The battlefield was a graveyard of fallen warriors. Blood soaked the dirt, the stench of iron thick in the air. The dying groaned, the dead lay still, and the living fought with the desperation of those who knew they wouldn't see tomorrow.
At the heart of the carnage stood Leonhart Vael, the Blade King, the strongest warrior humanity had ever known. His armor was battered, his greatsword stained with the blood of countless foes. He had fought through hordes of monsters—orc warlords, goblin assassins, trolls wielding clubs the size of tree trunks. They had thrown everything at him, but he still stood.
And yet, he knew this was the end.
Leonhart's breaths were ragged. His muscles screamed in protest. Even the strongest warrior had limits, and he had long since passed his own. Still, he raised his sword, golden eyes burning with defiance. "Is This All You've Got?!"
The monsters hesitated. They had seen too many of their kind fall. But their masters had given the order. Leonhart must die.
With a battle cry, they surged forward.
Leonhart met them head-on. He weaved through their ranks, his blade a blur of steel. Orcs fell in droves, their skulls split open. Goblin assassins leapt from the shadows, only to be cut down mid-air. Even the mighty trolls couldn't withstand his strength. He was humanity's last line of defense, and he would not fall easily.
But then, the air shifted.
Pain exploded in his chest.
Leonhart staggered, his sword dipping as fire spread through his body. He looked down. A glowing blue blade protruded from his chest—a mana-forged weapon, designed to kill beings of immense power.
He turned his head slightly. Behind him stood a man in the robes of the Imperial Court, a fellow human.
"You…!" Leonhart's voice was raw with betrayal.
The mage's face was unreadable. "The empire has no need for a warlord who stands above them all. Your time is over, Blade King."
Leonhart's strength ebbed. His grip on his sword loosened as the blade twisted deeper. The battlefield blurred. The screams of war became distant echoes. He fell to his knees, then to the blood-soaked earth.
Above him, the sky stretched vast and endless, indifferent to his fate.
So this is how it ends, he thought. Not in glory. Not in victory. But by treachery.
His vision darkened. His body grew cold. And as the last shreds of his consciousness faded, only one thought remained:
If I had another chance… I would tear it all down.
⸻
Darkness.
Leonhart drifted in an endless void. He felt nothing. He was nothing. And yet, something of him remained.
Then, pain.
It burned through him, twisting, reshaping. His soul was being forced into something else, something… smaller.
His senses returned, sluggish and unfamiliar. He felt cold stone beneath him, the air damp and heavy with the scent of earth. Distant water dripped, accompanied by something else—low, guttural breathing.
Leonhart forced his eyes open. Flickering light danced along jagged cave walls. He tried to move, but his limbs were strange, weak.
Something was wrong.
His hands—no, his claws—scraped against the dirt. Panic surged through him as he stumbled toward a puddle, his movements awkward and alien.
He looked down.
A monster stared back at him.
Not the face of a warrior. Not the face of a king.
A frail, goblin-like creature with pale green skin and jagged teeth. Wide, glowing yellow eyes filled with shock.
Leonhart recoiled. No. This isn't right. This isn't me.
But the truth was undeniable.
He had been reborn.
Not as a hero.
Not as a human.
But as a monster…