Leonel had read so many stories that reality sometimes felt like a dull, faded translation. He knew how heroes awakened, how prophecies began, how the chosen always seemed to stumble onto destiny when no one expected it.
But he also knew one truth those books never admitted: waiting around for fate was for side characters.
So, at thirteen years old, Leonel began to train.
Not because anyone told him to. Not because he had been chosen. But because of a dream.
It had been so vivid that even three years later, he remembered every detail. In it, he had walked across a battlefield littered with broken blades. The taste of iron lingered on his tongue, the clash of steel rang in his ears, and a voice — deep and ancient — whispered to him:
"Be ready."
When he woke, the words clung to him like chains.
From that day, Leonel prepared. Every morning, before the neighborhood stirred awake, he ran. He practiced stances from old manuals and copied martial arts videos frame by frame until his body remembered what his eyes could barely follow. He swung wooden blades until splinters embedded in his hands became badges of honor. At dusk, he sat cross-legged on rooftops, breathing until the chaos of the city dulled into silence.
Archery. Knife throwing. Hand-to-hand combat. Meditation. If he could find it in a book, a forum, or even the end credits of an anime, he tried it.
His friends called him obsessed. Some called him delusional. Leonel wore both like armor. The novels had given him a stage to dream on. The training gave him faith that, if that dream ever came true, he would not stand there empty-handed.
By sixteen, he moved with the fluidity of someone who had rehearsed life like a script.
And tonight was the eve of his sixteenth birthday.
The house was silent. His parents were away at a funeral, and the staff had long since gone home. Only the moonlight slipped through the high windows, painting pale silver across the family library.
Leonel had always loved this place. He knew every shelf, every manuscript. He often came here to pretend he was already living the adventures he read. On this night, maybe out of habit, maybe out of superstition, he found himself wandering the stacks again.
And that was when he saw it.
A thin book, wedged between two heavy tomes. Its leather cover was dark as storm clouds, but it bore no title, no author.
Leonel frowned. He didn't remember ever seeing it before.
Curiosity tugged at him. He slid it free.
When he opened it, he expected words. A title page. Anything. Instead, diagrams stared back at him, strange and precise. Some pages were completely blank. The book seemed to breathe with him, as if the paper itself drew air.
Then—
"Ah!" he hissed. A sharp sting pricked his fingertip.
A bead of blood welled up and smeared across the page.
The book didn't reject it. It accepted it — as if it had been waiting.
Leonel blinked, disoriented. His head throbbed. The room tilted. His vision blurred until the shelves melted into streaks of shadow and light.
He staggered back, clutching his temple.
And then, a voice. Heavy. Whispered. Etched directly into his mind.
"Awakening… the Primo."
Leonel's knees gave way. The book closed with a soft thud.
And the world went dark.