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 was born into a noble lineage, but by the time he came of age, his family was already in ruin. Betrayed by the very kingdom they had served, House Akros was stripped of title, land, and honor. His father, a famed general, died in exile. His mother, broken by the shame, followed him soon after. Once a pillar of strength, House Akros had become little more than a bitter whisper of the past.
But even in the ashes, Leon did not break. He did not beg. He did not curse fate.
He rose.
From the shadows, he carved his path—first as a mercenary, then as a commander, and soon, a warlord whose name shook kingdoms. His blade was sharp, his magic sharper. With every battle, he climbed higher. Kingdoms that once scorned him fell to their knees. His enemies whispered his name in fear. His allies called him a force of reckoning.
When Aincedra faced its greatest threat—creatures from a dimensional rift, monstrosities that tore through magic and steel alike—it was Leon who unified the fractured world. Kingdoms rallied. Banners merged. His was the voice that turned despair into resolve.
He was no longer just Leon. He became the Godfather of House Akros. The last hope. The savior of the world.
But victory was never meant to last.
The beasts were endless. The skies burned. Days blurred into months of carnage. One by one, the kingdoms fell. Heroes perished. Cities were reduced to bone and ash.
And in the end, even Leon—the strongest of them all—could not hold the line forever.
His forces lay in ruin. The final surge approached, monstrous energy tearing the land apart. And yet…
Leon stood alone.
His armor cracked. His breath heavy. His sword, chipped and bloodied. The ground trembled beneath his feet.
He knew this was the end.
But he did not kneel.
If death was to come, it would find him standing.
The rift screamed one last time, sending a wave of annihilation across the battlefield.
And darkness took him.
---
To the soldiers still clinging to life, it was a moment burned into memory:
A lone figure atop a hill of corpses. His cloak torn, his blade buried in the skull of the largest beast. Blood streamed down his body, and yet… he stood unmoving.
One soldier, trembling and broken, looked up through the smoke. He saw Leon's eyes—clouded, lifeless. But they held no fear. No anger. Only… acceptance. Quiet strength. A farewell.
The soldier gritted his teeth and rose. If Leon still stood, then so would he.
And in that moment, the dying world remembered what it meant to fight.
---
But death… was not the end.
Leon's soul drifted in an abyss—cold, vast, endless. The weight of failure dragged at him: the screams of the fallen, the faces he could not save, the war he could not finish.
He had done everything. Given everything.
But he had still lost.
Just as the darkness threatened to devour him, a spark appeared. Faint. Fragile. Unfamiliar.
A warmth unlike anything he'd felt, calling not with words—but with feeling.
Live.
The light wrapped around him—not a pull, but an invitation. It did not demand. It simply waited.
And Leon, weary and broken, made a choice.
He let it take him.
Not knowing where he would go…
But somehow certain—his story was not over.
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