The Night the Lion was Born

The city of New Orleans was spiraling into madness.

Sirens howled like wolves in the distance, bouncing off buildings with cracked windows and bloodstained sidewalks. Helicopters circled the skyline like vultures over a carcass, their searchlights scanning for any sign of answers—or more chaos. The massacre at Xylo Club had lit a fuse, and now the entire city was on edge, gripped by panic, dread, and the kind of headlines that made conspiracy theorists foam at the mouth.

But for now, the real storm wasn't in the streets.

It was above them.

High atop the Hancock Whitney Center—forty-nine floors up—a woman stood at the edge of the rooftop like she owned the entire skyline. Her arms folded. Her chin tilted toward the stars. Her jet-black bodysuit shimmered slightly under the moonlight, hugging her frame like armor designed for beauty and brutality. On her back, a golden lion emblem glared boldly across her shoulders, like a warning sign that everyone had ignored until it was too late.

She was Leo, one of the Zodiacs.

And she looked… amused.

Golden eyes gleamed with a playful glint as she watched the forest in the far distance, her boots planted on the concrete like a lioness surveying her kingdom. The wind tugged at the hem of her coat, but she didn't flinch. She barely even blinked.

The air smelled of copper and ash. Blood and gunpowder.

Behind her, bodies were sprawled in crooked, unnatural poses. Dozens of them. Soldiers. SWAT. A special operations team that had been hailed as untouchable—until tonight. They had arrived in tactical waves, drawn by a tip promising beast activity on the rooftop. The footage had been convincing. Shaky phone cam, low light, monstrous silhouettes—the kind of thing that got sent straight to Homeland Security without a second thought.

Leo had made sure of that.

Her subordinates had done the rest—shapeshifting just enough to look terrifying on camera before vanishing. Lure the prey. Seal the trap. Classic predator work. And in the city's current state of chaos? Well, nobody questioned much when they were desperate for answers.

The plan had worked.

And the harvest was rich.

Strong souls of soldiers and the special squad glimmered like invisible embers in the air, slowly drawn toward the ring on Leo's finger—one she hadn't even used in the battle. Rarely used and it was the same just a few moment ago. She hadn't needed it.

"Fools," she whispered, smiling as she stepped over the body of a soldier whose rifle was still clutched in his lifeless grip.

FLASHBACK – 15 MINUTES EARLIER

The rooftop doors burst open. Boots thundered in, automatic rifles sweeping left and right.

"Eyes on target!" one of them barked.

They found a figure, Leo, standing in the middle of the rooftop—her back turned to them, hair whipping in the wind. Two beasts were in front of her.

"Ma'am, step away from the beasts," shouted the squad leader.

Leo didn't respond.

"Last warning!"

Still nothing.

Then, someone noticed something was amiss. "Wait. She's—"

The figure turned. Slowly. Deliberately. And smiled.

"Too late," Leo said as she moved together with the two beasts.

"Attack! She's part of the beast-men," the leader ordered.

All of them fired rapidly. They were on target, but the bullet never hit her. She moved like a gust of wind, and a shadow rolled into one. One second, she was standing still. The next, she was already in their midst. A punch cracked a soldier's jaw like glass. A kick sent another crashing into the ventilation unit. Their bullets tore through the air, but Leo was gone before they could even register her motion. She danced between them, limbs a blur, disarming weapons and shattering bones with surgical precision.

She didn't roar.

She didn't grow claws.

She didn't need her Beast Ring.

Only strength. Speed. Precision. Style.

Her beast subordinates were impressive as well. They easily killed the soldiers with their claws and absorbed their souls. Each kill made the black smoke on their Corrupted Beast Rings tremble with excitement. As if it was enjoying the feast. Ten minutes later, the rooftop was silent except for the sound of boots crunching over broken weapons.

BACK TO PRESENT

A slow, amused grin stretched across Leo's face as she felt something—an echo of loss, flickering at the edge of her awareness.

"Oh?" she purred, tilting her head. "The three of them are dead?"

Her smile lingered for a beat, but a faint crease touched her brow. Just a flicker. Not worry—more like intrigue. Surprise, wrapped in curiosity. She let out a breathy chuckle. It was soft. Almost kind. But laced with something… sharp.

"Impressive."

The three ape-men had been hers—high-tier beast-men trained under her command. Brutish, loud, and nowhere near subtle. But reliable. Most of the time. If they could access their symbol power, they would've shown the Leo symbol somewhere on their bodies, the same as she bore on her ring.

But Leo's path was… stricter.

Symbol power wasn't something you accessed by wanting it. It required resonance—total alignment between beast and bearer. And Leo? She didn't lend her name easily. She tapped her ring with a finger, watching it glow faintly like an ember waiting to reignite. For a second, she considered charging into the forest herself, tearing through trees and hunting the survivors like a true lioness. But she stayed.

Not out of fear.

Leo didn't do fear.

But, out of caution.

She didn't know how far Ronan's power went, and that made him dangerous. That, and the fact that he came from there—The Beast World. She'd heard whispers. Glimpses of what the Lord had said.

"Don't underestimate anyone from my world," the Lord had told them once, his voice echoing like thunder in her bones.

Over the past year, Leo had learned that lesson well.

"Beast World…" she murmured now, eyes narrowing. "I wonder what kind of life awaits me there."

That was the promise, to the Zodiacs. All twelve Zodiacs had been offered salvation. A new beginning in a world overflowing with beast energy—a paradise for those who could survive it. A land where strength mattered more than birthright. Where power could rewrite fate.

And Earthlings?

The Lord had said they were filled with potential, much greater than the people of the Beast World. With proper training and better kind of energy, even the weakest human could become a ruler. A warlord. A god.

Leo wanted that.

She wanted more than this shattered city, this broken world that forgot people like her. A year ago, she'd been no one. A ghost in the system.

Unwanted. Powerless.

Now, she stood above the city. Unshaken. Unmatched.

Forgotten? No longer.

She would carve her name into the bones of history. And soon, when the time was right, she would take her rightful place in the Beast World. But not yet. For now, she turned away from the carnage, her golden eyes glowing with promise.

"Let them run," she said softly. "Let them fight."

She smiled, feline and fierce.

"I'll be watching."

***

It was the same place.

Same cracked leather booths. The same broken jukebox playing the same tired country tune. The same scent of deep-fried sorrow and spilled beer clinging to the walls like it paid rent.

A year ago, this had been her entire world.

Leona Alvarez—back then, just a name on a worn-out nametag, stitched crookedly over her work uniform. Twenty-two years old. Smart. Beautiful, even when she wasn't trying. But none of that mattered here. Not in this place. Not when the weight of survival had ground her dreams down to dust.

College? That was a myth people with trust funds told themselves that was hard. Leona had tried. God, she had tried. She'd printed out applications and stared at them for hours like they were maps to a life she couldn't afford.

Every school asked for thousands upfront—registration fees, accommodation deposits, health insurance. She didn't even have a working printer at home. She had to borrow one from a neighbor who smelled like old pizza and always smiled too long.

The plan was to secure a scholarship after her first year—if she could make it that far. If she could juggle full-time work and ace her classes and somehow not collapse under the weight of it all. But she never made it past the starting line.

Because her mother got sick.

The kind of sickness that no amount of prayer or prescriptions could fix. The kind that dragged you under slowly, like drowning in dry air. Leona had become a caretaker overnight. And just like that, her future went up in smoke and hospital bills.

Her mother passed away three months ago.

Now, it was just her and her father. And this place.

The diner hadn't changed since her first shift—still sticky floors and chipped mugs, still the regulars who treated the staff like background noise or worse. Leona was back behind the counter, balancing a tray like it was made of glass and shame.

Her fingers gripped the edge so hard her knuckles turned white. If she dropped it, she'd get chewed out. If the food was cold—even if it wasn't her fault—she'd get blamed. If she didn't smile enough, someone would call her a bitch.

She stepped out from behind the bar.

That's when it started.

"Hey, babe," slurred a guy in a rumpled jacket, one arm flopped over the booth like it weighed a hundred pounds. He raised his drink lazily. "Gimme another round. And maybe a smile this time, huh?"

She didn't answer.

Didn't look.

Because eye contact was a death sentence.

"Damn," another voice piped up. "What's with the attitude? You too good to smile for us?"

Laughter followed—ugly and wet and loud. It stuck to her like grease and made her skin crawl. She turned quickly, hoping it would end there. It didn't.

"You bitch! You deaf or just plain rude?!"

Then came the hand. Fingers grabbing her butt like they had the right.

She froze.

Her breath caught in her throat. Not because she was scared—though she was—but because this had happened before. Too many times. She knew the drill.

Don't react. Don't escalate. Just walk away.

That mantra had become a prayer, one she repeated when the world decided she wasn't a person, just a target. Then his grip moved—to her arm this time. Rougher. More entitled. His breath was hot with alcohol, and it stung her cheek as he leaned in.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Say something nice. Smile for me. Make a guy feel special."

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to headbutt him so hard his nose would decorate the floor tiles.

She wanted to flip the tray, throw boiling coffee in his face, and tell the entire room that she wasn't theirs.

But she didn't.

Because this wasn't the kind of place where justice existed. The manager saw. He always saw. But his eyes flicked away like her pain was just part of the décor. The other waitresses? They pretended their orders needed attention. No one made a sound. Because they'd been there too.

In this world, women like her weren't people. They were props. Servants. Punchlines. And when the man finally let go—after a hard squeeze and a laugh that rattled her bones—Leona did the only thing she could.

She walked away.

No tears. No anger. Just… silence.

That was survival.

After her shift, she clocked out with trembling hands and a hollow smile. She didn't even change clothes—there wasn't a point. The night air outside was no different than the cigarette haze inside. Everything reeked of misery. And then, there was home.

The one place that somehow felt worse than the diner.

She unlocked the door to her apartment, and like always, it hit her immediately—the stench of beer and stale smoke. Her father was on the couch. Shirtless. A half-empty bottle of whiskey resting on his stomach like a newborn. The TV played static. Ashtrays overflowed.

Leona didn't say a word. She didn't have the energy to argue. Not again. Her father hadn't been the same since Mom died. But the truth was—he'd never been that great to begin with. A chronic gambler. A mean drunk. A man who had once promised her everything and delivered nothing but bruises—on her soul, if not her skin. She stepped around empty bottles like landmines, heading straight for her room.

"You're late." Her father's speech was a bit muddled. "Where's my money?"

"Your money?" Leona gripped her purse tightly. "I told you—I barely make enough to—"

KSHHH!

The bottle slammed onto the coffee table. Her father slowly sat up, glaring at her.

"Don't start." His voice was low, dangerous. "Just hand it over."

She figured it was pointless to argue, as always. Talking to him was useless. With no other choice, she reached into her purse and took out the crumpled bills she had saved from tips.

"Why so slow?!" Her father said before grabbing them right out of her hands.

"What? Is this all you've got?" He shot Leona a dirty look. "Did you blow it all already?"

Leona was shaking with fear and anger, but she just shook her head. Her eyes were fixed on the floor. "No… I'll think of something to get some extra cash."

Then, he leaned back as if she wasn't there and took a long drink from his bottle. Leona just stood there. This was her life. Day in. Day out. The same thing.

Until that night, life had been quietly cruel.

Leona Alvarez had gotten used to the slow erosion of hope. One day at a time, one insult at a time. The world didn't break her—it sanded her down. Piece by piece. Until there was nothing sharp left.

However, something happened the next Thursday.

That was the night everything shattered.

She stepped off the bus with her usual exhaustion trailing behind her like a worn-out coat. Her uniform reeked of smoke and fryer grease, her feet throbbed from ten hours of standing, and her stomach churned with hunger and stress. But none of that mattered. She just wanted a shower. A minute of silence. A moment to forget she existed.

When she reached home, she heard them.

Men. Talking. Laughing.

Their voices slithered through the hallway like cigarette smoke.

And under that—her father.

Slurred. Panicked. Begging.

Her grip tightened around her keys. Something was wrong. She knew it in her bones. She pushed the door open slowly, and what she saw made the world tilt. Her father was on his knees in the middle of the living room, hands trembling against the stained carpet. Three men stood around him in suits too clean for this part of town. The way they loomed over him—casual, relaxed, like they had all the time in the world—made her skin crawl.

One of them turned.

Bald. Thick neck. Dead eyes.

He smiled.

"Oh?" he said, voice like a greasy salesman. "There she is."

Her father's head snapped up. His face was blotched red with alcohol and shame.

"Leona," he rasped, stretching out a shaky hand toward her. "You… you can fix this, right? You can help your father, right?"

She blinked, trying to process what was happening. But her body already knew. Her gut twisted. Her lungs forgot how to breathe.

"What is happening…" she whispered.

The bald man clucked his tongue and gestured toward the rotting apartment.

"Your old man here owes us. Big time. But look at this place—nothing left to take. No car. No watch. Not even a decent TV."

He looked her up and down. Then he grinned like a wolf, discovering an unlocked chicken coop. "But he's lucky that he got you."

"We're the lucky ones," said another before all of them bursted out laughing.

The words landed like a punch to the gut. For a second, everything stopped. The air froze. The world narrowed. Leona turned to her father. And what she saw in his eyes destroyed her. Guilt and shame. But no regret.

He had done it.

He had sold her.

The bald man stepped forward, spreading his arms like this was just another day at the office. "Don't take it personally, sweetheart. Just business."

Then he reached for her. Her body locked up. She couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Couldn't even flinch. She wasn't sure if it was fear or rage or just the final collapse of everything she thought she could survive.

This was it.

This was how her story ended.

She wished she'd never been born.

She wished the whole world would burn.

"Please…"

The word died in her throat when a voice sliced through the room like a scalpel dipped in venom.

"I…smell… desperation."

Everything stopped.

The air turned cold. The lights flickered. The shadows thickened like they were holding their breath. That voice—it wasn't just deep. It wasn't just smooth. It ached with something ancient, something older than language, something that knew the taste of blood and regret. It came from the hallway.

Unhurried.

Casual.

Like death had finally shown up but saw no reason to rush.

The bald man turned, frowning toward the doorway. "Who the hel—?"

SHHHK.

His head flew from his shoulders in a blur of black. No warning. No flash of steel. Just motion—too fast to register. The body stood upright for a heartbeat, spasming like it hadn't realized it was dead, then collapsed in a twitching heap. Blood burst from the stump of his neck, spraying the walls in wild red arcs.

It coated the couch. The curtains. Her shoes.

Crimson fireworks blooming in the dark.

And then—he stepped in.

Boots clicked gently against the tiles, like punctuation marks after a sentence of violence. His coat flowed behind him like a liquid shadow, rippling in an unseen wind. Black—deeper than night, deeper than void. It didn't reflect light. It devoured it. His face was sharp. Cold. Sculpted like an idol from another world. He seemed ageless and somehow extremely beautiful. However, his beauty was a terrifying kind of beauty. But his eyes weren't human. They glowed softly, like dying stars.

Something primal shrieked inside Leona's bones just looking at them. Her body wanted to run. Her soul wanted to kneel. But she did neither.

"How dare you kill one of our men?!" The other two men didn't hesitate. They lunged for their guns. But the figure was already moving. The second man didn't scream—his lungs never got the chance.

The figure reached out with one hand and split him down the middle. A sickening crack echoed as his body tore apart at the ribs. One half flopped onto the couch. The other slid across the wall and landed face-first into the broken TV.

The third fired. The bullet vanished—absorbed into the air like it had hit molasses. He tried to scream. But everything he did was too slow.

A blur of black engulfed him.

And when it faded—he was gone.

Not fallen.

Not dead.

Gone.

Only his shoes remained, sitting neatly on the floor like a child had left them there.

"What is… happening…" Leona stood still, trembling in the eye of the storm. Her ears rang. Her eyes burned. Blood painted the floor beneath her in thick pools. The walls bled. The air reeked of iron and smoke and death. And in the center of it all… she couldn't move. She couldn't feel it.

"No… No… Stop…" Leona's father pleaded as he was curled up nearby, whimpering like a kicked dog. His look was miserable.

The figure turned toward him.

Leona's father raised his head. His lips quivered. His entire body shook with the kind of terror that came too late to matter.

"P-Please… please don't kill me… I didn't mean—"

"You did," the figure interrupted coldly. "And you… are not worth keeping."

A black tendril oozed from the hem of his coat—liquid and solid all at once. It slithered through the air like a living thing and wrapped around the old man's throat. Her father choked. Clawed at it. It didn't matter as the darkness tightened.

SNAP!

The sound echoed like a hammer inside a mausoleum. Then the tendril released him, and her father's body crumpled next to the others—silent.

Leona didn't blink.

She didn't scream.

She didn't even breathe.

She felt no horror. No sorrow. No relief. Just a cold, hollow nothingness spreading inside her chest like frostbite. The stranger turned to her. Stepped closer. His boots didn't make a sound this time.

"You feel it," he said quietly. "Don't you?"

His voice curled around her like smoke.

"That emptiness. That hatred. That ache behind your ribs that never leaves." He crouched in front of her. Eyes level. Expression was unreadable. "I can fill it."

She stared at him.

"You've been walked on, used, discarded. You've been told you're weak, that you don't matter. But you do." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And I can make sure they never hurt you again."

He extended his hand—long fingers pale as moonlight, steady as stone. On his middle finger rested a black ring, obsidian and ancient, humming with quiet menace. The sigil etched into its surface was no ordinary mark.

It was the Kraken—its coiling tentacles carved in precise, spiraling detail, wrapping around a rising sun as if trying to strangle the light itself. It didn't glow. It pulsed—like something alive, something waiting to awaken.

"Do you want power?" he asked.

Her throat tightened.

His hand hovered, waiting.

Not demanding.

He was offering.

"Do you want a new life?" he asked again.

Something broke loose inside her.

Not tears.

Not rage.

A decision.

Her hands curled into fists. She looked him in the eyes—those impossible, ancient eyes—and answered with a voice that wasn't afraid anymore.

"Yes."

The Lord smiled.

And that was the night where everything changed. The lion was born.