Chapter 6: Leon
The air in the dimly lit hall felt heavy, almost choking. Flickering torches threw uneven shadows on the cold stone walls, making the place feel alive in the worst way. It smelled damp, with a faint burnt odor lingering, a reminder of some past calamity. Five men stood in a half-circle, their heads low, their breathing shallow. This wasn’t just a hall—it felt like a tomb, a place where silence hung thick and threatening, daring anyone to disturb it.
“You failed.”
The words cut through the silence like a blade. The voice was deep and commanding, sharp as thunder, the kind that made arguments shrivel before they could form.
One of the men, a scar running down his cheek, hesitated before stepping forward. His voice quivered when he spoke.
“My lord,” he began, “they used a transportation scroll—”
“Spare me your excuses,”
the voice interrupted, sharp and cold.
“You come back to me with nothing?”
The shadows in the hall seemed to quiver as the words echoed, pressing closer to the group.
The scarred man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his voice cracking.
“We underestimated… the butler. He was more skilled than—”
“Skilled?” The word dripped with disdain, heavy and bitter.
“A mere servant outsmarted you? Do you understand what your failure has cost me? What it could destroy? My name, my plans—you’ve tarnished it all. And you think you deserve another chance?”
The man fell to his knees, trembling.
“My lord, I beg you, we can still—”
“Enough.”
The single word cracked through the air like a whip. The torches flared violently, their light stretching and twisting the shadows into jagged shapes.
“Do you think I tolerate failure?”
The voice dropped lower, a soft, venomous hiss. “Let this be your lesson.”
The scarred man screamed as dark energy erupted around him, tendrils of shadow coiling and twisting until they engulfed him completely. The air grew icy, the kind of cold that seeped into the soul. The others watched, frozen in terror, as the man’s form dissolved into ash, leaving nothing but a faint, dark outline on the stone floor.
Silence returned, broken only by the unsteady breaths of the remaining men. The weight of the room felt even heavier now, crushing and merciless.
“Does anyone else wish to fail me?” the voice asked, low and seething with malice.
“Or will you do as I command?”
“Yes, my lord,” they answered, their voices weak and trembling with fear.
“Good.” The voice was colder now, more dangerous.
“Find the newborn. Bring it to me. And this time, there shall be no mistake.”
Without another word, the men scattered, their hurried footsteps echoing down the stone corridors until the hall was silent once more.
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From the moment he awoke each morning, Leon took it upon himself to contribute to the household. Though young, his actions were driven by a discipline far beyond his years. While Mrs. Grewe prepared breakfast, Leon would sweep the dusty floors with a broom nearly as tall as himself. He carried buckets of water from the nearby well, his small frame straining under the weight but never faltering.
Old Man Grewe often chuckled at the sight. “You’re a hard worker, lad. Reminds me of my younger days.”
Leon would only nod, too focused on his task to reply. Despite his age, he seemed to understand the value of hard work. He wanted to repay the kindness the Grewes had shown, but more than that, he wanted to grow stronger—to be someone worthy of protecting Jul.
When chores were done, Leon would slip into the small clearing behind the house. There, amidst the tall grass and scattered stones, he trained. With a stick he had fashioned into a makeshift sword, he mimicked the movements of knights he had once seen or fleeting memories. Each swing, each lunge, was deliberate, practiced. The boy’s determination burned brighter than the midday sun.
“One day,” Leon whispered to himself, “I’ll be strong enough to face anything, to protect him.”
Though his movements were unrefined and his body often ached from the exertion, Leon refused to stop. He practiced until his small hands were blistered and his legs trembled beneath him. He knew that strength was not given but earned, and he was willing to pay the price.
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Leon’s days were not solely consumed by chores and training. Much of his time was spent by Jul’s side. The infant rarely cried, rarely fussed, but Leon sensed there was something extraordinary about him. Jul’s quiet demeanor and steady breathing gave an air of serenity that was almost unnatural. It wasn’t just that he was calm; it was as if the infant held a presence far beyond his age, a silent power resting just beneath the surface. Leon often found himself drawn to Jul, watching over him with a mixture of curiosity and awe.
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“He’s no ordinary child,” Leon thought one day as he gently rocked the cradle. "There’s something about him—something important. My duty is to protect him, no matter what."
While Mrs. Grewe tended to Jul, Leon would watch closely, his bright eyes scanning for any sign of discomfort. When the old couple were busy, he took on the role of caretaker with surprising competence. He would gently rock Jul’s cradle, humming tunes he barely remembered from his past. At night, he kept watch, ensuring the infant was warm and safe.
“You’re different, aren’t you, my lord?” Leon whispered one evening as he stared at Jul. The baby’s skin seemed to glow faintly in the dim light, and his breathing was impossibly steady. “I must protect you. It’s my duty as your knight,” he said, a faint smile crossing his face as he vowed silently to uphold his duty.
He didn’t expect an answer, but somehow, Jul’s calm presence felt like reassurance. It was as if the infant, despite his silence, understood.
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Both Old Man Grewe and his wife had taken note of Leon’s unusual maturity.
“The boy works harder than most grown men I know,” Grewe remarked one evening as he sat by the hearth, a pipe in hand.
Mrs. Grewe nodded. “He’s got a good heart. And the way he looks after the baby... It’s like he’s already a big brother.”
“More than that,” Old Grewe said thoughtfully. “There’s something driving him. Something deep. You can see it in his eyes.”
Their conversations often circled back to the two mysterious children who had come into their lives so suddenly. While Jul’s otherworldly aura raised questions, Leon’s unrelenting resolve left them in quiet admiration.
"Think you should teach him some of your skills, old man?" Mrs. Grewe asked with a sly smile.
Old Man Grewe chuckled, "If the lad can keep up, maybe I will."
With that, he hefted his axe, and a radiant golden light began to pulse from the blade. The energy seemed to hum in the air, resonating with an unseen force. With a powerful stomp, the ground trembled slightly, sending a pile of logs bouncing upward. In a single fluid motion, he swung the glowing axe, releasing shimmering golden air slashes that sliced cleanly through the wood. Each log fell into perfectly cut chunks, ready for the fire stove.
"Efficient, isn’t it?"
He said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he rested the axe against his shoulder. Mrs. Grewe rolled her eyes, but there was a glimmer of admiration in her gaze.
Suddenly, Mrs. Grewe paused in her work, a thoughtful expression crossing her face.
“About the little one,” she began, her tone tinged with curiosity and caution.
Old Man Grewe looked up from his chair, raising an eyebrow. “What about him?” he asked, his voice gruff but intrigued.
Mrs. Grewe hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I used my skill to observe him more closely,” she said, her voice quieter now. “His breathing... it’s not normal. There’s an energy flow surrounding him, moving in and out with every breath. It’s subtle but unmistakable.”
Old Man Grewe’s brow furrowed, and he leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. “Energy flow, you say? Like the kind mages harness in their secret practices?”
She nodded, her eyes lingering on the cradle where Jul lay, serene and quiet. “It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. It’s as if he’s naturally drawing energy from the surroundings without any effort at all. Even in his sleep, the flow continues, steady and unbroken. It’s almost... otherworldly.”
Old Man Grewe’s brow furrowed as he let out a low whistle. “Even I needed decades of practice to control my mana flow just through breathing. If he’s doing it naturally... well, that changes everything.”
For a moment, silence settled between them, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearth. Old Man Grewe finally spoke, his voice low and thoughtful. “If that’s true, then the boy’s no ordinary child. There’s something special about him—something we’ll need to watch closely.”
"And... we have to keep him out of sight of those hypocrites," Old Grewe said firmly, his voice heavy with a mix of caution and resolve. He glanced out the window, his eyes narrowing as if scanning the horizon for unseen threats.
"The Church and the royal court," he continued, his tone sharpening, "they’re always searching for children with rare talents, those they call ‘gifted seeds.’ They take them away, mold them into weapons, pawns for their games of power. This little one... they’d never leave him alone if they knew what he was capable of."
Mrs. Grewe’s face darkened, a rare display of anger crossing her normally kind features. "It’s not just the boy they’d take," she said quietly. "They’d tear apart anyone who tries to protect him."
Old Grewe nodded solemnly. "We’ll protect him, no matter what. But we have to be careful. Keep him hidden, keep him safe. The world out there is ruthless, and if they find him... well, I shudder to think what they’d do."
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Months had passed, and Leon’s progress was subtle but meaningful, reflecting the tireless efforts of a determined child. His small frame, while still lacking the strength of maturity, now carried itself with a newfound sense of purpose. His posture was straighter, his grip steadier, and there was an unmistakable spark of resolve in his eyes. The blisters on his hands from training and chores had begun to harden into calluses—a visible testament to his growing resilience and grit.
Leon’s improvement wasn’t quick, but it was steady and deliberate. During his mock training sessions, he showed a knack for adaptation. He adjusted his footing, experimented with different angles of attack, and learned from every mistake. His movements, while still clumsy, began to show traces of thought and strategy. His stick, crude as it was, became a symbol of his unyielding dedication.
One afternoon, Old Man Grewe stood watching from the doorway, his pipe in hand, as Leon swung and lunged with his makeshift weapon. The boy’s determination brought a rare smile to the old man’s weathered face.
“Hold your stick like this,” Grewe said, walking over and adjusting Leon’s grip. His calloused hands guided the boy’s small fingers into place. “And don’t waste your energy overextending. Balance is everything.”
Leon nodded, his wide eyes fixed on Grewe with unshakable focus. He mimicked the old man’s movements, though his execution remained rough. Every mistake led to another attempt, and every attempt brought a tiny improvement.
By the end of their session, Grewe chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’ve got spirit, lad. Keep at it, and you might just make something of yourself one day.”
Leon felt a flicker of pride, but it was quickly overshadowed by a deeper resolve. His thoughts turned to Jul, the infant he had sworn to protect. He gripped his stick tighter, silently promising, “I’ll get stronger. For him. For us both.”
Nearby, under the shade of an apple tree, Jul sat quietly, his infant form strangely serene. Though his eyes were closed, his small body seemed to radiate an inexplicable calm, as though even in his silence, he was meditating on something far beyond the understanding of a child. Leon glanced at him briefly and felt a renewed determination swell within him. This wasn’t just about strength—it was about ensuring Jul’s safety in a world that felt far too dangerous for someone so small.