Light pierced Leon's eyes, but he was no longer Kiera. He was Leon, a child reborn in a strange, unfamiliar world. His small, fragile body trembled beneath a coarse blanket, the air warm with the scent of milk and dry wood. His room, tucked on the second floor of a wooden house, was simple yet comforting, its brown plank walls creaking softly. A glass window framed a view of a wildflower garden, vibrant with color, stretching toward a dense forest that sprawled like an emerald sea. His sharp, infantile cries filled the room, echoing his confusion and newness.
Rola entered, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders, her eyes brimming with tenderness. "Leon, my sweet," she murmured, her voice soft but tinged with worry. She lifted him with warm, gentle hands, cradling him against her chest. Crost followed, a broad man with a thick beard, his eyes gleaming with a mix of joy and unease. "Our little one's finally here," he said, his deep voice resonating through the wooden walls. He touched Leon's head cautiously, as if afraid his strength might break the fragile child. Leon wailed, his mind a fog, unaware that he was once Kiera Sol, the feared leader of Korea's "Black Dragon" gang, a man whose name struck terror in the underworld.
Three years passed in quiet rhythm. Leon grew in the wooden house, its first floor filled with simple furniture—worn chairs, a sturdy table, and a hearth that glowed with warmth. His second-floor room became his sanctuary, the window offering glimpses of the garden where he sometimes played, the distant forest watching like a silent guardian. Rola sang him lullabies, her voice a soothing balm, while Crost hoisted him onto his shoulders, pointing out the towering trees. The village was small, its scattered cottages nestled around the garden, their inhabitants offering Leon warm smiles that hid unspoken secrets. Kiera's memories lay buried deep in Leon's mind, locked away, leaving him blissfully ignorant of his past life.
On a sunlit morning, Leon attempted his first steps on the cool wooden floor of the first floor. Rola sat by the fireplace, her eyes bright with anticipation, watching his every move. Crost stood at the door, his broad frame filling the space, a grin spreading across his face. "Come on, little man," he urged, his voice warm and encouraging. Leon reached out, his tiny feet hesitant on the creaking planks. He took a wobbly step, then another. Suddenly, his head spun, his mind flooded with a torrent of images: a family, the desolate "Futra" orphanage, faces—Rol, Mira, Balima—betrayal, blood, and fire consuming everything. Kiera's memories surged like a raging river: treachery, destruction, grief, and burning rage.
Leon's face paled, his eyes widening as his small heart pounded. Drowning in the weight of those painful memories, he staggered, then collapsed onto the wooden floor, his fragile body crumpling. Rola screamed, rushing to his side, dropping to her knees. "Leon!" she cried, her voice trembling with panic. Crost lunged forward, his large hand gently cradling Leon's head. "Wake up, little one!" he pleaded, his eyes filled with dread.
In the darkness of unconsciousness, a strange dream enveloped Leon's mind. Muffled voices crept in like a cold wind. Rola and Crost stood beside him, the flicker of candlelight dancing on the wooden walls. A third figure loomed, his face shrouded in shadow. "Not this child, too," Rola whispered, her voice breaking with sorrow. Crost shook his head, his hand resting on her shoulder. "We have to keep going," the stranger said, his tone sharp and unyielding. He drew something from his cloak—a blade pulsing with an eerie energy—and struck Leon in precise, calculated spots. Leon tried to scream, to demand, "What are you doing?" but his body was frozen, his mind trapped in a fog. Rola's sobs echoed, raw and heart-wrenching, as the voices faded and darkness swallowed him whole.
The village outside stirred with life, unaware of the turmoil within the wooden house. Children laughed in the garden, their voices mingling with the rustle of leaves, while the forest beyond stood silent, its shadows hiding secrets older than the village itself. Leon's collapse was more than a child's faint; it was a crack in the veil between his two lives, a moment where Kiera's past clawed its way into his present. Rola and Crost, though loving, carried their own burdens, their glances toward the forest hinting at fears they dared not speak. The stranger's presence lingered in Leon's dream, his blade not merely a weapon but a key to something deeper, something tied to the world Leon now inhabited.
As Leon lay unconscious, the wooden house seemed to hold its breath. The creaking planks, the flickering hearth, the wildflowers swaying outside—all bore witness to a child caught between two worlds. His small chest rose and fell, fragile yet resilient, as if fighting to reconcile the man he once was with the boy he had become. The garden outside bloomed with deceptive peace, but the forest loomed, its depths whispering of trials yet to come. Rola clutched Leon tightly, her tears falling onto his pale face, while Crost stood guard, his eyes scanning the room as if expecting an unseen threat. The stranger's words echoed in the silence: "We have to keep going." But to what end?
Leon's mind drifted deeper into the dream, fragments of Kiera's life weaving with glimpses of this new world. He saw flashes of a marketplace bustling with villagers, their cloaks adorned with strange symbols, and a distant castle shimmering under a sky streaked with unnatural hues. The blade's energy pulsed in his memory, not pain but a spark, as if awakening something dormant within him. Was it a curse, a blessing, or something else entirely? The voices grew fainter, but Rola's sobs anchored him, pulling him back from the abyss. The wooden house, with its warm scents and familiar creaks, was his tether to this life, yet the shadows of Kiera's past refused to let go.