The Arrival of the Protagonist

He heard the hooves before he saw the rider.

They struck the icy cobblestones like war drums, echoing through the narrow streets of Veridian, drawing gazes from windows, whispering promises of salvation. Or ruin.

Kiran stood in the shadow of the inn, hood pulled low, heart like thunder in his chest.

Leon had arrived.

Even now, with his soul frayed and the shadow-beast watching from the cracks in reality, he could recognize the scene unfolding before him. It was too perfect, too staged—exactly as written.

The golden lion led the way.

A towering Beast with a mane like living flame, eyes burning with righteous hunger. It moved with regal grace, every step purposeful, every breath thunder. The crowd parted as it passed, faces lit with awe and hope.

Behind it rode Leon.

Tall. Sharp-jawed. A cloak of midnight and armor etched with sigils of the High Pact. His eyes were hard, clear. Purpose made flesh. The world tilted around him. Even the air seemed cleaner where he passed.

Kiran watched.

The hero.

The protagonist.

The chosen one.

He remembered every line of Leon's early arc. How the protagonist would arrive in Veridian seeking signs of Beast corruption, how he would meet the innkeeper, be warned of growing darkness in the southern woods. How a humble servant named Kiran would help him decipher an old map, then be torn apart by malformed Beasts in the night.

That servant had just become obsolete.

Kiran gritted his teeth.

He would not die in anyone's story but his own.

Leon's entrance into the inn was exactly as Kiran recalled—commanding, elegant, too polished to be real.

The lion-Beast waited outside, seated like a guardian statue, watching the street with eyes that glowed like dawnfire. It was beautiful. And wrong.

Kiran felt nothing when he looked at it. No connection. No fear. No resonance.

The bond had been severed. Perhaps permanently.

He moved to the back of the inn, not wanting to be seen. Not yet.

He listened.

Leon spoke to the innkeeper, voice calm but edged. "Something is stirring beneath this town. I can feel it."

The innkeeper murmured a vague reply.

Leon continued: "We passed through a settlement three days ago. Everyone dead. But no wounds. Their Beasts were gone. Ripped out."

Kiran's blood froze.

Gone?

He waited until nightfall before approaching.

Leon sat at a table alone, blade unsheathed beside him, studying a parchment map by candlelight. The room had cleared around him. No one sat too close.

His aura pressed against the air like a second gravity.

Kiran stepped forward.

Their eyes met.

Leon's were the color of steel. Cold, exacting.

"You're not from around here," Leon said immediately.

Kiran sat without asking. "Does it matter?"

"Only if you're hiding something."

Kiran met his gaze. "Everyone's hiding something."

A pause. Then, "Your Beast is silent."

"I'm not bonded."

Leon raised an eyebrow. "Impossible."

"Uncommon," Kiran corrected. "Not impossible."

Leon didn't press. But his hand rested a little closer to his sword.

They spoke carefully.

Kiran kept his answers vague, letting Leon fill the gaps with assumptions. He claimed to be a traveler. A survivor. Claimed to have passed through Beastless towns, to have witnessed strange deaths. It wasn't a lie. Not exactly.

Leon listened. Silent. Analytical.

"You know things you shouldn't," Leon finally said.

Kiran smiled without warmth. "And you think you know everything."

Leon's Beast appeared behind him then.

No footsteps. No sound.

One moment, nothing. The next, it was there, standing beside the table, golden eyes fixed on Kiran.

It growled.

Kiran didn't flinch. He couldn't.

He was already hollow.

Afterwards, Kiran slipped into the alley behind the inn, lungs shaking.

That encounter could've ended in steel.

But Leon hadn't recognized him. Hadn't known the script had changed.

That was good.

Or it meant the world was adapting.

He turned toward the darkness at the edge of the alley.

The shadow watched him.

It no longer hid.

It stood in the open now, same hooded form, same mirror-face. But tonight, its mouth moved.

"You lied to him," it said.

Kiran's voice. Hollow. Mocking.

"I had to," Kiran answered.

"You're not part of this world anymore. Not part of any world."

"I didn't ask to be."

The shadow moved closer. "He will kill you. When he finds out."

Kiran looked it in the eyes—those empty, hollow pits.

"Let him try."

A silence passed between them. Then the shadow turned, began to walk toward the temple.

And Kiran followed.

They entered the ruins again—this time deeper.

Past the Husk. Past the etched names. Into a place Kiran had never seen in the novel.

A cavern of roots. Glowing with pulsing light. Strange shapes floated in the air—Beasts unborn, malformed, twitching in amniotic mist.

And in the center, a throne.

Carved from broken pacts.

The shadow stood before it.

"This is where stories are rewritten," it said. "Where protagonists are replaced."

Kiran stepped forward.

His heart beat once. Then again. Then stopped.

On the throne sat another Leon.

But this one was wrong.

His face was flayed.

His eyes were carved out and stuffed with gold.

And the Beast beside him was no lion.

It was a serpent of limbs and fire.

It turned its gaze toward Kiran.

And spoke with Selena's voice:

"He's catching up to us."