of Intelligence, who had his feathers scorched and his once-pristine cloak in tatters, was also the same.

Even if his beak was cracked and his left wing dragged uselessly behind him, the fierce light in his eyes showed his fighting spirit.

Around them, the highest-ranking survivors from distant bastions and garrisons had gathered—those who responded with terrifying speed to the emergency summon scroll sent moments before the capital's annihilation.

Generals. High priests. Cult leaders. All stared with the same haunted look in their eyes.

The empire's capital had vanished.

No one could believe it.

None wanted to.

"...The sky itself tore open," a deep-voiced minotaur general whispered, eyes still wide. "It wasn't a technique. It wasn't a spell. It was—"

"A god," someone muttered.

"No," said Mistress Saelith, one of the few who had been on assignment a few hours before the destruction and thus escaped death. Her voice was cold, her tails coiling like vipers. "It wasn't a god. It was a being."

Vos'Renn stood shakily. His voice was hoarse. "We're under attack. That much is clear. It wasn't an internal betrayal, and none of our enemies possess a force like that."

"Then, which realm?" Growled Kargath's lieutenant, an armored lizardkin with glowing eyes. "The Ashborn Dominion? The Draconic Helix? The Yurei Clans of the Mistplanes?"

"None of them," Saelith snapped. "The style didn't match. There was no magic signature. No domain presence. It was something else. Something older."

Whispers turned into arguments.

Suggestions poured in, growing more absurd by the minute.

An ancient sealed entity. A forgotten god's vengeance. A failed ritual tearing space-time open.

Every theory surfaced.

Every possibility—except the truth.

And then—

A voice echoed.

Not loud.

But absolute.

"It was not an attack from another realm."

The room froze.

Everyone turned.

And then they felt it.

Weight.

It was crushing, suffocating, and soul-deep pressure.

Dozens fell to their knees immediately. Others tried to move—only to find they couldn't.

It was as if time and space had stopped listening to them.

Only one remained standing.

Emperor Tharagon.

But even he was trembling.

From the shadows, an old man walked in.

No one saw him appear. No one felt his arrival.

He simply was, as if he had always been there.

White hair flowed down his back, yet no sign of weakness marred his body. His beard was neatly trimmed, his robe simple—an ancient crimson with gold embroidery, marked by the chained sun of Vaeram, though worn and faded.

His eyes were closed.

And still—

Everyone knew.

The emperor collapsed to one knee with a heavy thud.

His voice trembled. "Ancestor..."

The others, some gasping, others openly weeping, followed suit.

They had heard the stories of the first vessel and the one blessed by Vaeram, walking in the age before the empire.

No one knew he was still alive.

And yet—

Here he was.

The Ancestor opened his eyes—pale gold, older than the bones of the earth.

He walked forward, casually, as though stepping through a field of flowers.

And then, without asking—

He sat on the emperor's throne.

It was the only seat still untouched by blood and ash.

He looked down at them all.

"The one who destroyed Ul'kareth," he said, "has returned to Simharia. That means he was never from another realm. He was always here. Among them."

Silence.

Tharagon's jaw clenched. "Someone from Simharia…?"

He looked up, his sacred bronze eyes flickering with disbelief. "How is that possible? Who in that rotting kingdom possesses such power?! That level of destruction—it rivaled divine authority!"

The Ancestor tilted his head. "Yes. And yet, none of your spies warned you."

Vos'Renn looked like he'd swallowed glass.

"This… this cannot be. No entity in Simharia should be able to—"

"That spy," the Ancestor interrupted. "Was compromised. His report was a trap."

A cold, violent silence fell again.

Tharagon's voice cracked this time, "Are you… going to fight as well, Ancestor? Will you return to the frontlines?"

He asked this not out of arrogance, but desperation.

The hope of an empire hung on that answer.

The old man stared at him.

Then—

He laughed.

That was all he did, his laughter echoing through the broken hall, making Tharagon grin.