Leon Ainsworth sat cross-legged on the floor, illuminated only by the dim blue glow of his TV, the kind of lonely glow that made everything else in the room look suspended and unreal. It was almost 3 A.M., the witching hour where dreams, delusions, and questionable life choices converge into one existential soup. The hour where you make decisions like "maybe I should cut my own hair" or "maybe I should text my ex even though we never dated."
Leon was firmly in that danger zone.
His hair was a mess. His eyes were unfocused. His grip on the controller had the loose, sleepy determination of someone who had been awake for far longer than a teenager should be.
On screen, the final cutscene of Kingfall IX played.
Sir Garrick, lovable, over-dramatic, beautifully polygonal Sir Garrick knelt before the crumbling obsidian gate. His armor cracked. His cape torn. His voice, heroic and pitched just right for maximum emotional destruction echoed through Leon's small apartment.
"If the sun rises on this kingdom tomorrow… let it be known I fell with honor."
Leon felt something twist in his chest.
Not sadness.
Not inspiration.
Not admiration.
It was… something uglier. Sharper.
Envy.
Because here he was, sitting in a pile of laundry, eating stale chips, and watching a fictional knight be cooler in a single cutscene than Leon had managed in sixteen entire years.
The screen faded to white.
A triumphant orchestra swelled, the kind of music that made you want to run outside, raise a sword, and shout something dramatic. Then two words appeared.
THE END.
Leon blinked at them.
He had planned to sleep after this.
He really had.
But instead, he whispered,
"…Why can't my life be that cool?"
The apartment didn't answer.
It never had.
Its only contribution was the hum of the mini-fridge and the gentle snoring of the neighbor's obnoxiously loud dog.
Leon glanced at his desk.
Sheets of homework lay untouched, scattered like debris from a life he kept meaning to fix.
Pinned to the corkboard above it, his Sigil registration card glinted under the TV light mocking him silently, cruelly, efficiently.
SIGIL TYPE: DEFENSIVE — MINIMAL OUTPUT.
A comedic level of uselessness.
It was like being born with the ability to glow faintly green. Or to slightly warm up soup. Or to make pebbles bounce off you but only at low speed.
Leon sighed, long and heavy.
"Sir Garrick wasn't even real," he muttered, "and he had more purpose than me."
He stood up.
Sat down.
Stood up again.
Pacing followed—uncoordinated, frantic, the kind a small dog might do during a thunderstorm.
His thoughts spun like a loading screen stuck at 99%.
What am I even doing with my life?
What am I supposed to be?
Should I pick a career soon? Should I at least pick a haircut? Should I....
He stopped in the center of his chaotic room.
His fists trembled.
"…I want to be a Knight."
The words hung there, ridiculous and profound, filling the room in a way that made Leon feel slightly dizzy.
You? A Knight?
His inner voice laughed immediately.
You can't even run a mile without seeing God.
But the thought didn't die.
It didn't shrivel.
It didn't get embarrassed and go home.
It stayed.
Knights were brave.
Knights protected people.
Knights had purpose, honor, story.
And Leon?
Leon had none of those things. Yet the idea latched onto something inside him, a hole he had ignored for too long.
He walked to the window and looked out at the city. Neon billboards blinked in the night: Hero endorsements. Training school ads. News of rising villains in the southern districts. Overhead, patrol heroes flew past in streaks of blue and white, capes fluttering dramatically because of course they did.
They were real.
They mattered.
They had direction.
Then there were the Knight Heroes, the few, the rare, the old-school champions who wielded ancient ideals as seriously as they wielded their weapons. Valoria Knight Academy trained them. A fortress-like school shaped like a cross between a monastery and a military base. Knights didn't wear spandex or flashy armor.
They wore discipline.
They wore legacy.
They were… undeniably cool.
"…Cool," Leon whispered.
Cool enough that even his envy softened into longing.
He stared at his reflection in the window glass.
A boy stared back, tired eyes, slouched shoulders, pajamas that said "I paused my game for this." His hair stuck up in a way that suggested it had been fighting gravity for hours and was losing.
He lifted a shaky finger and pointed at his reflection.
"You're going to be a Knight."
The reflection looked like it wanted to call security.
So Leon doubled down.
"I don't care what anyone says. I don't care that I have a stupid Sigil. I don't care if everyone thinks I'm delusional." His voice wavered not from fear this time, but the terrifying unfamiliarity of resolve.
"I'm going to Valoria Academy. I'll train. I'll fight. I'll become a Knight."
He didn't see it, couldn't see it, but deep beneath the skin of his chest, the dormant Sigil, that tiny fragment of something ancient and half-forgotten, pulsed once.
A glow so faint it could've been imagined.
A spark too small to understand.
He grabbed his old backpack one strap held together by tape and stuffed it with essentials: two snacks, three half-dead devices, a tangled charger, and the crumpled academy admissions form he had thrown away last month out of "realistic self-assessment."
(Translation: he chickened out.)
Tomorrow he'd submit it.
Tomorrow he'd take the first step.
He swallowed, heart thudding unevenly.
Tomorrow he'd tell people his dream.
Even if they laughed.
Even if it hurt.
Even if he failed.
Tonight…
He turned his console back on. Not to play, but to stare at Sir Garrick's armor one last time.
"…Thanks," Leon whispered.
A silly thing to say to pixels.
A meaningful thing all the same.
He turned off the console, pulled open his curtains, and looked at the dim horizon. Dawn was still far, but the idea of dawn of beginnings felt close enough to touch.
It all felt ridiculous.
Impossible.
Stupid.
But for the first time in sixteen years…
Leon felt alive.
The boy with no ambition had finally chosen a destiny.
And somewhere, beyond the city lights, beyond the reach of heroes and villains, fate stirred quietly trembling at the smallest, most dangerous spark in the world.
A purpose born in the heart of someone who had never had one before.