The oppressive stench of mold and old blood clawed at Jayden Craze's throat, thick as a strangler's grip. Every step deeper into the ancient tunnel weighed heavier—not from the battered gear strapped to his back, but from the suffocating silence that devoured all sound. There were no rats skittering, no water trickling, not even the faintest echo of distant war. Just a void, as if the darkness itself was listening.
Four soldiers trailed behind him, boots squelching through centuries of rot. Larn, the youngest, kept glancing over his shoulder, his wide eyes gleaming with the panic of a cornered animal.
"Sir," he whispered, his voice barely more than a tremor, "doesn't this feel wrong?"
Jayden paused, inhaling slowly, as if the answer might ride on the stagnant air. He listened for the lie, for some hint of normalcy.
"…Yes," he finally admitted, voice low. "It does."
They reached a ladder, its iron rungs slick with something best left unnamed. Jayden climbed first, muscles tense, and pressed his ear to the rusted grate at the top. No voices. No footsteps. Only the muffled thunder of war, far above—too far.
He eased the grate aside and slid up into the keep's lower barracks. Dust hung in the air, thick enough to choke. Broken cots and rusted weapons lined the walls. Heavy cobwebs draped from the ceiling, swaying in the draft. Not a single guard in sight.
One by one, the others emerged, eyes darting.
"Where the hell is everyone?" muttered one, voice barely more than a ghost.
Jayden didn't answer. He moved quietly to the hallway, peering up the spiral stairs leading deeper into the fortress. Still, the silence smothered everything. No shouted orders, no clash of steel. It was the kind of silence that waits, patient and hungry.
He motioned for his squad to hold position. "Stay here," he breathed, and began the ascent alone.
One flight. Another. The stone was cold beneath his hands, each step echoing in his chest.
At the top of the third stairwell, Jayden emerged into the observation corridor—a narrow hall overlooking the fortress courtyard through slitted windows. He crept to one and peered out.
His breath caught.
Dusmir's forces had broken through. The breach had succeeded. Rex's group was carving through Solmere's defenders, the tide turning swiftly. For a fleeting moment, victory seemed within reach.
Then Jayden saw him.
A man stood atop the inner stairs, unmoving. Silver-gold plate armor gleamed, unmarred by battle. A lion's crest pulsed faintly on his chest, as if alive. He held no weapon, no shield, yet his presence filled the corridor. His gaze was fixed on the chaos below.
Jayden's skin prickled. The air vibrated—not from drums or distant battle, but from him. The stones beneath Jayden's boots began to hum, a deep, bone-shaking resonance. His chest tightened, not with fear, but with something heavier—suppression, as if an invisible hand pressed down on his very soul.
He stumbled away from the window, gasping.
Aura.
The word surfaced in his mind unbidden. No one spoke of it anymore—not since the old wars, not since the purges. But now, Jayden understood what Gerald had feared, what ancient stories had whispered. This wasn't a knight.
It was a warning.
He turned and bolted down the stairs. "MOVE! BACK INTO THE TUNNEL!" he roared. "GO NOW!"
"But—"
"NOW!"
Above, a sound split the air—not footsteps, not steel, but a crack like pressure snapping free from ancient chains. A shockwave tore through the keep. Stone groaned, torches guttered out.
Jayden didn't hesitate. He grabbed Larn by the cloak, shoving him toward the ladder. The others scrambled, panic overtaking discipline. One soldier vomited from the crushing pressure.
Jayden glanced back up the stairwell—
—and saw a faint golden glow blooming, not fire, not magic, but something older. Something real.
The shaft gate exploded inward with a metallic shriek. Dust rained down as a single knight dropped into the tunnel, landing with predatory grace. His armor bore the lion's crest, silver and gold, regal yet worn. This was no ceremonial garb—this was a uniform.
A Lionheart.
Jayden stepped forward, instincts screaming. "Hold position!"
Too late.
The knight moved—efficient, almost mechanical. His blade flashed once, merciless and precise. Two soldiers fell: one with a clean slash across his chestplate, another crumpling from a thrust to the throat. No wasted motion, no hesitation.
The remaining two lunged. The knight blocked one, parried the other, then delivered a swift kick that sent a man crashing into the wall.
Jayden charged, blade drawn.
Steel met steel. Sparks flew. Jayden barely blocked the knight's counter, staggering under the force. His opponent was strong, but more than that—he was trained. Cold. Noble. Raised to kill without anger.
Jayden gritted his teeth, stepping back as the knight adjusted his stance.
Then, from above, a voice.
"I said enough."
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
Leon Lionheart stood at the broken shaft, gazing down with quiet, almost gentle disdain. His silver-gold plate glowed faintly in the gloom, immaculate and unstained. Even the tunnel seemed to hold its breath.
The knight stepped back, lowering his blade without protest.
Leon's eyes met Jayden's.
Jayden felt it—not rage, not killing intent, but something colder.
Judgment.
He wasn't important enough to die by Leon's hand. Just another name to be erased.
Leon turned away, silent.
The knight raised his sword again.
Jayden didn't flinch.
A moment later, the tunnel plunged into darkness.
– • –
Rex felt it first—a wrongness, heavy and sudden, as if the world itself had paused. He froze mid-step, blood dripping from his blade, chest heaving. Behind him, Arlan staggered, nostrils flaring.
"You feel that?" Arlan muttered, voice low. "Something's here."
No, not here. Above.
Rex's gaze lifted, searching past smoke and banners. There, on the balcony, stood a man in silver-gold plate, untouched by blood or ash. The lion crest on his chest shone as if untouched by war. No weapon drawn. No need.
Leon Lionheart.
Rex didn't know the name, but he recognized the presence—a beast in human form, a predator that didn't need to snarl. His heart hammered.
Arlan stepped back, voice reverent. "That ain't no knight."
Leon hadn't moved, hadn't spoken. Yet the battlefield shifted. Solmere's soldiers, once faltering, now moved with perfect rhythm. Their lines realigned, no panic, no shouting—just command. Silent. Absolute.
Beneath their feet, where Jayden's squad had vanished, Rex knew there would be nothing left. Not bodies. Not blood. Just absence.
The heat of battle faded, replaced by a chill. Whatever plan Dusmir had, it was unraveling. And the man above hadn't even drawn his blade.
The courtyard collapsed into chaos. Dusmir soldiers shouted, trying to rally, but it was no longer a battle—it was a correction. Solmere's forces moved with unbreakable discipline, and Rex knew why.
Leon exhaled.
That was all. No chant, no gesture. Just a breath.
The world responded.
The wind died. Ash hung frozen. Flags drooped, as if the battlefield itself forgot how to move.
Then came the pressure.
It wasn't seen or heard, but Rex felt it in his bones—a silent roar. The air seemed to shrink from the man above. The earth wanted to kneel.
Rex's knees buckled. Arlan dropped beside him, not from fear, but instinct.
"By the old gods…" Arlan whispered. "That's no mana."
No spell had been cast. No runes glowed. But every soul in the courtyard felt it.
Aura.
It didn't sparkle or hum. It simply existed—heavy, absolute, final.
A ripple passed through the Solmere line. Dozens of knights lifted their weapons in perfect unison, as if cued by something deeper than voice.
From the balcony, Leon raised his hand—not as a commander, but as a god blessing a storm.
A Lionheart knight stepped forward. His blade vibrated, not with light, but with intent.
When he swung—
The air split.
Not with fire, but with force. A line of silence carved through Dusmir's charge—bodies flung, armor crushed, weapons shattered by sheer pressure. No explosion, no impact, just a void in the warzone.
Aura.
Not an element or spell. Raw presence, given form.
If a regular Lionheart knight could do that…
Rex's gaze snapped back to the balcony. Leon still hadn't moved, but his eyes were open now.
He was watching.
– • –
Grand Commander Gerald Von Baron stood motionless, hands resting on his brass scope. The lenses fogged with his breath, but he didn't blink.
He didn't need to. The sight was unmistakable.
Silver-gold armor. Lion crest. That face.
A man who shouldn't be here. A man who shouldn't need to be.
The name rose in his throat like a curse. "…Leon."
Jaxen looked over. "Sir?"
Gerald didn't answer, staring at the balcony as if willing the figure to vanish.
But Leon Lionheart didn't vanish. He stood, and the battlefield bent around him.
Gerald's jaw tightened. "That's no commander."
Jaxen frowned. "Then who—?"
"That's a Duke."
Even Jaxen paled.
"Leon Lionheart. Head of the Lionheart Family. Commander of the Lionheart Order." Gerald's voice dropped, as if saying the name louder might summon something worse. "One of the two Dukedoms of Solmere. The other being Lucario."
He pulled away from the scope. "The strongest of the four Swordmasters on this continent."
Silence fell in the command post. Outside, Dusmir's forces still pushed the breach, oblivious to the storm above. They didn't know.
But Gerald did.
He had memorized every report, every battlefield dossier. One rule repeated itself:
If Leon Lionheart moves, the earth should tremble.
He was supposed to be in the capital, far from the frontlines. Yet here he was.
Jaxen broke the silence. "Why would he be here?"
Gerald exhaled. "I don't know." His eyes narrowed. "But if the Lionheart Order is at Grannis, then we've been lied to."
He turned sharply. "Pull everyone back from the courtyard. I don't care if we hold the breach—get them out."
Jaxen hesitated. "Sir, if we retreat—"
"We don't retreat," Gerald snapped. "We survive."
Because this wasn't a war anymore.
It was a warning.
Leon hadn't drawn his blade. He hadn't spoken.
He was waiting.
And Gerald Von Baron had no idea what for.
– • –
The order hadn't reached Rex yet, but he felt it in his bones. Retreat looked different now—a pressure behind the ribs, ancient and instinctive, telling him to run before he even understood why.
He'd seen panic before: broken lines, screams, men stumbling over corpses. But this was confusion, and that was worse.
Dusmir's charge had struck with momentum, but now the front was gone. Formations blurred, shouting fragmented into desperation.
Above it all, the Lion still watched.
Arlan snarled, eyes flicking to the balcony. "Why isn't he moving?"
Rex gripped his sword tighter. Every instinct screamed to flee, but training kept him grounded.
Then came the sound—not a horn, not a shout, but a distant thud. Metal on stone. Boots, marching.
From the keep's gate behind the balcony, they came.
Lionheart Knights.
Six of them, clad in silver-gold armor, the Lion's crest emblazoned on their chests. Their swords were sheathed, but the ground itself seemed to recoil from their Aura, dust swirling at their feet.
They didn't rush. They didn't need to. They were hunters, and Rex was prey.
"Move," he muttered.
Arlan didn't argue.
They broke from the collapsing line as the Lionheart Order descended into the courtyard. Behind them, the first clash landed like thunder—no, like impact.
Dusmir soldiers—men Rex had fought beside—were thrown aside, not cut or stabbed, but crushed.
Arlan shoved a corpse aside, war hammer gripped tight.
"We head for the south breach," Rex said. "Gerald's call."
"What if it's cut off?"
"Then we die somewhere else."
A knight emerged from the smoke ahead. This was no ordinary Solmere infantry. This was one of them.
His blade was drawn, humming with restrained power. His Aura warped the air, heatwaves distorting reality.
Arlan stepped forward. "Keep running," he growled.
Rex obeyed.
Behind him, the clash echoed—a brutal, final crunch.
He didn't look back.
He vaulted a shattered cart, ducked under a banner, sprinted past fleeing soldiers who didn't yet realize death was catching up.
They weren't retreating anymore.
They were being hunted.
And the worst part? The Lionheart Order hadn't even begun to fight seriously.
Rex reached the outer wall. Fire licked the sky. Bodies burned. Dusmir's siege towers were smoldering husks.
He slid behind broken stone, heart pounding.
He was alive.
But he was alone.
He looked back.
No sign of Arlan. No sign of survivors.
Just smoke, ruin, and the shape of a lion, standing untouched in the heart of it all.