The dirt path leading to the village was uneven, riddled with the footprints of merchants, farmers, and wandering animals. Leon's boots pressed into the soil with each step, the weight of familiarity settling over him like an unwelcome burden. He wasn't eager to return, but he had no choice. As he neared the outskirts, the hushed voices of villagers reached his ears, carried by the breeze.
"Did you hear?" one man whispered, his tone laced with admiration. "The captain of the guard's son has been accepted into the royal academy in the capital."
"It was only a matter of time," another replied. "After all, he awakened his soul core ability."
There was a pause, and then the second man added in a hushed but sharp voice, "Unlike his cousin, who was deformed since birth. We've seen no good come from him in this village."
The first villager's eyes darted up as Leon approached, and he nudged his companion roughly. "Shut up. It's him."
Leon didn't break his stride. He had grown accustomed to the whispers, the sideways glances, the cold judgment of those who had never bothered to understand him. His face remained hidden behind the mask he always wore—a simple but sturdy piece of cloth, covering everything from his nose down. It wasn't just to hide his features; it was a barrier between him and the world, a silent declaration that he had no desire to be part of their idle gossip.
As he moved through the village, he felt their gazes pricking at him like needles. Some murmured beneath their breath.
"Is he even the same person?"
"I wish he hadn't come back."
The words didn't sting anymore. They were simply part of the air he breathed, as constant as the wind that rustled through the trees.
His pace quickened until he reached the small hut on the far side of the village. The wooden door creaked as he pushed it open.
"Brother!" His little sister, barely six years old, beamed at him from the doorway, her arms outstretched in greeting.
Leon patted her head gently and stepped inside. The warmth of the dimly lit home was a stark contrast to the outside world. His mother stood by the fire, reheating what little remained of yesterday's dinner—a thin soup that barely had enough substance to be called a meal. His father, wrapped in tattered blankets, lay on the small bed in the corner, his body too weak to move freely.
As soon as the old man caught sight of Leon, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to sit up. Pain flickered across his face, but he ignored it. "So, how was today?"
Leon merely nodded in response, unbothered by the routine question. "Nothing different," he said finally. "The animals must have fled deeper into the forest."
His father exhaled, his expression tightening. "Don't go too deep, boy. The forest is crawling with monsters and bandits." He lifted the blanket just enough to expose his injured leg—a jagged scar running from his thigh down to his shin, a permanent reminder of his own mistake. "You don't want to end up like me."
Leon said nothing. He merely turned away and sat near the fire, staring into the flickering flames.
The Next Day
Morning arrived in shades of gray, the sky smothered by thick clouds that promised rain. The village was still half-asleep when Leon slung a satchel over his shoulder and made his way toward the forest. His father's warning echoed in his mind, but he dismissed it without much thought. It wasn't recklessness that drove him forward—it was indifference. If something happened to him, so be it.
The forest was vast and quiet, the kind of silence that made even the smallest sounds seem amplified. Twigs cracked beneath his boots. The air smelled of damp earth and pine. He moved carefully, his sharp eyes scanning for any sign of movement.
Then, suddenly, a shadow shifted between the trees.
Leon's muscles tensed, his instincts screaming at him to be ready. A man emerged from the undergrowth, his expression twisted into a smirk. He wore ragged armor, the kind patched together from stolen pieces, and a crude sword hung from his belt.
"Ain't this a surprise," the man sneered. "What's a brat like you doing in our hunting grounds?"
Leon tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "Your hunting grounds?" He let out a short laugh. "You call yourselves what? The Predators of the South? Sounds like a name that probably sounded impressive in your heads."
The bandit's face darkened. His grip tightened on his sword. "You got a real smart mouth, kid. You must have a death wish."
In a flash, he swung his blade. Leon barely had time to react before searing pain shot through him—his arm. A deep, red gash opened where the sword had struck, and blood began to drip onto the forest floor.
The bandit raised his weapon again, ready to finish the job. Leon knew he couldn't escape. He was outmatched, outnumbered—his vision swam, his body weakened from blood loss.
Then, from somewhere beyond the trees, a sound echoed. A voice.
The bandit's body went rigid. His eyes darted toward the source of the noise, and in an instant, his bravado vanished. He took a step back, then another—before turning on his heel and bolting into the forest like a frightened animal.
Leon tried to move, but his strength failed him. His vision blurred, the trees around him melting into a haze. The last thing he registered before the darkness took him was the sound of approaching footsteps, deliberate and unhurried.
Then—nothing.