Leonard stared at himself in the bathroom mirror.

  His battered silver armor lay discarded on the floor, stained with dirt, blood, and the weight of countless battles. His breathing was heavy, steady, as his gaze drifted across his own reflection—across the scars etched deep into his muscles, his abdomen. Each one a story. Each one a reminder.

  But the worst of them all was the jagged scar slashing across his left eye.

  "Are you done yet?!" Dantalian’s impatient voice rang from outside the bathroom.

  Leonard turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run over his hands before splashing it onto his face. He lingered for a moment, exhaling as the chill seeped into his skin. Then, without a word, he stepped out of the bathroom.

  He barely glanced at Dantalian before tossing him an order.

  "Wash my armor."

  The prince stiffened, his fists clenching at the demand. But without protest, he stalked past Leonard into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Leonard ignored him.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he grabbed a towel and wiped his face. The fabric was rough against his skin, but he didn’t care. It had been only a few minutes since they checked in, yet the brief moment of stillness was enough for him to loosen his grip on his mana.

  And finally, breathe

  He exhaled slowly, his body sinking onto the mattress. Lying on his back, he stared at the cobblestone ceiling, his thoughts drifting.

  Back to the Summoner's Guild.

  Back to the past.

  How much longer must I keep walking?

  The thought lingered as exhaustion pulled at him. With a final deep breath, he closed his eyes, surrendering to the sleep he had been avoiding for far too long.

  When Leonard opened his eyes, there was only darkness.

  And within that abyss, he was not alone.

  Hundreds of monsters surrounded him, their looming forms casting shifting shadows. He knew each and every one of them intimately.

  Skoll and Hati, the twin wolves—one cloaked in night, the other bathed in light.

  Zeke, the crimson hellhorse with four powerful legs and two devilish horns.

  Cheshire, the monstrous white feline with black stripes, its body wreathed in a thick, miasmic aura.

  And countless more. Beasts and horrors, each bearing a name, a past.

  Each one a memory of someone he once knew.

  Their names. Their weapons. Their favorite things.

  That was how he remembered them. That was how he kept them from fading.

  Leonard fell to his knees.

  "I'm sorry..."

  His voice was barely more than a whisper, hoarse and fragile. His head remained bowed, unable to meet their eyes—not that they had any left.

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  He couldn’t bear it.

  Because he knew the truth.

  These creatures, these abominations... they were his allies. Their souls bound to him, forced to serve even in death.

  This was the burden of humanity's greatest Soul Summoner, Leonard Ashelvath the Soul King.

  A master of summoning. A wielder of Soul Summoning, the forbidden art that allowed a mage to call upon the souls of the dead—imprisoning them within vessels of his own making.

  And for that sin, he could never atone.

  Dantalian emerged from the bathroom, looking utterly exhausted. With little effort, he tossed Leonard’s armor onto the floor beside him.

  "You're the worst teacher ever," he muttered before collapsing face-first onto the bed.

  Leonard didn't react. He simply stood, methodically fastening the pieces of his armor back onto his body. Once fully equipped, he reached for his tattered cloak, draping it over himself before pulling the hood up. Lastly, he grabbed his skull-faced mask and secured it over his mouth.

  "Where are you going?" Dantalian’s muffled voice came from the bed.

  Leonard paused by the door. "There's a new dungeon nearby... can't you feel it?"

  Dantalian groaned, shifting slightly. "So that’s what that disgusting, cold presence was earlier. Well, have fun."

  And with that, he was out cold.

  Leonard said nothing as he stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

  Dantalian's eyes fluttered open, greeted by darkness.

  For a brief moment, he remained still, his mind hazy. Then, as he shifted, the familiar sight of the cobbled ceiling came into focus, replacing the abyss of sleep.

  With a thoughtful hum, he brought a finger to his chin. Could I use Soul Summoning magic too?

  The idea lingered for a second before he exhaled sharply. "Definitely not. Too dangerous. And it’s forbidden." A pause. "Mother would have my head if she ever caught me trying it."

  He sat up, his gaze falling on the sheathed shortsword resting on the small circular table beside the bed. Its scabbard was pristine white, adorned with intricate rota insignias, while the hilt—shaped like a lion—gleamed faintly in the dim light.

  "So dramatic," he muttered, a wry smile forming. "The problems of a noble prince."

  With that, he flopped back onto the bed, letting sleep reclaim him.

  As Leonard walked down the road, he could hear the murmurs of passing civilians, their hushed voices laced with unease. They spoke of the recent attacks on the Kirivalan camps scattered throughout the area.

  A lone figure had been razing the camps, cutting down soldiers with nothing but a wooden sword. Not a single one had survived.

  What unsettled the people the most wasn’t just the sheer brutality—it was the eerie lullaby the figure would hum while carrying out the slaughter. A children’s song, one sung by mothers to lull their young to sleep.

  Ironically, it was titled Sleep Forever.

  Because of this, the killer had been dubbed The Kirivalan Reaper.

  For over two weeks, the attacks had persisted, yet the remnants of the Kirivalan army could do nothing. Their forces were already stretched thin, struggling against the dungeon in the Kirivalan Hills—a dungeon that had either defiled the land beyond recognition or become the hills itself.

  Leonard approached a guard stationed at the entrance of the city’s capital.

  "Tell your duke that a dungeon has appeared in the sewers," he said, his voice hoarse, his expression unreadable.

  The guard blinked in surprise, processing the ominous news, but before he could respond, the guard beside him scoffed.

  "And who exactly are you supposed to be?"

  Leonard shifted his gaze to the second guard, his tone flat.

  "Leonard Ashelvath. Is that enough?"

  And what followed was just silence.

  The weight of his name was all it took. The first guard stiffened before hurriedly rushing toward the capital building. The remaining guard swallowed hard, his grip on his spear trembling as beads of sweat trickled down his face.

  Moments later, the heavy doors to the capital swung open. A man stepped out—tall and composed, his slicked-back hair pristine, dressed in a finely tailored blue suit. Strapped to his left waist were two katanas, their hilts polished to perfection.

  He approached Leonard with measured steps before offering a respectful bow.

  "I am Edmond Morrison, Duke Igor Valentino's right hand. You have been granted access to the sewers, but on one condition—you must also deal with the dungeon in the Kirivalan Hills." His voice was calm, unwavering.

  Then, stepping closer, he leaned in, his breath just above a whisper.

  "And while you're at it, you’ll take care of the Kirivalan Reaper."

  Leonard didn't respond. He simply turned and walked toward the sewers without hesitation.

  Edmond straightened, his gaze sharp as he issued a quiet command.

  "Guard, watch over the duke. I will follow that man."

  And with that, he vanished into thin air.

  The sewers reeked of filth—rot, piss, and decay. Ever since the medical camps had filled to capacity and the morgues overflowed, the doctors of Kirivala had resorted to disposing of corpses here. Whether it was legal or not no longer mattered.

  Yet, as vile as this place was, it was still preferable to the slums. There, criminals, corrupt knights, and the desperate fought over what little life had to offer. But in the sewers, there was no such competition.

  No one lived here by choice. And yet, some had no choice at all. They built their shelters from whatever they could find—even the corpses of the long dead, their flesh rotted beyond recognition.

  Taking a left turn, Leonard moved without hesitation, only to sidestep at the last moment as a man lunged at him with a broken dagger.

  The attacker was draped in tattered rags, his skin marred with scars and disease. He trembled, yet still aimed the jagged weapon at Leonard with what little strength he had left.

  "Gimme all ya stuff!" the man rasped, his voice dry and weak.

  Leonard didn't stop walking. He barely even glanced at him.

  The man lunged again.

  Thud!

  His body collapsed, his severed head rolling into the murky sewer water. Leonard had drawn and swung his saber in a single, effortless motion, so fast that the man never even saw it coming.

  He stepped over the corpse without a second thought.

  More figures lurked in the shadows—men, women, children—all watching him. Some begged, others threatened, their voices hoarse with desperation. But none of it mattered.

  Leonard kept walking, his expression cold and unreadable. His mind was fixed on one thing.

  The dungeon.

  Silently trailing from the shadows, Dantalian pressed a white handkerchief with blue polka dots against his mouth and nose, trying in vain to block out the stench.

  His face twisted in pure disgust as a single thought echoed in his mind.

  "Why, out of all places, does this idiot have to be in the damn sewers?"

  Suppressing the urge to gag, he quickened his pace, following Leonard as he ventured deeper into the filth-ridden tunnels.