***
Leonidas awoke with a jolt.
The Thread Master's words were fresh in his mind.
Fifteen years.
That's all he had.
His vision cleared, and he took a look at his surroundings. It was a new world. A new chance for opportunities. He will become king.
The sky was bright. The sunlight exuded a warm embrace. Surrounding him, was a coat of leaves, piled underneath a horde of tall trees.
Truly a beautiful sight.
That was, until he saw a bloodied corpse lying next to him.
A woman lay there, her vacant eyes staring into nothingness. Her crimson-streaked hair draped across her face and body like an ill-fitting shroud. Blood stained her lips and pooled at her savagely torn throat. A tattered brown robe lay on her body, torn apart, revealing glimpses of her naked form beneath.
Leonidas grimaced. He had seen multiple dead bodies in his past life. But he will never get used to the rotten smell of a decaying corpse.
His eyes lingered on the lifeless stranger before he reluctantly turned away and struggled to his feet. He felt light-headed, nausea swirled within his gut as his heart raced. It was as if his soul was attempting to adapt to this body.
Amidst the chaos brewing within, Leonidas compelled himself to gaze down at the scarlet pool beneath him, catching a glimpse of his own reflection. The image portrayed a young lad of fifteen, bearing weary eyes encircled by darkness and disordered silver hair. His ragged robe draped over him like a bloodstained shroud – peculiarly reassuring despite the dire situation.
Suddenly, his form began to alter. The pallor dissipated, making way for his original bronze complexion. His fiery red hair regenerated, accompanied by the invigoration of his muscles. The crimson hue drew near to his eyes once more, and before he realized it, the body of his past life had reclaimed its place, supplanting the previous possessor.
It was confusing, the more Leonidas thought about it. He quickly pushed it aside, the feeling of overthinking was discomforting.
However, comfort wasn't what mattered now. What counted was that the Thread Master spoke the truth: Leonidas had indeed been reborn into a strange new existence – dispelling any last doubts that had plagued him.
"It is a new world," he muttered under his breath. "Time to make use of it."
And with that, he cast one last look at the dead woman, before walking off. He didn't know where he'd walk off to. He only walked forward, guided by the sun's light, in search of some sort of human civilization. Of course, assuming there are humans in this world.
As days bled away without any indication of civilization in sight, Leonidas inquired whether any civilized beings inhabited this realm at all. Though he didn't let it trouble him, his determination refused to wane, pushing on with unyielding resilience.
In the distance, tucked away in a narrow space and enclosed by a shroud of foliage, a glimmering body of water beckoned. Its radiance amplified by the sun's gentle touch.
"Finally," muttered Leonidas. "Water."
Desperate to quench his thirst that had plagued him for days, he hurried toward the river. Moments from relief, he sank to his knees and filled his cupped hands with the cool liquid. As it neared his parched lips – mere centimeters away – a sudden rustle seized his attention.
With a swift pivot, he released the water from his grasp, letting it flow back into the stream. His eyes locked on the neighboring woods as the rustling grew louder and more insistent.
Suddenly, the forest gave way to a mysterious humanoid form.
Cloaked in a lush, green-hued skin, brilliant sapphire eyes, and draped in a rich, purple garment with a crown atop their head, the figure was unmistakably male and humanoid – yet not human in the slightest.
Scarlet blood oozed from his brow, and his left eye was swollen shut. He hobbled out of the woods, grinding his teeth together in pain. With his left hand, he wielded a bow; an arrow already nestled in it, primed for attack.
Before Leonidas could process the situation, the figure came to an abrupt halt. Their eyes met for an instant before Leonidas found himself on the receiving end of an expertly aimed shot.
Reacting on pure instinct, Leonidas' combat training took over and he narrowly evaded the arrow. As he rolled to safety and regained his footing, he wanted to ask why he was being assaulted and who this mysterious attacker was. Yet this wasn't the naivety of his past life – if someone sought to take him down now, he will kill, before they kill him.
The mysterious figure prepared another arrow, searching for a target that had vanished. Leonidas had darted to a close rock formation and dove beneath it, seeking cover. Without hesitation, he whispered an incantation: "Father, bless me arms to wage war."
Taking such a risk in this unknown realm was perilous. There was only a glimmer of hope that his powers would function, given the uncertainty of his father's existence here. But irrespective of that, Leonidas himself existed in this place - the Last Son of War.
At his command, a sword crimson with blood-lust appeared from nothingness. A fierce, roaring aura enveloped the weapon, seeping into its surroundings. Grinning maliciously, Leonidas grabbed it.
He sensed another arrow passing mere millimetres from him, grazing his cheek. A superficial wound materialized; evidence of the impending doom he had narrowly escaped. With an enraged roar, he charged forward.
As the enigmatic being launched arrow after arrow, he was also forced to retreat repeatedly. One, two, three, four, five – he reached behind him for another arrow but found none. Cursing under his breath, he reached into his robe and withdrew an emerald-hued dagger.
Springing towards Leonidas, the stranger engaged in a brutal duel. He crouched low; left arm protectively beside him while his right wielded the dagger like a serpent's fang - searching for any vulnerability to exploit. But none emerged. Panic surged through his veins like poison from a fatal wound. The boy fought like one who lived for battle.
Leonidas evaded one more attack and then deftly swiveled to the left before expertly cutting through his foe's flesh in one clean slash—the blade carving unforgivingly into the man's hand as it severed muscle and tendon alike. As both hand and dagger fell lifelessly upon the ground below, a heart-rending wail tore through the darkness, amplifying his torment. Blood gushed forth, painting the crisp leaf-carpets in harsh strokes of… green?
"Now," Leonidas was disturbed by the color of the blood, but blood-thirst overwhelmed his radical thinking. He brandished his bloodied sword scant inches away from the mutilated man's throat. "Explain your assault. Choose wisely. Your life depends on it."
The man's speech emerged as a guttural rasp, his foreign accent strained by agony: "It is ill-mannered to speak in a language not one's own. Address me in my native tongue."
"Tongue?" Leonidas questioned, an eyebrow arching with intrigue yet remaining unyielding. The menacing tip of his sword continued to press against the man's throat, extracting droplets of verdant life.
"You ought to speak... elf tongue... barbarian," the man choked out, both rage and suffering evident within his strained utterance.
"Elf?" Leonidas contemplated briefly but chose to disregard the matter. "Regardless of lineage, reveal your motive for assault."
The elf's gaze intensified. "You understand the reason – your companionship with them necessitated my preemptive strike."
"What do you refer to?" Leonidas' voice adopted a dangerously low tone.
"Do not expect me to provide such satisfaction."
"Confess. Now." Leonidas' blade bit even deeper.
"You might as well end my life." The elf returned defiantly.
"Do not provoke me."
"You are merely a naïve child. You lack the–"
In one fluid motion, Leonidas drove his sword through the elf's throat. Blood erupted like a grisly cascade. Inwardly organs dripped out, splattering onto the floor. His body convulsed, and he gasped, throbbing rapidly, before falling limp; his life essence forever removed. Leonidas' lips curved into a smile, extracting his blood-soaked weapon brought him gratification; this was the art of combat.
His momentary triumph swiftly dissipated as the distant clamor of hooves pounding earth reached his ears. He swiveled, weapon raised, prepared for any additional adversaries.
An assembly of warriors appeared before him, clad in somber gray armor. Emblazoned upon their breastplates, a long-sword enveloped in a blaze of fire indicated camaraderie. Each man bore a lethal swift-strike weapon – scimitars, daggers, and spears.
One individual, clad in rich, golden robes, led the battalion while grasping a flag adorned with the image of a Drakon. Within his robes, a mysterious yet formidable bow lay hidden. A gleaming, golden arrow waited tautly nocked upon it, eager for combat.
His expression was that of pure fury.
Leonidas' gaze darted from the fresh corpse lying in its own sanguine pool to the contingent of warriors. "Shit."