I died doing exactly what I loved most in the world: having sex with a girl...
A thousand ways to die on Spike TV was right on the money on that one.
I wish I could say I was struck by lightning or pushed into another world by Truck-kun, but no. I choked on lukewarm chicken and collapsed on the floor with zero dignity and no pants on. Just me, my favorite oversized hoodie, and a half-read PDF titled "13 Reasons Peasant Taxes Collapsed in 14th Century Norway."
Then boom—rebirth.
Jaxon Therion Leonheart died choking on reheated chicken and regrew his soul in a muddy ditch under a slate-gray sky.
The first breath he took in this new world tasted like wet straw and horse piss.
His second breath was immediately interrupted by the horrible smell of the woods—rotten leaves, something dead nearby, and the distinct stink of animal shit. The wind blew, and he gagged.
He sat up fast, coughing up water and dirt, and got a lovely view of his new surroundings: ankle-deep mud, thorny bushes, and two feral cats that looked like a tiger and lion fighting over what looked like a human leg.
'What the actual fuck?' Jaxon thought because he remember dying that sucked but being dumped into the woods sucked even more.
....
A tiger and lion…
A tiger and a fucking lion.
No, wait—those weren't cats.
They were monsters.
Their fur was matted with old blood and swamp filth, their eyes gleamed with unnatural gold, and each stood the size of a damn sedan. One had scales on its flanks. The other had a second, half-formed face embedded in its chest, twitching.
They weren't fighting over the leg. They were playing with it.
No, wait—those weren't cats.
They were monsters.Blood-matted fur, swamp-moss tangled in their manes, and eyes that glowed like molten coin. One had plated scales fused into its flesh like armor—that was the War Tiger. The other had a second, fetal head twitching on its ribcage—that was the Battle Lion. Both were snarling, circling a mutilated corpse like it was a chew toy.
Not cats. Not friendly. And very familiar.
Because they were his.
Or rather… the old Jaxon's.
A tidal wave of memories slammed into his head—fast, jagged, and uninvited.
"Oh my god noooo…" Jaxon groaned as his knees hit the mud again. "Not this body… anyone but this asshole."
It all came back. This world is just like any other standard fantasy world.
It was a goddamn Korean MMO grade A knockoff—complete with gods, dungeons, magic systems more bloated than a patch note, elves with legs for days, and more martial arts schools than functioning roads. And just like those MMOs, every female NPC looked like she'd been designed by a sleep-deprived DeviantArt artist. Not the worst thing.
What was the worst thing?
He wasn't just in any generic character's body. He was inside the guy everyone knew. The kingdom's golden boy. Crowned war hero. Walking propaganda.
Jaxon Leonheart.
Same name. Different soul. Badass last name and his because he can't recall his old one.
But that's where the similarities ended. Except for one shared trait: they were both aggressively pansexual toward women.
The original Jaxon Leonheart was an orphan dumped at the Church of Light because the Church of Fire was too racist, and the Church of Earth charged a weekly faith tax. He grew up fighting for scraps and stealing kisses from the bakery girl while dodging sermons about divine chastity.
A rule that gets broken more times than the first rule of Guy Code. Then again, they look like Catholic priests.
He survived by being clever, fast, a little too handsome, and a little too eager to make bad decisions. A street-rat turned errand boy, errand boy turned mercenary, mercenary turned war hero—then public hero, national icon… and finally, expendable asset.
It all started with Skyllian Verge.
Everyone always asked him:
"What's it like being the Hero of the Skyllian Blitz?"
And every single time, he was tempted to answer honestly:
"Like being a fraud with great hair and no escape plan."
He didn't ask to be famous.
He didn't ask to have schools and streets named after him.He didn't ask for a nine-foot-tall statue of himself built on Pluto—(Not the planet. Here, Pluto was a floating city-state ruled by necromancers and that name sucks for a capital)
It all started when the message courier died.
Skyllian Verge was a trade hub built in a ring of ancient ruins near the monster border. When slavers began their raid, Jaxon didn't grab a sword or rally the militia—he tried to escape to the next city to deliver a warning.
The guy who was supposed to do that took an arrow to the neck and bled out at Jaxon's feet, handing him the scroll with his last words: "Take this to the Guildhall at the center of town. The enemy has taken it, but you need to send out this message. Icon needs your help."
The communications being only once is a horrible design flaw.
And so Jaxon ran towards the city gates. He was orphaned and Icon, despite the badass name, are just like New Yorkers. Not worth his life over this town.
And got lost.
Icon—again, badass name—was a massive, absurdly vertical city, with buildings that look the same.
He ran into slavers while trying to find the public transit rune and, in true idiot fashion, ran straight into the beast containment yard—a facility housing 2,000 feral dogs bred for cannon fodder in the dungeon raids.
In the chaos that followed, between the explosions, panicked militia, rogue spells, and a very flammable food stand, every single containment rune failed.
The dogs escaped.
All of them.
Jaxon accidentally triggered the pack-bond rune by collapsing onto the master seal during a lightning overload—activating his Class for the first time.
To outside observers?
He looked like a war god. A chosen beastmaster riding into the horde with divine fury and twin monsters at his side.
To Jaxon?
He was sprinting for his life, screaming like a lunatic, being chased by two thousand dogs, two mutant lions, and a screaming goat.
But it worked.
The slavers were overwhelmed. The rebellion sparked. The city was saved.
And Jaxon got the Imperial Star.
He also got them.
Two bonded beasts. Two living monsters.
Bront, the War Tiger—born in the Firefang Wastes. Bred for siege clearance and known to chew through fortress gates like candy.Moro, the Battle Lion—genetically warped in the Beastlabs. Known for strategic aggression and a second semi-sentient "combat brain" that grew in its torso like a tumor with a war fetish.
D-Rank, but terrifying.His. Loyal. Mostly.
Until he vanished.
Until someone killed him.
Jaxon's hands trembled. His eyes moved between the beasts.
They weren't attacking.
They were watching.
Tails flicking. Ears twitching. Tension on a knife's edge. But their eyes… there was recognition there. Instinctual. Soul-deep.
He looked down at himself.
Calloused hands. Tattooed arms. Same class marks, same old glyphs inked down his left shoulder. A battle seal on his forearm pulsed faintly—responding.
"Oh, hell no," Jaxon whispered.
A System alert blinked.
[Bonded Beasts Detected – Sync Lost][Reinstate Pact with Bront and Moro?]Warning: Failure may result in violent re-domination attempt.
Confirm? Y/N
Jaxon closed his eyes.
"If they kill me, I swear I'm going to haunt the gods personally."
He hit [Y].
Jaxon braced himself.
He didn't know what to expect when he hit [Y]. A memory flash? A nice glow? A quiet chime?
Instead—
Pain.
It tore through his chest like a spear of ice. His spine locked. His limbs seized. His soul—or whatever counted as one now—was being yanked.
The beasts responded instantly.
Bront, the War Tiger, reared back on his hind legs, roaring with fury. Flames sparked along his striped fur, curling around his shoulders like living armor. The earth quaked beneath his weight.
Moro, the Battle Lion, crouched low, jaws parting as a guttural growl rumbled from both his mouth and the distorted second face embedded in his ribs. The glow in his chest-eye burned brighter.
Both beasts surged toward him.
Jaxon didn't move. He couldn't. The system had frozen him mid-animation like a busted loading screen.
The HUD exploded with red.
[Warning: Soul Interference Detected][Dominance Clash Imminent – Beast Instincts Unstable][Your Bond Level: Null → Pending Synchronization...]
"Yeah, no shit they're unstable," Jaxon wheezed as a ring of steam blasted out from around him.
Bront lunged first.
A fiery blur, claws glowing with residual aura, his growl louder than thunder as he closed the ten-foot gap in half a heartbeat.
Jaxon didn't resist.
He didn't even flinch.
Because something inside him—something ancient and half-buried beneath sarcasm, fear, and Earth-hardened cynicism—remembered.
He raised his hand.
Bront skidded to a stop, jaws inches from his throat, fire licking Jaxon's bare skin without burning it. Moro prowled in behind, tense, low, calculating.
Jaxon didn't back down.
Instead, he met both their eyes and spoke the words that surfaced in his mind—foreign, harsh, primal.
"By blood. By soul. By contract once broken—bind again."
Light ignited along his left arm.
The inked seal glowed golden, the lines warping into movement like liquid runes. A pulse thundered through the clearing.
Bront growled.
Moro snarled.
The second face in Moro's chest shrieked.
And then—they bowed.
One after the other.
Slowly. Growling. Tails lashing. But bowing.
The HUD pinged.
[Bond Reestablished – Pact Level: Fragmented Loyalty][Bront (War Tiger) – Rank: D – Loyalty: 42% – Mood: Aggressive/Alert][Moro (Battle Lion) – Rank: D – Loyalty: 39% – Mood: Suspicious/Tracking][Beast Commands Unlocked: Follow / Guard / Hunt / Suppress]
Jaxon exhaled, dropping to one knee, sweat slicking his back.
"Okay," he muttered, "cool. That almost killed me. Love that."
Bront padded closer, giving a low grunt that sounded more like an engine than a living creature. Moro stalked up beside him, silent and fluid like smoke in lion form.
Jaxon looked up. "You two remember me, don't you?"
Bront snorted.
Moro... actually nodded.
The second face on Moro's chest twitched once—then slowly, unnervingly, grinned.
"Yup," Jaxon muttered. "Still horrifying."
Still. He had his beasts. He had his body. And now—finally—the system caught up.
A soft ding echoed through his head, followed by a subtle flicker of light just above his vision. The HUD sharpened like a blade.
SOVEREIGN SYSTEM INTERFACE – UNLOCKED
Name: Jaxon Therion LeonheartAge: 15Race: HumanClass: Tier-1 Magic KnightTitle: Hero of the Skyllian VergeNoble Rank: Baron of Vireaux
Core Attributes
Aura Rank: Lesser
Mana Rank: Impure
Bloodline: Thunder Leo (Grand)
Talent Affinities
Electric Affinity: Grade B
Quick Casting: Grade C
Longsword Mastery: Grade D
Combat Skills
Spells:
Arc Spark [Novice] – Releases a targeted electric bolt. Low cost. Minor stun effect.
Static Pulse [Novice] – Emits a radial shockwave from the body. Brief knockback to unarmored foes.
Charge Thread [Adept] – Forms a magnetic line between caster and target. Power increases with movement and duration.
Martial Arts:
Thunder Step [Disciple] – Short-distance burst movement technique. Applies residual static along path.
Cross Fang Slash [Basic] – Two-stage horizontal slash augmented by electric mana.
Passive Traits:
Residual Charge – After casting a lightning-element spell, melee attacks gain enhanced output briefly.
Battle Instinct (Incomplete) – Fragmented combat memory improves reaction timing under duress.
Beast Command
Suppress – Level 1 – Commands bonded beasts to incapacitate a target. Success depends on beast loyalty and morale.
"I can't tell if that's good or not."
Jaxon stared down at the seal etched into his arm—the Beast Bond still warm from the reactivation. Bront had already settled into a slow, predatory patrol, while Moro crouched on a rock nearby, watching the wind like it owed him money.
But Jaxon?
He wasn't seeing the forest anymore.
The past rose like mist.
His vision blurred. The cold, damp woods faded into marble halls and echoing banners. A memory buried deep inside the old Jaxon's soul—so vivid, it may as well have happened yesterday.
Imperial Citadel – Year 1012 A.R., Capital City of Irenthos
The throne room was vast. Vaulted ceilings. Pillars carved with dragons. Windows taller than ships. It smelled of incense and steel. The banners of the Eight Great Houses hung motionless above the marble floor like silent judges.
Jaxon stood at the center of it all.
His tunic was clean. His boots polished. His hair was still uneven—he'd cut it himself the night before. And every noble in that hall looked at him like he didn't belong.
Because he didn't.
He was just a fifteen-year-old orphan from the borderlands. Raised in a church dormitory. Trained in low-level mana techniques barely enough to light a torch. He wasn't noble. He wasn't from a legacy line. He had no backing, no inheritance, and no right to be in that room.
And yet… the Imperial Star pinned to his chest said otherwise.
At the far end of the hall, seated on a raised obsidian throne beneath the sigil of the twin suns, was His Radiance, Emperor Vallamir II, the Lion of Dawn.
Tall. Thin. Regal in the way statues are regal—motionless and slightly unreal. His eyes were gold, not metaphorically, but literally. Eyes of a man who drank divine water and walked out of it better.
The emperor's voice rang out across the throne room:
"Jaxon Leonheart. In recognition of your conduct during the Skyllian Verge Campaign… in honor of the blood you shed and the lives you saved..."
The air shifted. Magic stirred. A ripple of pressure pushed through the crowd.
"...by my command and the authority of the Imperial Throne, I name you Baron of Vireaux, and entrust you with governance, protection, and development of said land. The name Therion shall be given to you. You are now a full noble."
A steward stepped forward, holding a long crimson case.
Inside—an iron medallion. The noble crest of the Leonheart line.
Jaxon took it with both hands, as trained, but his fingers trembled.
He was a war hero by accident.
A noble by paperwork.
And now, a lord of a domain he'd never seen.
"You will leave by sundown," the steward had said later. "Vireaux lies on the outer edge of the Empire—scarred by conflict, but strategically important. The emperor believes a young hero might inspire stability."
Jaxon had almost laughed.
Strategic?
It was a swamp.
A backwater cluster of villages and monster-haunted roads, ruled in name by a decrepit bloodline that hadn't produced a living heir in three generations. Its last baron had vanished. Bandits occupied the roads. Cults bloomed like fungus.
It was a punishment post in everything but name.
But he'd still said yes.
Because what was he going to do—say no to the emperor?
He'd taken the crest. Bowed before the court. Said the words.
"I, Jaxon Therion Leonheart, swear by my name and by my blood to guard this land, and to serve the people of Vireaux until death claims me or the Empire commands otherwise."
The crowd had clapped. Some out of respect. Most out of mockery.
And the court moved on.
Jaxon had left the city that night with two beasts, one sealed crest, and no idea that his own guard captain had been bought off before they ever reached the border.
Back in the forest, Jaxon opened his eyes.
The sky had darkened. Mist clung to the trees like smoke. His beasts lay quiet, one dozing, the other keeping watch. The river nearby whispered faintly in the silence.
For five full minutes, Jaxon said nothing.
Then, finally—
"…Am I supposed to build my own town?!"