Born into royalty?
Lived life as a slave?
Defied fate as a valiant hero?
Death comes just the same.
It is something mortals dread as it happens without mercy. Regardless of how one lived their life, death comes for all—time and place are irrelevant for the Grim Reaper.
Death gleefully squealed in the face of a newly deceased. Ghastly talons clawed at Leon's soul as the Reaper hungrily salivated at the sight of a pure and innocent soul.
Yet, the Flames of Rebirth denied death it's prize.
Wondrous, joyous primordial flames surged around Leon's corpse, wrapping him in a radiant cocoon of vermilion fire. They did not burn him. Instead, they caressed every inch of his ruined body, seeping into torn flesh, shattered bone, and scattered remnants of his soul.
The flames moved with purpose.
Every wound began to close. Severed veins reconnected. Crushed bones straightened and fused together. Torn muscles knitted themselves back into place as though time itself had been reversed. The grotesque metamorphosis that had transformed Leon was undone layer by layer, his body returning to the perfect state it had possessed at its peak.
Then the flames reached what remained of his head.
The fragments of Leon's skull, brain, and flesh, scattered across the surrounding space, trembled before shooting toward one another. They collided in a burst of crimson light, reassembling with horrifying precision. Piece by piece, his head reconstructed itself and reattached to his neck, restoring him to wholeness.
Vermilion flames frolicked across Leon's restored body as he returned to life.
"Auggggggggggggghhh!"
Leon's roar tore through the red fog.
The instant consciousness returned, so did the memory.
He remembered his head exploding into a billion pieces. He remembered the indescribable agony that had accompanied it. He remembered the brief, suffocating emptiness that followed death before his immortal body dragged him back into existence.
The memory replayed inside his mind with unbearable clarity, and the pain followed it.
Leon doubled over and retched.
"Blegh!"
The remains of his lunch splattered onto the ground. It had been an Astrean dish resembling duck stew, a meal he had thoroughly enjoyed before this horrific chain of events.
Immortality did not grant him the luxury of forgetting how he died.
In fact, the opposite was true. Every memory of death was etched into his mind with double the intensity, leaving his restored body twice as vulnerable to the pain associated with it.
That was the price of an immortal body.
Leon wiped the last traces of vomit from his mouth with the back of his left hand. His fingers trembled slightly, though whether from lingering pain or rage, he could not tell. After a moment, he pushed himself upright and stood once more.
His gaze fixed on the entity before him.
What horrific power.
He had not even moved.
Without lifting a finger, Abaddon had killed him.
If not for this convenient, ridiculous cheat, Leon would have already been finished. There would have been no struggle, no opportunity for retaliation, and no chance to stand again.
Apparently, the sight of Leon's resurrection entertained the Ghost.
Though Leon could not clearly see the entity's face, he sensed the malicious amusement radiating from it. Somewhere within the shifting darkness, the Ghost seemed to smile.
"Oh? What an interesting parlor trick! Will you pull a rabbit out of a hat, Leon?" A thousand blades rattled in the air. Abaddon was... laughing.
The sound crawled across Leon's nerves like metal dragged over stone. It was not a human laugh. It lacked warmth, rhythm, and anything resembling joy. Instead, it was the collective clamor of countless weapons trembling in anticipation of bloodshed.
Leon tried to study the being standing before him, but the sight refused to remain fixed in his mind.
Every time he focused on one detail, it slipped away. The shape of Abaddon's body blurred at the edges. The colors shifted. His outline seemed to distort whenever Leon attempted to comprehend it, as though reality itself rejected the idea of being observed.
Still, Leon refused to look away.
He forced himself to retain every fragment he could grasp, mentally piecing together the monstrous figure in front of him.
Abaddon was enormous and powerfully built, possessing a broad, burly frame that seemed less like the body of a living creature and more like a nightmare given physical form. His presence alone was enough to inspire instinctive terror, the kind that lingered in the mind long after waking.
A thick coat of fur covered his body. Under the dim light of the crimson fog, it glistened with a dark, oily sheen. The sinister radiance of the red mist seemingly seeped into each strand, staining the fur with the color of freshly spilled human blood.
Two massive horns grew from his head. They were twisted and ridged like enormous drills, curving upward as they clawed toward the heavens. Their shape resembled a pair of demonic hands reaching out to tear open the sky.
His claws were even worse.
They were long, jagged, and ghastly, extending from fingers that looked capable of ripping through anything. A metallic-scented liquid dripped steadily from their tips, striking the ground with soft, wet splashes.
Leon noticed something else.
There had been no sign of Abaddon's arrival.
No disturbance in the ambient mana. No sudden fluctuation. No unfamiliar mana signature. No sound of approaching footsteps. Not even a shadow stretching across the ground.
One moment, the space before Leon had been empty.
The next, Abaddon stood there.
It was as though the entity had not traveled through space at all. It had simply appeared, adding its monstrous presence to the endless sea of trees surrounding them.
Huff!
Hooooo!
Leon extended his right hand, fingers spread toward the crimson haze. The air around his palm quivered as though reality itself had recognized his summons.
A moment later, his trusted companion appeared in a flash of cold light.
Arondight.
The legendary sword settled into Leon's hand with familiar weight, its presence sharp and silent. It was not merely a weapon—it was a relic of a forgotten age, a blade forged from celestial metal that had once been considered a gift from the gods.
During the Golden Age, the greatest blacksmiths of the era had joined forces with the enchanting magic of the Primordials to create Arondight. The process had been so extraordinary that few weapons had ever managed to rival it. Its name had once been spoken with reverence by kings, warlords, and immortal beings alike.
Yet time had a way of burying even the most magnificent treasures.
As civilizations crumbled and the Golden Age faded into myth, Arondight disappeared from history. Its existence was gradually reduced to a rumor, then a legend, and finally a forgotten footnote in ancient records.
Leon's brother, Samuel, had been the one to find it.
During one of his many adventures, Samuel had stumbled upon the sword and somehow recovered it from the ruins of the old world. Since then, Arondight had become one of Leon's most reliable companions, its silent edge answering his call whenever battle demanded it.
Now, the blade gleamed in Leon's hand.
Its surface reflected the scarlet radiance of the surrounding fog, though the colors embedded within the sword remained unmistakable. Blue, black, gray, and white flowed across its design, blending together with an elegance that made the weapon appear as much like a work of art as an instrument of death.
The pommel was shaped like a polished blue cone. Its narrow point extended from the bottom of the grip before gradually widening into a larger ring at the base of the handle. The pommel joined seamlessly with the crossguard, creating the impression that the entire weapon had been crafted from a single, flawless piece of celestial metal.
The grip itself was slender and perfectly balanced. Black bands wrapped around it in a series of interlocking X-shaped patterns, each one winding over and beneath the next as they spiraled toward the crossguard. The design provided a firm hold while adding an intricate, almost ceremonial beauty to the hilt.
Arondight's crossguard was remarkably large compared to the weapon's narrow grip. Forged in a bluish-gray metal, it curved gently upward on both sides, resembling a pair of wings poised to rise. Its shape was graceful, but its size and structure made its purpose clear. It was designed to protect the wielder while turning every movement into a potential killing stroke.
Above the crossguard, the blade rose in a perfectly straight line.
Its edge was sleek and formidable, possessing a refined sharpness that seemed capable of cutting through more than flesh and bone. Near the crossguard, the metal burned with a vivid blue radiance. As the color extended toward the middle of the blade, it darkened gradually, transforming into a deep, light-devouring black.
A grayish-white fuller ran along the center of the weapon. It began near the crossguard in the shape of a delicate teardrop, then narrowed as it traveled down the blade. The line grew thinner and thinner until it vanished at the tip, where the pale metal formed a needle-sharp point.
Arondight did not glow like an ordinary enchanted weapon.
Even when surrounded by the suffocating crimson fog, the sword made no sound. No hum of magic. No vibration. No whisper of power.
It simply rested in Leon's hand, beautiful and motionless, as if waiting for him to point it toward the being he intended to kill.
Now which being Leon intended to kill?
Abaddon, The Ghost of the Battlefield.
Across the countless ages of Terra's history, scattered records and whispered legends have spoken of the same nightmare.
A bloodthirsty demon appearing on battlefields.
The details changed from era to era, distorted by time, fear, and the unreliable memories of survivors, but certain elements remained constant. First came the blood-red fog, rolling across the battlefield in suffocating waves. Then came the crimson clouds, spreading overhead until they blotted out the sky and plunged the world beneath them into an oppressive scarlet twilight.
After that came the screams.
Warriors cried out as they were culled beneath the gaze of the Angel of Death. Their bodies were left behind as hollow husks, every organ and shred of vitality drained from within them. The ground became slick with blood, while a satanic laugh thundered across the battlefield, drowning out the clash of weapons, the cries of the wounded, and the final prayers of the dying.
Survivors spoke of a behemoth that defied human understanding. It did not distinguish between kings and soldiers, heroes and commoners, or champions and cowards. It slaughtered the strong without hesitation and showed mercy only to the weak.
But even that mercy was cruel.
Leon noticed something else.
There had been no sign of Abaddon's arrival.
No disturbance in the ambient mana. No sudden fluctuation. No unfamiliar mana signature. No sound of approaching footsteps. Not even a shadow stretching across the ground.
One moment, the space before Leon had been empty.
The next, Abaddon stood there.
It was as though the entity had not traveled through space at all. It had simply appeared, adding its monstrous presence to the endless sea of trees surrounding them.
Huff!
Hooooo!
Leon extended his right hand, fingers spread toward the crimson haze. The air around his palm quivered as though reality itself had recognized his summons.
A moment later, his trusted companion appeared in a flash of cold light.
Arondight.
The legendary sword settled into Leon's hand with familiar weight, its presence sharp and silent. It was not merely a weapon—it was a relic of a forgotten age, a blade forged from celestial metal that had once been considered a gift from the gods.
During the Golden Age, the greatest blacksmiths of the era had joined forces with the enchanting magic of the Primordials to create Arondight. The process had been so extraordinary that few weapons had ever managed to rival it. Its name had once been spoken with reverence by kings, warlords, and immortal beings alike.
Yet time had a way of burying even the most magnificent treasures.
As civilizations crumbled and the Golden Age faded into myth, Arondight disappeared from history. Its existence was gradually reduced to a rumor, then a legend, and finally a forgotten footnote in ancient records.
Leon's brother, Samuel, had been the one to find it.
During one of his many adventures, Samuel had stumbled upon the sword and somehow recovered it from the ruins of the old world. Since then, Arondight had become one of Leon's most reliable companions, its silent edge answering his call whenever battle demanded it.
Now, the blade gleamed in Leon's hand.
Its surface reflected the scarlet radiance of the surrounding fog, though the colors embedded within the sword remained unmistakable. Blue, black, gray, and white flowed across its design, blending together with an elegance that made the weapon appear as much like a work of art as an instrument of death.
The pommel was shaped like a polished blue cone. Its narrow point extended from the bottom of the grip before gradually widening into a larger ring at the base of the handle. The pommel joined seamlessly with the crossguard, creating the impression that the entire weapon had been crafted from a single, flawless piece of celestial metal.
The grip itself was slender and perfectly balanced. Black bands wrapped around it in a series of interlocking X-shaped patterns, each one winding over and beneath the next as they spiraled toward the crossguard. The design provided a firm hold while adding an intricate, almost ceremonial beauty to the hilt.
Arondight's crossguard was remarkably large compared to the weapon's narrow grip. Forged in a bluish-gray metal, it curved gently upward on both sides, resembling a pair of wings poised to rise. Its shape was graceful, but its size and structure made its purpose clear. It was designed to protect the wielder while turning every movement into a potential killing stroke.
Above the crossguard, the blade rose in a perfectly straight line.
Its edge was sleek and formidable, possessing a refined sharpness that seemed capable of cutting through more than flesh and bone. Near the crossguard, the metal burned with a vivid blue radiance. As the color extended toward the middle of the blade, it darkened gradually, transforming into a deep, light-devouring black.
A grayish-white fuller ran along the center of the weapon. It began near the crossguard in the shape of a delicate teardrop, then narrowed as it traveled down the blade. The line grew thinner and thinner until it vanished at the tip, where the pale metal formed a needle-sharp point.
Arondight did not glow like an ordinary enchanted weapon.
Even when surrounded by the suffocating crimson fog, the sword made no sound. No hum of magic. No vibration. No whisper of power.
It simply rested in Leon's hand, beautiful and motionless, as if waiting for him to point it toward the being he intended to kill.
Now which being Leon intended to kill?
Abaddon, The Ghost of the Battlefield.
Across the countless ages of Terra's history, scattered records and whispered legends have spoken of the same nightmare.
A bloodthirsty demon appearing on battlefields.
The details changed from era to era, distorted by time, fear, and the unreliable memories of survivors, but certain elements remained constant. First came the blood-red fog, rolling across the battlefield in suffocating waves. Then came the crimson clouds, spreading overhead until they blotted out the sky and plunged the world beneath them into an oppressive scarlet twilight.
After that came the screams.
Warriors cried out as they were culled beneath the gaze of the Angel of Death. Their bodies were left behind as hollow husks, every organ and shred of vitality drained from within them. The ground became slick with blood, while a satanic laugh thundered across the battlefield, drowning out the clash of weapons, the cries of the wounded, and the final prayers of the dying.
Survivors spoke of a behemoth that defied human understanding. It did not distinguish between kings and soldiers, heroes and commoners, or champions and cowards. It slaughtered the strong without hesitation and showed mercy only to the weak.
But even that mercy was cruel.
Abaddon called those who survived his slaughter "failures." He allowed them to live so they could carry his name into the world. They became unwilling heralds, spreading stories of his arrival from kingdom to kingdom and ensuring that his infamy would outlive the battlefield where they had encountered him.
With every passing generation, the records changed.
Witness accounts were translated, embellished, corrupted, and twisted until the demon was no longer remembered as a mere monster. Abaddon became something far greater in the minds of mortals.
A god of war.
An Angel of Conflict who descended upon fields drenched in blood and watched the champions of each age prove themselves. According to the oldest surviving accounts, Abaddon did not appear merely to indulge in slaughter. He came to judge the warriors of the era, searching for someone worthy of becoming his Apostle.
Those he deemed worthy received a mark.
The brand was said to be burned permanently into the chosen warrior's flesh, an inescapable symbol of Abaddon's recognition. No one knew what power it granted, what purpose it served, or what price accompanied it. Every attempt to study the mark had ended in failure, madness, or death.
Even so, the brand became one of the most feared signs in history.
With every passing generation, the records changed.
Witness accounts were translated, embellished, corrupted, and twisted until the demon was no longer remembered as a mere monster. Abaddon became something far greater in the minds of mortals.
A god of war.
An Angel of Conflict who descended upon fields drenched in blood and watched the champions of each age prove themselves. According to the oldest surviving accounts, Abaddon did not appear merely to indulge in slaughter. He came to judge the warriors of the era, searching for someone worthy of becoming his Apostle.
Those he deemed worthy received a mark.
The brand was said to be burned permanently into the chosen warrior's flesh, an inescapable symbol of Abaddon's recognition. No one knew what power it granted, what purpose it served, or what price accompanied it. Every attempt to study the mark had ended in failure, madness, or death.
Even so, the brand became one of the most feared signs in history.
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