Leon woke up gasping for air. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath uneven as if he had just escaped something terrible. He pressed a hand to his ribs, expecting pain, expecting the wound that had ended him. But there was nothing. No blood. No injury. No sharp agony stabbing through his side.
His hands flattened against the sheets beneath him, rough fabric worn from years of use. His fingers clenched slightly, gripping the material as he tried to steady himself. This wasn't right. He remembered falling. He remembered the dagger. He remembered the way his body had given up, the cold stone beneath him, the way his vision had blurred as the voices around him faded.
He sat up too quickly. The room swayed for a moment before settling. He ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to focus. The ceiling stretched above him, cracked in places, the same imperfections he had memorized years ago. The scent of morning drifted in through the open window, warm, familiar. His room. His old room.
He stood slowly, pushing the sheets away, placing his bare feet on the wooden floor. The texture was familiar, the faint creak beneath his weight a sound he had once ignored. His breathing was calmer now, his hands steadier. But his mind wasn't.
He moved toward the mirror, hesitating when he reached it. Then he looked.
Sixteen.
The reflection staring back at him was younger than it should have been. His features were sharper, his body leaner, his muscles less defined. The faint scars that had once lined his arms were gone. His shoulders weren't as broad, his face not yet hardened by experience. He was a teenager again.
His stomach twisted, but his hands remained steady at his sides.
This wasn't normal.
His gaze darted toward the window, the streets outside just visible beyond the glass. He moved toward it, pushing it open. The scent of baked bread and faint smoke from nearby chimneys filled the air. The city stretched before him, buildings stacked closely together, rooftops uneven, the roads worn and lined with old cobblestones. Voices carried through the morning light, merchants calling out their wares, adventurers preparing for the day's missions. It was all the same.
Old Ferrun, the city he had grown up in.
And beyond it, looming in the distance, was the portal machine.
The metal structure stood tall, reinforced with protective layers, humming softly with the energy contained within. It had always been there. The centerpiece of the city, the foundation of everything that gave Ferrun its purpose. Adventurers relied on it. Guilds controlled it. Beyond the gateways it created lay the unknown—new realms, dangerous creatures, crystal cores waiting to be retrieved.
Abilities had changed the world after the meteorite fell.
Before that, humanity had lived without power, without strength beyond skill. The machines capable of opening portals had existed, but they were unstable, impossible to control.
Then, the meteorite struck.
Something in the air changed. People began awakening abilities—fire, water, earth, wind. Forces pulled from something no one understood. Guilds formed soon after, organizing the chaos, building rankings to measure power.
And then, the portal machines stabilized.
Leon had fought through them, passed through glowing gateways into unknown lands, hunted creatures that carried crystal cores, trained to survive in realms far beyond the safety of his city.
Each core had a rank, a value tied to its power. F-grade was the weakest, barely worth anything. E and D were common, used for basic enchantments and gear upgrades. C and B held significant strength, sought after by experienced adventurers. A-rank cores fueled elite fighters, pushing their abilities beyond normal limits.
Then came S-rank and beyond.
Few adventurers had ever wielded them. SS and SSS cores were legendary, rare beyond reason, the kind that could turn a single fighter into something unmatched.
Leon had never come close to those.
He had only ever been D-rank.
And now, he was sixteen again. Standing in his childhood room.
He let out a slow breath, leaning against the window frame, staring out at the city, at the portal machine, at the world that had once discarded him.
Whatever had happened, whatever this was, one thing was clear—he was back.