The room was bathed in the golden hue of the setting sun. Light filtered through the large window, casting soft rays across the polished wooden floor and illuminating the quiet figure seated beside the bed. Sion Ragnar—once King Allen, the mighty ruler of a now-lost world sat in silence, his gaze locked on the vast horizon beyond the glass.
His fingers brushed lightly against the sill, tracing invisible patterns as thoughts clashed inside his mind. The breeze that rolled through the open window was cool and gentle, carrying with it the scent of blooming flowers from the gardens below. Yet Sion's heart was heavy, his soul restless.
"Once, I was a king," he whispered to himself. "A man whose mere presence sent shivers through the battlefield. I was feared, revered, and… hated."
He let the words drift into the silence, closing his eyes briefly. Flashes of his past haunted him—wars waged, kingdoms razed, allies betrayed for the greater good. He had believed peace could only be forged in fire, that fear could be a foundation strong enough to carry the weight of a nation.
"Was I truly a tyrant?" he muttered. "Or just a fool blinded by the illusion of control?"
In his reign, he had emptied noble coffers to fund brutal campaigns, silenced dissent with an iron fist, and shut his heart to the cries of the common folk—all in pursuit of a dream that had slipped further with each drop of blood spilled. And now, here he was—no longer Allen, the mighty king—but Sion Ragnar, the forsaken heir of a broken house in a corrupted world.
But with this new identity came something else: purpose. A divine mission bestowed by the goddess Aria herself. To defeat the twelve demonic fallen angels threatening this world, he would need more than swordsmanship—he would need power, unity, and clarity of heart.
"I won't make the same mistakes again," Sion vowed under his breath. "This world may be rotten, but I will not rule it with fear. I'll fix its broken systems, its corrupt teachings. I'll rebuild swordsmanship and magic the way it was meant to be—honest and strong."
His gaze shifted downward to his open palm. The familiar hum of mana vibrated faintly beneath his skin. With effort and training, he had elevated his body to a third-circle magician's level. But it wasn't enough.
"Six circles," he muttered. "Only then will I be able to channel the depth of who I was. And only then will I have the strength to face what lies ahead."
Just then, a soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Excuse me, young master," came Jerin's voice from the other side of the door.
Sion remained silent for a moment, then turned his head slightly toward the entrance. "What is it now, Jerin?"
The butler entered slowly, his posture more reserved than usual. "The duke... he has requested your presence at dinner tonight. A family dinner."
Sion blinked, caught off guard. "A... family dinner? Are you certain?"
Jerin nodded, his voice hushed. "Yes, young master. He asked me to personally inform you."
Sion's brows furrowed. After all the years of neglect, silence, and distance, the very idea of a shared meal felt foreign, almost absurd. But then again, so had the kindness he saw earlier John Ragnar's silent presence during Janet's healing, his order for a dinner now.
"Maybe... he's trying," Sion whispered. Not as a king. Not as the tyrant Allen. But as a son.
He stood from the window, the weight of his past still clinging to his shoulders, but a new resolve burning in his eyes.
"Tell the Duke I'll be there. It's time we talked... but as family."
Jerin gave a small, surprised bow. "As you wish, young master."
As the door closed behind him, Sion turned back toward the window one last time, watching as the sun dipped below the edge of the world. He wasn't the same man who once ruled a kingdom in fire and steel. He was Sion Ragnar now.
And this time, he would build his legacy not on fear… but on something far stronger.
Hope.