The world didn't end with a bang, but with a blinding, sterile surge of white light that tasted of bitter ozone and ancient static.
When the burning spots finally cleared from his vision, Leornars found himself standing on a cold, polished marble floor inscribed with glowing, intricate geometric patterns. The air here was entirely foreign—sweet, suffocatingly heavy with incense, and devoid of the iron, metallic tang of the massacre he had just left behind. The grand chamber was draped in dusty velvet tapestries of royal crimson and gold, illuminated only by the rhythmic, unnatural flickering of floating candles.
Disoriented, Leornars remained utterly motionless.
He was a jagged, grotesque stain against the pristine, vintage decor. Fresh crimson—the Mayor's blood, the guards' blood, the baker's blood—dripped steadily from his fingertips, splatting softly onto the immaculate white stone.
*Clatter.*
The blunt, notched steel sword and a jagged fragment of mirror glass slipped from his numb hands, ringing out sharply against the marble. With a practiced, completely silent motion born of survival instinct, he reached into his tattered coat, verifying the hidden weight of a blood-slicked dagger tucked securely into the inner lining.
"Oh, Great Hero..."
A woman stood before him. She wore ornate ceremonial robes of flowing white and deep azure silk, her long, dark hair pinned back by a polished silver tiara. She stepped forward, her face a carefully sculpted mask of practiced gentleness, and extended a manicured, flawless hand toward him. Her smile was warm—the exact kind of synthetic warmth that felt like a calculated lie.
Leornars stared blankly at her hand. He saw the soft, unblemished skin. The total lack of callouses. The absolute ignorance of what it felt like to hold a sharpening fork or tear into raw flesh to survive. He didn't take her hand. He didn't even acknowledge her existence. He simply walked straight past her, his rough, blood-soaked shoulder brushing harshly against her silk robes as he moved toward the perimeter of the room.
The priestess froze. Her hand remained suspended in the empty air, trembling slightly. The "warmth" on her face fractured instantly, replaced by a momentary flash of indignant, aristocratic frustration before she frantically masked it again.
"…Where am I?" Leornars' voice was a hushed, cracked rasp that seemed to suck the ambient heat right out of the room. "Where is the exit?"
The priestess cleared her throat, spinning around on her heels to face his back. She puffed out her chest, her voice rising in a bold, rehearsed proclamation that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
"Hero from another world! We, the devout citizens of the Holy Kingdom of Durmount, have summoned you through the ancient, sacred rites. You are chosen to wield your holy light for us—to vanquish the filthy plague of the demi-humans and crush the shadows of the Demon Empire!"
Leornars turned slowly.
His eyes were entirely dead—two obsidian voids framed by matted, silver-white hair. He began to walk back toward her, his bare, scarred feet leaving a trail of wet, rhythmic bloody prints on the pristine white stone.
"I asked you..." He stopped inches from her face, the raw scent of the slaughterhouse clinging to him like a second skin. "Where. Is. The. Exit?"
The priestess flinched, her breath catching. A single bead of cold sweat traced a frantic path down her pale cheek. Up close, this "Hero" didn't look like a glorious savior sent by the gods; he looked like a living nightmare that had just crawled out of a fresh mass grave.
Before the suffocating silence could break, the massive stone doors at the far end of the hall creaked open with a heavy, grinding groan.
A phalanx of heavily armored knights filed in, their steel greaves clanking against the floor with brutal military precision. At their center walked an elderly man clad in regal, gold-trimmed white vestments—the Bishop. His sharp eyes scanned Leornars, lingering intentionally on the snow-white hair and the terrifying, blood-rimmed crimson of his irises. The Bishop swallowed hard, his throat bobbing behind his stiff, starched collar.
"We mean you no harm, traveler," the Bishop began, his voice smooth, diplomatic, and dripping with an unearned superiority, though his eyes betrayed his deep unease. "But your arrival is an absolute necessity. Our world is plagued by non-human species—beasts that dare to mimic the sacred form of man. We require your… unique talents… for their systematic extermination."
Leornars narrowed his eyes, a low, icy growl vibrating deep within his chest. "And if I refuse?"
The Bishop didn't look angry; he looked genuinely amused. He gave a soft, condescending chuckle and turned his back, signaling the absolute end of the conversation.
"You have no obligation to refuse," the Bishop said coldly over his shoulder. "Because you have nowhere else to go."
The armored guards followed him out, their heavy capes snapping in the draft. Leornars watched them go, his hand twitching violently toward the hidden dagger in his coat. He stayed his hand only because four silent maids instantly entered the room. They didn't speak. They didn't dare look him in the eye. They simply moved in perfect, mechanical unison, flanking him to escort him away.
"Clean him up," the Bishop's echoing voice drifted back from the grand hallway. "He smells of a common kennel."
The bathing chamber was a vast palace of white marble, roaring steam, and heavily scented oils. Under the silent, terrifyingly efficient hands of the maids, the accumulated grime of the dungeon and the dried gore of his hometown were systematically scrubbed from his flesh.
When Leornars finally emerged, he felt unnervingly, terribly light.
The physical weight of the dried blood was gone, replaced by clean, modest fabrics of high-quality, indigo linen. His silver hair, though still disheveled and hanging heavily over his brow, shone with a ghostly, ethereal luster under the palace lights.
He approached the stern clergyman waiting for him in the corridor.
"Can I leave now?" Leornars asked plainly, his voice flat. "I don't think I'm of any use to you. I am not a hero."
The clergyman offered a thin, serpentine smile that didn't reach his eyes. "That remains to be seen, boy. Let us first assess your mana capacity and your inherent magical capabilities. Then… we shall discuss your 'usefulness' to the crown."
"Magic? Mana?" Leornars repeated the foreign words slowly, tasting the syllables in his mouth.
They felt heavy. They felt like power. They felt like tools he could use to tear things apart.
He was led through a dizzying series of winding, windowless hallways down into a massive, domed ritual chamber. The stone walls were etched with glowing blue runes that pulsed rhythmically, like a slow, ethereal heartbeat. In the very center of the room, standing atop a raised stone dais, was a towering, jagged crystal. It hummed with a soft, inner light, vibrating with a frequency so intense it made the very marrow in Leornars' bones ache.
"Step forward," the clergyman whispered, his eyes suddenly gleaming with an insatiable greed. "Touch the stone. Show us what you are."