Banners once proud now lay torn and trampled into the mud, the screams of men and beasts alike rising into the midnight sky. The air was thick with ash and smoke, the glow of flames painting the horizon red. Amidst the carnage stood a man cloaked in black armor, his silver hair matted with blood, his crimson eyes burning like twin embers of fury.
He was known to friend and foe alike as the Shadow King—a monarch feared across continents, a ruler whose very name commanded dread. Armies had broken before his strategies, kingdoms had fallen under the weight of his power, and even the bravest warriors whispered his name as though it carried a curse.
Tonight, however, even kings bled.
Leonhart Valen—the man who had once sat upon an unchallenged throne—stood surrounded. His elite guard lay slain, their corpses piled at his feet, and the traitors who had once called him “Your Majesty” now encircled him with blades drawn.
“Your reign ends here, tyrant,” sneered one of the generals, his sword dripping with gore. “The world has suffered long enough under your shadow.”
Leonhart’s lips curled into a cold smile. “Shadow? You call it tyranny, yet without me, your kingdoms would have burned a decade ago. You bite the hand that kept the fire from consuming you.”
The general spat at the ground. “Spare us your lies. Your ambition destroyed more than it saved.”
Leonhart raised his blade—a massive black greatsword whose edge seemed to drink the moonlight. Around him, shadows writhed and coiled, forming serpents and spears, writhing at his command. “Then come,” he said, his voice calm, almost weary. “Let us see if betrayal grants you strength enough to kill me.”
The clash was cataclysmic.
Steel rang against steel, magic flared like thunder across the sky, and every step Leonhart took left craters in the earth. Dozens fell before his blade, swallowed by shadow constructs that ripped them apart like paper. Yet for every foe he struck down, two more replaced them. His own strength, legendary though it was, faltered beneath the tide of betrayal.
Blades pierced his flesh. Arrows found gaps in his armor. Blood spilled freely from wounds too deep even for his unnatural vitality to mend. Still, he fought, refusing to bow, refusing to yield.
For he was a king.
But even kings were mortal.
At last, a spear impaled his chest, driving him to one knee. A sword cleaved his shoulder, and another tore through his abdomen. Leonhart coughed blood, his vision blurring, yet his grip on his greatsword never wavered.
The circle of traitors closed in, their breaths ragged, their faces twisted with fear and hatred.
“Do you see, Shadow King?” one mocked. “Your time is over.”
Leonhart raised his head, crimson eyes blazing with a terrible light. “My time… is never over.” His voice carried like a curse, low and resonant, even as his body trembled on the brink of collapse. “Shadows do not die. They linger… waiting, watching… until the light fades once more.”
And with a final swing, he unleashed his power. Shadows erupted in a wave of darkness, tearing the battlefield apart, obliterating friend and foe alike. The world shook under the force of his dying wrath.
When the darkness cleared, only silence remained. The Shadow King’s body lay upon the blood-soaked earth, his lifeless eyes staring at the stars.
Yet even in death, his lips curved faintly… as though amused.
For the story of Leonhart Valen was not meant to end here.
Somewhere beyond the veil of death, consciousness stirred.
At first, there was only void. An endless expanse of nothingness—no light, no sound, no sensation. Leonhart floated within it, detached from the pain of his wounds, from the burden of his crown.
“Is this… the end?” he wondered aloud. His voice echoed strangely in the emptiness.
Memories flickered before him—wars fought, victories claimed, betrayals suffered. He saw faces of allies long gone, enemies slain by his blade, and the throne that had once felt more like a cage than a seat of power.
Regret gnawed at him. Not for the blood he had spilled—he had no illusions of being a saint—but for the emptiness of it all. A lifetime of conquest, and yet… what had it earned him? Nothing but loneliness and a blade in the back.
“I would not mind,” he murmured, “if I had the chance to live differently.”
And then, as if the void itself had heard him, light bloomed.
It was faint at first—a single spark, a glimmer in the infinite dark. But it grew, spreading until the void was swallowed by brilliance. Leonhart shielded his eyes, but the light did not burn. Instead, it enveloped him in warmth, pulling him toward something… new.
When next he opened his eyes, the scent of flowers filled his nose. The weight of armor was gone from his body. The ground beneath him was soft, grassy, alive.
Blinking, he sat up—and froze.
Tiny hands. Short legs. A frail body that was not his own. He rushed to a nearby stream and peered into the water.
A child’s reflection stared back at him. A boy of perhaps twelve years, with messy black hair and pale skin, eyes still carrying a faint glow of crimson.
Leonhart Valen—the Shadow King—had been reborn.
And the world he now gazed upon was not the one he had left behind.
Leonhart Valen, the Shadow King, had been reborn.
He clenched his fists, staring down at the tiny fingers that no longer bore the calluses of countless battles. His arms were thin, his shoulders narrow, his frame fragile. Yet behind those crimson-tinged eyes, the mind of a monarch remained sharp.
“…So this is what fate has decided for me,” he muttered, his voice now that of a child but his tone still carrying the weight of command.
He turned his gaze upward. The sky stretched wide, painted with hues of gold and azure. A pair of massive moons hung high, one silver, one crimson—a celestial sight unlike anything from his old world. Birds with jewel-like wings soared across the air, their cries mingling with the rustle of strange trees whose leaves shimmered faintly with mana.
It was beautiful. Almost deceptively so.
Leonhart narrowed his eyes. “A different world… with a different set of rules.”
The ground trembled.
At first, he thought it was his imagination. But then the trees quivered, their branches shuddering as though something massive was moving through the forest. The boy turned sharply, his instincts—those honed from decades of war—kicking in.
From the shadows of the trees emerged a beast. Its fur was matted black, its eyes glowing with a hunger that was all too familiar. Its jaw opened, revealing rows of serrated fangs. The stench of rotting flesh rolled off its body, thick and nauseating.
Leonhart recognized the feeling instantly. Killing intent.
The creature was no mere animal. It radiated the same aura he had once felt from monsters on ancient battlefields—creatures born not of nature but of corruption.
“A Devourer…” His eyes narrowed, crimson gleaming faintly. “So they plague this world as well.”
The beast roared, the sound shaking the ground. Birds scattered into the sky as the creature lunged, its claws tearing the earth apart where Leonhart had stood just moments before.
He rolled to the side, his small body moving slower than he liked. Damn this body! he thought, teeth gritted. In his prime, he would have severed the beast’s head before it even roared. But now… he was but a child, reborn and stripped of his physical might.
Still, he was no ordinary child.
As the Devourer lunged again, Leonhart raised his hand. Shadows curled faintly at his fingertips, sluggish but alive. His heart raced as he felt it—his power, not entirely gone. Dimmed, weakened, yet lingering within him.
“Good,” he whispered. “You have not abandoned me.”
The beast struck, but Leonhart thrust out his hand. From the ground, a jagged spike of shadow erupted, piercing the Devourer’s shoulder. The creature howled, stumbling back, black ichor spilling onto the grass.
Leonhart panted, sweat dripping down his forehead. His small body trembled from the strain of summoning even a fragment of his former power. Still, he straightened his back, eyes cold.
“You face the wrong prey, beast.” His childlike voice carried the authority of a king. “Even diminished, I am your end.”
The battle was short but brutal.
Leonhart relied not on strength, but on experience. Every time the Devourer lunged, he used its weight against it, dodging at the last second, forcing it to crash into trees. Every strike of shadow he summoned was placed with precision—piercing joints, tendons, eyes.
At last, the beast collapsed, shadows impaling its heart. It gave one final shriek before dissolving into black smoke, its body scattering into particles of ash.
Leonhart fell to one knee, chest heaving. His small body shook, his breath ragged. Yet his lips curled into a thin smile.
“I see… so this world does not lack for challenges.”
His crimson eyes scanned the forest. For a moment, silence returned, broken only by the rustle of leaves.
Then—
A voice. Soft, cautious, yet curious.
“…Are you… alright?”
Leonhart stiffened. He turned, and from behind a cluster of glowing trees stepped a girl. She looked around his age—perhaps twelve or thirteen—with long hair the color of moonlight and eyes that shimmered like sapphires. Her dress was simple, her hands clutching a small satchel filled with herbs.
The girl’s gaze shifted from Leonhart to the black smoke lingering where the beast had died. Her eyes widened, her lips parting. “…You… killed a Devourer?”
Leonhart regarded her silently. His instincts screamed at him to remain cautious. He did not know the customs of this world, nor how much of his power he should reveal.
After a pause, he forced his voice into something closer to a child’s uncertainty. “…What was that thing?”
The girl blinked, tilting her head. “You don’t know? That was a Devourer. They’re… monsters that come from the Void. They devour everything. Ordinary hunters wouldn’t even stand a chance against one…” She frowned. “…But you… you’re just a boy.”
Leonhart allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. “So are you.”
Her cheeks puffed slightly at his reply, but then she shook her head quickly. “Still… you saved me. Thank you.” She lowered her gaze for a moment before lifting it again. “What’s your name?”
The Shadow King paused. In his past life, his name had been feared, cursed, etched into history. Speaking it openly would draw questions, suspicion… perhaps even danger.
“…Leonhart,” he said at last, his tone even. “Leonhart Valen.”
The girl’s expression softened. “I’m Elira. Elira Moonveil.”
Her name would linger in his memory. For though neither of them knew it yet, this meeting in the forest would mark the beginning of a bond that would one day shape the fate