Ch 0 ( Leon Akros)

The world of Aincedra was built on power. Kingdoms clashed, nobles schemed, and war was inevitable. In this land, magic was everything. It determined one's status, influence, and future. And in this world, House Akros had once stood tall—until it fell.

Leon Akros had been born into a noble lineage, but by the time he came of age, his family was already crumbling. Betrayed by the very kingdom they had once served, his house was stripped of its titles and left to rot. His father, a once-renowned general, had died in exile. His mother, unable to bear the humiliation, followed soon after. The proud House Akros had been reduced to nothing more than a cautionary tale.

Yet, even in the face of ruin, Leon did not break. He was not one to beg, nor would he wallow in misery. He would reclaim everything that was taken from him.

From the shadows, he rose. First as a mere mercenary, then as a commander, and soon as a warlord feared across the continent. His cunning was unmatched, his magic and swordsmanship honed through relentless battles. He led armies, forged alliances, and shattered enemies. One by one, those who had scorned his name knelt before him.

When Aincedra was threatened by creatures from the dimensional rift, it was Leon who led the charge. Kingdoms, once divided by greed, rallied under his banner. He was hailed as the Godfather of House Akros, the savior of the world.

But victory was never meant to be eternal.

The monsters were endless, their numbers overwhelming. The great battle lasted days, then weeks, then months. Kingdoms fell, heroes perished, and the land was drowned in blood. And in the end, even Leon, the strongest of them all, could not hold back the tide forever.

His forces lay in ruins. The last of his commanders had fallen. The ground beneath him was soaked with blood, the sky cracked with unnatural energy.

Leon stood alone.

He knew this was the end, but he would not kneel. If he was to die, he would do so standing, sword in hand.

A final explosion of monstrous energy erupted from the rift. The world trembled, and darkness swallowed him whole.

To the soldiers still fighting, it was a sight they would never forget.

A lone soldier, his armor broken, his body trembling with exhaustion, turned in time to see him—Leon Akros, standing atop a mountain of monstrous corpses. His figure was unmoving, his sword buried deep into the skull of the largest beast at the peak. Blood dripped from his tattered cloak, and yet, even in death, he stood tall, an unyielding pillar amidst the chaos.

The soldier wanted to cry out, to call for him—but then, he saw Leon's eyes. Though lifeless, they held no despair, no regret. Only silent respect, as if acknowledging the struggle of those who remained. The soldier, amidst the carnage, clenched his weapon tighter, the last ember of courage reigniting in his heart.

Then the battlefield moved on. The world moved on. But the legend of Leon Akros did not fade.

Yet, death was not the end.

Leon felt his soul sinking, as if drowning in an endless ocean. The weight of his failures, the countless battles, and the lives lost pulled him into the abyss.

But then—a light. Faint, distant, but unwavering. It reached for him, pulling him from the depths of oblivion.

Warmth spread through his fading essence, chasing away the cold grip of death. The light did not simply pull him—it called to him, a whisper against the silence of the void. It spoke in emotions rather than words, an unfamiliar yet comforting presence.

Live.

A force beyond his understanding wrapped around his soul, lifting him from the abyss, guiding him toward something unknown. For the first time in a long while, Leon did not resist. He let the light take him, not knowing where it would lead—but knowing, somehow, that his story was not over.