The world didn't end with a bang, but with a blinding, sterile surge of white light that tasted of ozone and ancient static.
When the spots cleared from his vision, Leornars found himself standing on a cold, marble floor inscribed with glowing geometric patterns. The air here was different—sweet, heavy with incense, and devoid of the metallic tang of the massacre he had just left behind. The room was draped in dusty velvet tapestries and lit by the rhythmic flickering of floating candles.
Disoriented, Leornars remained motionless. He was a jagged stain of crimson against the pristine vintage decor. Blood—the Mayor's blood, the guards' blood, the baker's blood—dripped steadily from his fingertips.
Clatter.
The blunt, stolen sword and a jagged fragment of glass slipped from his numb hands, ringing against the marble. With a practiced, silent motion, he tucked a blood-slicked dagger into the inner lining of his tattered coat.
"Oh, Great Hero..."
A woman stood before him. She wore ceremonial robes of flowing white and deep azure, her long hair pinned back by a silver tiara. She stepped forward, her face a mask of practiced gentleness, and extended a manicured hand toward him. Her smile was warm—the kind of warmth that felt like a calculated lie.
Leornars stared blankly at her hand. He saw the soft skin, the lack of callouses, the ignorance of what it felt like to hold a sharpening fork. He didn't take her hand. He didn't even acknowledge it. He simply walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers as he moved toward the perimeter of the room.
The priestess froze. Her hand remained suspended in the air, trembling slightly. The "warmth" on her face fractured, replaced by a momentary flash of indignant frustration before she masked it again.
"...Where am I?" Leornars' voice was a hushed rasp that seemed to suck the heat out of the room. "Where is the exit?"
The priestess cleared her throat, spinning around to face his back. She puffed out her chest, her voice rising in a bold, rehearsed proclamation.
"Hero from another world! We, the citizens of the Holy Kingdom of Durmount, have summoned you through the ancient rites. You are chosen to wield your light for us—to vanquish the filth of the demi-humans and the shadows of the Demon Empire!"
Leornars turned. His eyes were dead—two obsidian voids framed by matted silver hair. He began to walk toward her, his footsteps leaving bloody, rhythmic prints on the white stone.
"I asked you..." He stopped inches from her face, the scent of the slaughterhouse clinging to him. "Where. Is. The. Exit?"
The priestess flinched. A single bead of cold sweat traced a path down her cheek. Up close, the "Hero" didn't look like a savior; he looked like a nightmare that had crawled out of a mass grave.
Before the silence could break, the massive stone doors at the end of the hall creaked open.
A phalanx of armored men filed in, their greaves clanking with military precision. At their center walked an elderly man in regal white vestments—the Bishop. His eyes scanned Leornars, lingering on the snow-white hair and the terrifying, blood-rimmed crimson of his irises. The Bishop swallowed hard, his throat bobbing behind his stiff collar.
"We mean you no harm, traveler," the Bishop began, his voice smooth and diplomatic, though his eyes betrayed his unease. "But your arrival is a necessity. Our world is plagued by non-human species—beasts that mimic the form of man. We require your... unique talents... for their extermination."
Leornars narrowed his eyes, a low, icy growl vibrating in his chest. "And if I refuse?"
The Bishop didn't look angry; he looked amused. He gave a soft, condescending chuckle and turned his back, signaling the end of the conversation.
"You have no obligation to refuse," the Bishop said over his shoulder. "Because you have nowhere else to go."
The guards followed him out, their capes snapping in the draft. Leornars watched them, his hand twitching toward the dagger in his coat, but he stayed his hand as four maids entered the room. They didn't speak. They didn't look him in the eye. They simply moved in unison, flanking him to escort him away.
"Clean him up," the Bishop's voice echoed from the hall. "He smells of a common kennel."
The bathing chamber was a palace of steam and scented oils. Under the silent, mechanical efficiency of the maids, the grime of the dungeon and the gore of the town were scrubbed away.
When Leornars emerged, he felt unnervingly light. The weight of the dried blood was gone, replaced by clean, modest fabrics of high-quality linen. His silver hair, though still disheveled and hanging over his brow, shone with a ghostly luster.
He approached the clergyman waiting for him in the corridor.
"Can I leave now?" Leornars asked plainly. "I don't think I'm of any use to you. I am not a hero."
The clergyman offered a thin, serpentine smile. "That remains to be seen. Let us first assess your mana capacity and your inherent magical capabilities. Then... we shall discuss your 'usefulness.'"
"Magic? Mana?" Leornars repeated the words slowly, tasting the foreign syllables. They felt like power. They felt like tools.
He was led through a series of winding hallways into a massive, domed chamber. The walls were etched with glowing blue runes that pulsed like a slow, ethereal heartbeat. In the very center of the room, standing atop a raised dais, was a towering crystal. It hummed with a soft, inner light, vibrating with a frequency that made the very marrow in Leornars' bones ache.
"Step forward," the clergyman whispered, his eyes gleaming with greed. "Show us what you are."