Novel's Extra: I Awakened The Strongest Physique From The Start
Chapter 316 - CHAPTER 316 - The Perpetrator.

Two days later.

The scent of freshly baked bread danced in the morning air, golden crusts glistening under the rising sun.

The streets of Simharia's capital bustled, but it was not the usual chaos of survival. Today, there was life again—children playing, vendors shouting their wares, and voices, bright and free, filled with something rare.

Hope.

It hadn't been long since the disaster, but the people were happy.

After all, many people who should've died were now alive.

This surprise made the families who were prepared to mourn happy. Now, with the majority of the people glad, the minority was getting over their loss as well.

"Did you hear?" An old man said, tossing a loaf with practiced ease into a waiting basket. His skin was darkened by years of sun and heat; his beard was more flour than hair. "The queen—our Zahara—was the one who saved us. Don't let the nobles tell you otherwise."

"Aye, old Teren's right," a fruit seller called from across the lane. "The soldiers came too late. If Her Majesty hadn't sent her guards—if she didn't jump into the chaos herself—first, we'd all be ash!"

"Bless her flame," another muttered, folding his palms. "I saw it. The sky lit up. The gods themselves must've bowed before her."

Teren chuckled, puffing out his chest. "Of course they did. She's Simharia's pride. A lioness in fire."

"True," a passing man spoke, laughing along, ruffling his daughter's hair as she walked beside him with a smile. "She says she wants to be like the Queen now."

The others, looking at how the girl puffed her chest at the mention of the queen, chuckled.

The laughter was warm, the kind born from shared relief after walking through the jaws of death. But then—

Crash!

A loud thud broke the rhythm of the morning.

The vendors turned as Teren spun around.

"Not again," he muttered under his breath, brushing flour off his hands.

He stormed into the shaded section of his bakery, where a younger man stood frozen, staring down at a broken crate spilling fresh bread across the floor.

"YOU IDIOT!" the old man roared. "Do you even know how long that batch took?!"

The young man flinched but didn't look up, his black hair shadowing his face. He simply bowed his head and began picking up the bread.

"Out! Just get out of my sight for now! Gods, why did I even take you in?!"

Silent and stiff, the young man stood, fists clenched, and shuffled back inside.

As the curtain swayed shut behind him, a nearby vendor leaned closer to Teren. "You didn't have to yell like that. He's just a kid."

"He's no kid," Teren muttered, rubbing his temples. "He's my only damn apprentice. It's been four months since he came to me, wanting to learn, but this is all he can do?"

Sighing, he glanced at his hands, trembling. "My time's near. I can't knead like I used to. If I go, and he's still dropping trays like a drunk goose, what happens to this shop and the people who come for bread?"

Meanwhile, in the dim heat of the inner chamber, the so-called apprentice crouched beside the ruined crate. His hands trembled—not from guilt but from fury.

'Everything was going perfectly.'

His breath rasped through his teeth, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. 'I spread the virus. Months of preparations. Using this old fool's goodwill. Every loaf was a seed. Every mouth was a carrier. The plan was foolproof.'

He was the one from the empire who spread the virus that worked as a trigger.

Coming to the capital four months ago, he had decided to start his mission from this shop because everyone eats bread.

The virus could be spread easily from here.

Yet, he failed.

He slammed a fist into the wooden floor, the impact echoing in the silence.

'The capital was supposed to fall. The panic was supposed to break their will and scatter their leadership. And then...'

His bloodshot eyes glared at the oven, the flames inside mockingly gentle.

'Then SHE showed up. Who the fuck was she anyway?! No one's even talking about her—that damn girl. She messed up my plan, and now, that damn Zahara is taking all the credit.'

His nails bit into his palms as he thought about how easily the citizens were manipulated.

They hadn't seen that little girl who kept floating like some goddess. So they were easily manipulated into believing that she was Zahara's friend or something.

He, however, knew the truth.

After the plan had failed, he had thought of at least assassinating Zahara in the chaos, and that was when he saw it.

He had seen with his own eyes how they had almost attacked that girl.

He didn't know what was happening, but he knew it was something big.

But...

'I can't go back. Not now. The Empire doesn't forgive failure. I'm a dead man the moment I cross the border. I need something better—something concrete—to be spared.'

He knew that the virus plan wouldn't work again.

Every food product bought by a large part of the population was under inspection, including bread.

He slumped against the wall, laughter choking in his throat.

'All these months. All these damn months. For what?'

But then—

A commotion stirred beyond the bakery walls.

Excited and muffled voices were heard in clusters, a low buzz building into shouts.

The apprentice blinked, frowning. He rushed toward the narrow window, pushing aside a flour-stained curtain.

The city square came into view.

Two armored soldiers stood by the central pillar, the flames of the Simharian royal crest etched into their shoulders.

One was hammering a parchment into the bulletin board with sharp, deliberate strikes. The other unfurled another scroll for display.

People swarmed forward, whispering, reading aloud.

Even from his distance, the apprentice saw it—the insignia.

A lion wreathed in flame.

A symbol of the throne.

A royal decree.

His heart began to race.

'What now? Another restriction? Have they found me?'

He pressed against the window, squinting to catch the words.

But what chilled him wasn't fear of exposure—it was the expression on the faces outside.

They were smiling.

Cheering.

'What?'

He couldn't hear the contents of the notice, but from the murmurs, the claps, the fire in their eyes—

—They weren't announcing more terror.

They were rallying.

Hope. Resolve. Purpose.

Like a spark had lit a forest from within.

The apprentice staggered back from the window, jaw slack.

"…No," he whispered. "No, no, no…"

His fingers trembled again. This time, not from anger this time but from realization.

They weren't just surviving anymore.

They were preparing.

'They're going to fight back.'

The Empire hadn't planned for that.

The apprentice sank to the floor, eyes wide, sweat trailing down his temple.

'I—I need to report this!'

For some reason, he felt excited and scared.

He knew this news could help him survive. After all, a war was a big step, but the chances of him getting caught were high as well.

But he had to take this chance.

If he didn't, he would never be able to return to the empire and work in this shitty bakery until the empire razes this land to the ground, killing him along with other citizens.

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

The moon hung high, a sliver of silver in a sea of black. The city slept, but shadows moved beneath the stillness.

Silas, the boy from the bakery, moved with them.

That wasn't his real name, but he used it here. That was the name he'd used here, as it was fitting for someone who would work at a bakery.

His cloak, now tattered with flour and sweat, blended him into the dark as he crept through alleyways toward the square.

His pulse thundered in his ears, but his feet were silent.

Four months of pretending. Four months of smiling and bowing and fetching flour like a dog. He wasn't about to waste it all now.

'Almost there,' he muttered, crouching behind a wooden cart, just outside the firelit plaza.

The square was quiet, and the chaos from the morning was long gone. The bulletin board remained, however, and so did the decree—sealed with the Queen's sigil, untouched.

Silas waited. One minute. Two. No patrols. No eyes. Just the rustling leaves and the faint crackle of flame from the torches mounted nearby.

He darted out.

Swift steps. No hesitation.

His eyes locked on the parchment as he pulled out the device hidden in his cloak—a small, disk-like recorder with a single red crystal in its core.

'This is my ticket back,' he thought.

He tapped the crystal and whispered. "Royal decree… Simharia. Mobilization effort. Firecrest confirmed. Sentiment: unified. War preparation…"

His lips curled slightly. Not a smile. A grimace.

'Let them know. Let them scramble.'

Finished, he carefully clicked the recorder shut and tucked it back into the false lining of his belt. A few quick glances confirmed no one had seen him.

He turned.

And froze.

Two soldiers—one tall and broad, the other lean and bored-looking—stood at the far edge of the square. Their torches illuminated him just enough.

The lean one raised a brow.

"Huh. Didn't expect another this late."

The bigger one sighed, drawing his spear lazily. "How many is that now?"

"Probably twelve," the lean one yawned, adjusting his grip on his halberd. "Kids keep thinking they're invisible after dark."

Silas didn't breathe.

'Are they capturing anyone suspicious?' His body tensed. 'Then, they probably don't know who I am. But… if they search me… the recorder—'

"Hey, you," the big one called. "You're under suspicion for illicit activity. Sneaking around the square is against curfew laws."

"Turn around, hands up," the lean one added, stepping closer.

Silas's heart pounded in his chest.

He had to run. No, running would confirm their suspicion.

He had to play dumb. Maybe he could talk his way out. Maybe—

'No.'

His fingers curled slowly, brushing against the hidden blade at his side. A thin piece of imperial steel sharpened to whisper death.

They were ten paces away now.

Close enough to see his face.

The big one exhaled. "Let's make this quick, alright? No need for—"

Slice.

The soldier's head hit the cobblestones with a dull, wet thud before he could finish.

The lean one gasped, stepping back, weapon rising—but Silas was already there.

One slash across the thigh, another through the throat.

No scream.

Just silence.

The soldier collapsed, gurgling blood onto the stones.

Silas stood still, panting. The silence around him returned, deafening in its judgment.

He bent down, checking both bodies quickly.

They were clean. No alarms, no enchanted triggers. Just ordinary grunts.

His hands trembled again—but this time, it wasn't fear.

It was survival.

He looked around once more before he darted toward the alley, blood still dripping from his blade.

He had to run. He had to leave. Now.

But just as he reached the shadows—

A voice.

Smooth. Calm. Certain.

"I told you he's the one, didn't I?"

Silas stopped dead.

His breath hitched.

There was no one in the alley ahead. No movement. No sound.

Yet, the voice echoed like it had always been there, waiting in the walls, whispering in the cracks.

His hand shot to his dagger.

Nothing.

The voice didn't speak again.

But Silas knew.

He was not alone.