It was quiet at night in Eldoria, yet Leon couldn't sleep.
He sat alone on the balcony of his room, overlooking the soft, glowing lights of the capital. The moon hung high in the sky, casting its silver hue over the stone streets below. The people were asleep. The world, for the first time in weeks, felt still.
But Leon didn't feel still. He felt like a storm was trapped under his skin.
Ever since he was summoned to this world, he hadn't had time to stop. Not really. From the moment he arrived in that ruined throne room, everything had moved too fast. They threw a katana into his hand and pushed him into battle. He was supposed to be their hero. Their saviour. But he hadn't saved anyone. He had only survived.
And his reward for surviving was a slave—a gift. Sylva. She was quiet, reserved, and barely looked interested in the world around her. There was no spark in her eyes, only a dull compliance born from years of servitude. Though she called it her duty to serve, there was no warmth in her voice, no pride in her steps. Leon didn't know what to make of her at first, but he was certain of one thing: he would never treat her like an object. And for that, perhaps, a small part of her began to look up
The war in The Holy Kingdom of Solmaria came next. Dozens of skirmishes. Ambushes. Villages razed. Among the soldiers was Cassandra—fierce, brave, with eyes full of fire. Until she died. Fell in battle.
But then...
She returned. Her lifeless body vanished from the pyres and returned to them holding a violet-glowing scythe, colder and quieter than before. Not Cassandra anymore. The scythe had changed her.
Questions mounted. Tensions rose.
And Leon? He stood before the nobility of Solmaria, demanding answers. And when they tried to silence him, he threatened them—not with a blade, but with words sharpened by truth and rage. He told them he wasn't a pawn. Not anymore.
Sylva had stood beside him. "You did nothing wrong," she had said.
And that had put him at ease.
weeks later, Leon stood in the hallowed halls of the Sanctum of Radiant Oath, Solmaria's sacred church. Its white spires pierced the sky, casting long shadows across its sunlit courtyard.
Beside him were Sylva, ever silent, and the Crimson Vow—Lyra, Darius, Iris, Gaius, and Selene.
And then there was Velis.
A strange girl who clung to Lyra like a child afraid of being left behind. Her silver eyes scanned every room, her small frame always within arm's reach of Lyra. The others didn't trust her—Leon didn't either. Not fully. But he watched the way Lyra spoke to her, the protective tone in her voice. It wasn't just tolerance. It was affection.
He heard about the day Lyra came back to Solmaria, inside the crimson vow's meeting room. Lyra had walked in with Velis beside her, and the Crimson Vow immediately drew weapons, demanding answers. Tension choked the air.
But Lyra defended the girl.
"She saved me," Lyra had said. "She's with me now."
It was hard to believe. Even harder to accept. But they did—because Lyra trusted her.
Before them stood Lady Elara, Holy Sister of the church. Her robes shimmered with gold thread, and her voice was calm as she blessed them.
"May your path be lit by the divine. The Gate shall open now."
With a flick of her staff, a massive teleportation circle ignited beneath them, glowing with ancient vigils.
In the blink of an eye, the Sanctum faded.
They arrived in Eldoria—the golden capital of the Human Kingdoms
Waiting for them was King Edric.
He wasted no time.
"The demons will not cross into human lands for the next two years," he said. "They retreat. But do not mistake this for peace."
Leon's brow furrowed.
"This is a chance," the king continued, eyes fixed on Leon. "You will travel the world. Gain experience. Power. Fame. And when the time comes, you will not only be ready—you will lead."
He turned to the Crimson Vow. "Guide him. Register him as an adventurer. Prepare him."
No one objected.
Now, in the quiet of the night, Leon thought.
A month ago, he was a high school student.
Now?
He had bled in battles, faced demons, watched people die.
He had threatened kings
He had to travel the world. Train. Become the hope they needed.
He didn't feel ready. But maybe he didn't need to be.
Maybe he just needed to keep moving.
And figure out what kind of hero he wanted to become.
Leon let out a breathless, humourless chuckle.
"What the hell is my life even becoming?"
He turned from the balcony and stepped quietly back into the room, eyes falling on Sylva. She lay curled up on the edge of the large bed, the blankets barely covering her small frame. Even in sleep, she looked tense—lips pressed into a faint frown, hands gripping the edge of the sheet tightly.
Leon walked over slowly and sat beside the bed. He watched her for a long moment, wondering what she had gone through. How much pain had she endured to become so closed off? So detached?
He could see it even now—her face twitching as if caught in some nightmare, her breathing uneven. A shadow of pain lingered on her features.
Worried, Leon reached out a hand to her.
But the moment his fingers got close—
Her eyes shot open.
In a blur of movement, a dagger was at his throat.
Leon froze.
"Whoa—hey, I'm not trying anything funny," he said quickly, his voice calm but cautious.
He didn't move. She was fast. Too fast. The precision, the silence—this was no panicked reaction. It was practiced. Controlled.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. How much work had she put into becoming like this? How much fear had trained her hands to always reach for a weapon in her sleep?
It was amazing. And it was heartbreaking.
Sylva blinked slowly as her mind caught up with her instincts. Her hand lowered, the dagger slipping away.
"I… I'm sorry," she muttered, eyes cast down.
Leon shook his head. "No need to apologize. Honestly, if I woke up to someone reaching toward me, I'd probably react the same. I just… noticed you looked like you were in pain."
He hesitated.
"I wanted to offer you a hand. To hold on to."
Sylva stared at him for a moment longer, then finally nodded.
For once, her eyes didn't seem so distant.
Leon stayed quiet for a bit, the silence between them feeling heavier than before. Then, softly, he asked:
"How did you get that good? I mean... you moved like you were born with a blade in your hand."
Sylva didn't answer at first.
Leon waited.
Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, "I was trained."
He looked at her, and she looked back at the floor.
"I used to be part of the Night Reapers. An assassin group. We worked in the shadows, dealt with problems that nobles didn't want to be public. We were ghosts."
Leon didn't interrupt.
"I trained under Cassandra," she continued, her voice flat, as if she were reading someone else's story. "She led us. She raised me from when I was a child. Gave me my first blade. Showed me how to kill without being seen. Without being heard. Without being remembered."
There was no emotion in her voice. Just facts. As if she'd told this story to herself a thousand times and had long since run out of feelings to attach to it.
"I was good at it. Better than most. Maybe because I didn't ask questions. Maybe because it was all I knew."
Leon swallowed hard, unsure of what to say.
"I've done terrible things," she went on. "Poisoned wells. Killed children. Slit throats of men who begged for their lives. All before I turned fifteen. Then... I was sold. Traded. Given away as payment. No longer useful."
Her hands tightened around the edge of the blanket.
"I thought that was it. That I would die nameless. Just another tool cast aside."
She finally looked at Leon again, and there was something raw in her eyes—something fragile.
"But then I met you."
Leon didn't know what to say. All he could do was offer the same hand again.
Sylva didn't take it.
But she didn't look away either.
And in that moment, maybe that was enough.