Two weeks had passed since the battle in Eldoria, and in that time, the scars of war had slowly begun to fade. The kingdom, though battered, stood resilient. Buildings were being rebuilt, walls reinforced, and the streets that had once run red with blood now bustled with merchants, craftsmen, and townsfolk determined to reclaim their city. The remnants of the battlefield had been cleared, and the once-chaotic remnants of war had given way to a kingdom striving for normalcy.
For Leon, these two weeks had been a brutal lesson in survival and growth.
He had been introduced to the Adventurer's Guild, an organization that structured combatants based on rank and skill. It was a meritocratic system where adventurers were categorized from Rank F—the weakest, usually fresh recruits—to Rank S, the elite warriors of legend. Leon, despite his role in the battle, had only been ranked C. It was a fair assessment; while his sword had undeniable power, his technique, experience, and overall abilities were still leagues behind true warriors.
The adventurers he had fought alongside—Darius, Lyra, Gaius, Selene, and Iris—were all Rank A. Their group, known as The Crimson Vow, was renowned across the continent. They had fought in countless battles, slain monsters of nightmare, and even fended off demon attacks long before he had arrived. Fighting alongside them had been an honour, but it also reminded him of how much he still had to learn.
Then there was magic.
Leon had spent the past week understanding how the world's magical system worked. Magic was divided into five primary categories: Elemental, Arcane, Divine, Blood, and Forbidden.
Elemental Magic encompassed fire, water, earth, wind, lightning, and ice. It was the most common and widely used in combat.
Arcane Magic dealt with spatial manipulation, illusions, and reinforcement magic.
Divine Magic was rare, often wielded by priests and paladins, granting the ability to heal wounds and purge darkness.
Blood Magic was powerful but dangerous, requiring sacrifices to use. It was mostly practiced by cultists or dark sorcerers.
Forbidden Magic was lost knowledge—spells that could alter reality itself. Banned across all kingdoms, it was said that only the demons dared to use it.
Leon's own magic affinity had finally been determined. He had Arcane Magic, allowing him to strengthen his body, move faster, and sharpen his senses in battle. While useful, it was nowhere near the destructive potential of Elemental Magic or the resilience granted by Divine Magic. He had a long way to go.
Beyond personal growth, Leon had also taken time to understand the enemy. The demons weren't a chaotic force, at least not anymore.
History told that previous Demon Lords had struggled to control their own kind, leading to infighting and disarray. But the current Demon Lord was different. In less than a month, she had unified the entire demon race, bringing them under her complete control. She had turned them into an unstoppable war machine, wielding their strengths like a master tactician. And yet, no one had seen her. No one knew her name, her form, or the extent of her power. The only certainty was that she existed—and that her influence had already reshaped the world.
Eldoria was not alone in its war against the demons. Four other kingdoms stood against them:
Solmaria, the Holy Kingdom, a land ruled by devout priests and paladins. Their warriors were blessed with Divine Magic, making them natural enemies of the demons.
Dravengard, a kingdom of warriors, famed for its knights and mercenaries. They valued strength above all and had been at war with the demons long before Eldoria.
Vaelthorne, a kingdom known for its scholars and sorcerers. Their mages wielded Elemental Magic at its peak, and they fought the demons with arcane precision.
Cindralis, a kingdom hidden within the mountains, home to assassins and rogue warriors. Their methods were unconventional, but their hatred for demons burned just as fiercely.
Each kingdom fought in its own way, but none had gained any ground against the demon forces. The war was slowly tipping in the demons' favour, and if the world didn't find a way to push back soon, there might not be a world left to save.
Leon had little time to dwell on the weight of that reality—because at the moment, he was too busy being beaten into the dirt.
His sword clashed against the blade of his opponent, the sheer force sending a shock through his arms. He barely had time to react before a powerful kick sent him tumbling backward, the breath knocked from his lungs.
"Again," a voice commanded.
Leon groaned but pushed himself to his feet. His opponent was none other than Sir Alden Greystorm, the Knight Captain of Eldoria. A man whose very name struck fear and respect in equal measure. His blade was swift, precise, and utterly unforgiving. Leon had been fighting him for hours, and every single bout had ended the same way—with Leon flat on his back.
But he was lasting longer. He wasn't just reacting anymore; he was countering, forcing Alden to put more effort into each strike. The training was taking effect. His stance was steadier, his footwork sharper. But it still wasn't enough.
Alden's sword flashed toward him, and Leon barely managed to deflect it. The force still sent him stumbling. Gritting his teeth, he launched himself forward, feinting left before spinning and slashing from the right. A split-second opening—
Alden caught his wrist and twisted, sending Leon crashing into the dirt once more.
The king, King Edric Vaelmont, stood nearby, watching with an appraising gaze. He had personally taken an interest in Leon after the battle, insisting that he train under Alden to refine his skills. The honour was undeniable, but at the moment, all Leon could think about was how much pain he was in.
He adjusted his grip on his sword, sweat dripping from his brow. He knew he was improving. He lasted longer with each fight. His movements were growing sharper, his instincts keener. But it still wasn't enough.
Alden didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, forcing Leon onto the defensive. Blow after blow, Leon parried desperately, trying to keep up. His Arcane Magic helped, allowing him to anticipate attacks and move faster than normal, but Alden was relentless. With a final sweeping strike, Leon's sword was knocked from his hands, and before he could react, a gauntleted fist slammed into his stomach, sending him sprawling to the ground.
The world spun. His body ached. He had lost. Again.
Leon lay on his back, staring up at the vast blue sky. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. Despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, a small, weary smile tugged at his lips.
He was getting stronger.
But was it fast enough?
As the sun hovered above, casting golden light across the training grounds, Leon could only wonder how much time he truly had before the war reached him again.
The council chamber was silent, save for the crackling of a single torch upon the wall. King Edric sat at the head of a long, ornate table, his advisors seated around him, their expressions grim. The war had cost Eldoria dearly. Though the city still stood, its army had been crippled. What remained of their knights and soldiers were spread thin, tasked with rebuilding what they could while preparing for the inevitable next battle.
"Repairs are progressing," one of the advisors said. "But our forces are a fraction of what they once were."
Another nodded. "Even our hero is… lacking. His growth is evident, but he is not yet strong enough to stand alone."
A third advisor, a grizzled veteran of many battles, crossed his arms. "We cannot rely on him as he is now. The people call him their saviour, but without the strength to back it, we risk their hope turning to disappointment."
The discussion shifted to the demon forces surrounding the other kingdoms, their numbers seemingly endless. The demons had not relented, pressing against every border. Reports from scouts painted a bleak picture—strongholds falling, villages abandoned, and battlefields littered with the dead. The war was far from over, and the Demon Lord's forces showed no signs of exhaustion.
A sudden knock at the door interrupted the sombre conversation. A knight stepped forward, bowing before delivering his message.
"Vaelthorne and Dravengard have successfully repelled the demon forces. However, Solmaria—the Holy Kingdom—has requested reinforcements. Their defences are faltering."
Murmurs spread through the council. If Solmaria fell, Eldoria would be next. The Holy Kingdom's magic had long served as a shield against the demon onslaught, and without it, the balance of power would tip in the enemy's favour.
King Edric exhaled, his gaze shifting to his chief advisor, Lord Aldric. "The hero will be sent to Solmaria," he declared.
Aldric stiffened. "Your Majesty, with all due respect, he is not ready. Sending him now is tantamount to sending him to his death."
"He will not go alone," Edric replied. "The Crimson Vow will accompany him. He must forge his own path, find allies who will fight beside him against the Demon Lord."
Another advisor, a woman clad in scholar's robes, adjusted her spectacles. "If the hero is to succeed, he must not only grow stronger but understand the world he fights to protect. This journey will test him."
Aldric remained silent for a long moment before nodding. "If this is your will, Your Majesty, then we shall ensure his departure is properly arranged."
Edric's gaze hardened. "See to it. He must be prepared for the trials ahead."
The decision was made. A summons was sent, and Leon was called before the king.
*
*
Pain. That was all she knew.
The stench of blood filled the small, dark room. Her own blood. The dull thud of fists against flesh echoed in her ears, but she did not cry. She hadn't cried in years.
She stared up at the man before her, a middle-aged brute with cruel eyes. His lips curled in frustration as he struck her again, harder this time. Copper filled her mouth, but she only smirked, watching his irritation grow.
She had lost everything—her family, her home, her heart. Pain and hunger had become her only companions. The world was cruel, and she had long since accepted that.
The man finally left, slamming the door behind him. She lay still, staring at the ceiling, reaching toward something that wasn't there. A bitter chuckle escaped her lips.
How long had it been like this? Days? Years? She had stopped counting. Her body was a canvas of old bruises and fresh wounds, each one a testament to her suffering. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, but she had long since learned to ignore it. There was no point in yearning for food when there was none to be given.
Her mind wandered to the past—flashes of laughter, the warmth of a mother's embrace, a father's steady hand resting atop her head. But those images were distant, blurred by time and grief. They felt like a cruel joke, a dream of a life that no longer belonged to her.
The room was silent now, save for the faint dripping of water from the cracks in the ceiling. The wooden walls around her were rotting, the damp air pressing against her skin like a second layer of filth. She had once tried to escape, but there was nowhere to go. No one waiting for her. No one who would care.
"There are no heroes," she murmured again, her voice barely above a whisper.
"No gods."
Her words were swallowed by the silence, carried only by the wind, heard only by the moon—her only true friend. The silver light seeped through the cracks in the wall, casting a faint glow upon her battered form. It was the only thing that ever remained constant.
She exhaled slowly, letting her arm drop to her side. Perhaps this was all she would ever know—pain, hunger, solitude. But a fire still burned deep within her, buried beneath the scars. One thought kept her going, kept her breathing, kept her alive.
He would die by her hands.
A twisted smile formed on her lips. The man thought he had broken her, that he had crushed her spirit. But he was wrong.
She had nothing left to lose. And that made her dangerous.