The air was thinner than he remembered.
Leon stood at the edge of a ruined cliff, cloaked in worn black fabric, the wind tugging at the edges of his hood. Below him, the city sprawled in steel and light taller, louder, faster. Highways curved like veins across the land, and glowing airships floated lazily above towers that hadn't existed two decades ago.
The world had changed.
And not a single soul knew he had returned.
He took a step forward, boots crunching over gravel. His fingers twitched slightly, shadow threads dancing at his fingertips like restless serpents. He hadn't meant to summon them it was instinct now. A whisper of the power that had kept him alive in the dark.
Leon's eyes scanned the skyline until they locked onto a familiar peak in the distance: the Obsidian Spire, headquarters of the World Hunter Guild. Once, it had been his second home. Now, it loomed like a stranger.
"I wonder if they still remember," he muttered. "Or if I was buried quietly."
The wind answered with silence.
He had expected statues. Memorials. Something. But instead, there was nothing—no record, no honor, not even a grave. Just a forgotten name and a world too busy to notice the absence of its brightest star.
Betrayal stung less now. It had hardened into purpose.
With careful steps, he descended the hillside path into the outskirts of the city. The shadows around him shifted unnaturally—too alive, too sharp. He pulled them close, masking his presence as he slipped through alleys and crowds like a ghost. No one noticed him. No one recognized the eyes that once led raids against calamity-class dungeons.
Leon Ashbourne was dead to this world.