Leon awoke alone on his bed in the second-floor room, shrouded in darkness. Moonlight slipped through the window overlooking the garden, where wildflowers swayed gently, and the forest stretched into an eerie depth. Sweat dampened his forehead, his small body trembling. He sat up, clutching the coarse blanket, the wooden walls creaking softly around him. His mind churned, Kiera's memories clashing with his new consciousness. "I really lived a wretched life," he thought, flashes of the "Futra" orphanage, Rol's mocking laugh, Susan's treacherous face, and the flames that consumed him searing his mind.
He gazed out the window. The garden lay still, but the forest watched, its shadows heavy with secrets. The world around him felt strange, almost unreal, as if drawn from the pages of a manhwa. Everything—the flowers, the wooden house, even his own hands—had a vivid, illustrated quality. A small, sharp laugh escaped his lips. "Rol's burning in hell now, but me… reborn in a manhwa?" he mused. "So there's an author scripting this story… I must be the hero." A wry smile tugged at his lips. "Me, Korea's most dangerous criminal, thinking like this?" He glanced at his tiny hands. "Fine. As long as I'm a kid now." He shook his head, chuckling at the absurdity.
The door creaked open, and Rola rushed in. "Crost! He's awake!" she called, her voice trembling with worry. Crost's heavy footsteps shook the wooden floor as he hurried in. They enveloped Leon in a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry we couldn't do more," Rola whispered, her eyes brimming with tears. Crost held him close, his large hand warm but heavy. "You'll live with us, little one," he said, his deep voice laced with sorrow. Their warmth enveloped Leon, yet their words carried a weight that unsettled him.
Leon wanted to ask, "What's happening? What do you mean?" but his mouth could only form childish sounds. In his mind, thoughts raced. "Is this life a chance to make up for my past?" he wondered, Kiera's memories stabbing at him. "It doesn't matter. I just want a family that loves me." Tears welled, spilling down his cheeks as he sobbed in their arms, his small body shaking. Yet Rola's voice from the dream echoed: "Not this child, too." Her eyes, though tender, hid a shadowed secret, as if burdened by something unsaid.
Outside, the garden rested quietly, the forest standing as a silent sentinel. Leon knew this world wasn't safe. Something waited—a hidden truth, like a bomb ticking toward its moment. He closed his eyes, clinging to Rola and Crost. But in his heart, Kiera's voice whispered, "Betrayal is always near." He thought of the manhwa, of the unseen author shaping his fate. "If I'm the hero," he murmured in his mind, "why do I feel like prey?"
Nine years passed like a gentle breeze through the village. Now twelve, Leon lived a simple life in the two-story wooden house. His second-floor room overlooked the wildflower garden, with the dense forest stretching to the horizon. The brown wooden walls creaked softly when the wind blew, and the glass window let in the morning breeze, carrying scents of grass and wood.
Leon clung to the hope of a happy life with his family. Rola, his mother, filled the house with the warmth of her soft lullabies. Crost, his father, a burly man with a thick beard, taught him the strength of will. Since age seven, Crost had trained Leon with a wooden sword in the garden. The blade danced in Leon's hands, his steps growing surer each day. "You're strong, my boy," Crost would say, his eyes gleaming with pride. Leon smiled, but he carried a secret: memories of Kiera Sol, leader of the "Black Dragon," haunted his dreams like lingering shadows.
On a sunny morning, Leon sat with Rola and Crost around the table. The scent of fresh bread filled the room, sunlight streaming through an open window. Rola placed a plate of fried eggs before Leon, smiling. "Eat well, Leo," she said, her voice gentle. Crost sipped his coffee, gazing at Leon with affection. "Sleep okay?" he asked, his voice deep and warm.
"Yes, Dad," Leon replied, grabbing a piece of bread. "Food with family instead of instant meals—what a joke," he thought, a flicker of Kiera's cynicism surfacing. The warmth of family, something Kiera never knew, washed over him. They laughed together when crumbs fell onto Leon's shirt. Rola wiped them off with a napkin, shaking her head playfully. "Always so messy," she teased. Leon grinned, his heart easing the weight of old memories.
Crost set down his mug, looking at Leon. "Today, you're helping me chop firewood for winter," he said confidently. "The hearth needs a good stock."
Rola froze, her eyes widening. "Chopping firewood?" she exclaimed, her voice rising. "Leon's too young for that! What if he hurts himself?"
Crost laughed, his voice filling the room. "Too young?" he said, gesturing to Leon. "This kid wields a wooden sword like a warrior! Firewood's no challenge." He winked at Leon, who smiled shyly.
Rola slapped the table lightly, her face a mix of mock anger and love. "You're stubborn, Crost!" she said. "Leon needs to play, not chop wood like a grown man!"
Leon laughed, warmed by their playful bickering. "Mom, I'm fine," he said confidently. "I want to help Dad."
Rola sighed but smiled. "Fine, but if you cut a single finger, Crost's sleeping in the garden!" she teased. Crost chuckled, raising his hands in surrender.
After breakfast, Leon and Crost stepped into the garden. The sun climbed higher, wildflowers swaying, the forest watching from afar. A pile of logs waited beside an old tree stump. Crost handed Leon a small axe, patting his shoulder. "Swing hard, but careful," he said.
Leon lifted the axe, striking the wood. Sweat beaded on his brow, but he felt a surge of strength. Crost chopped beside him, his movements swift and precise. They talked about swordplay, the village, and the coming winter. Suddenly, Leon noticed a boy approaching, his brown hair messy, eyes bright with curiosity. He wore a fine, soft shirt, looking about eleven, and carried a basket of fruit.
"Hey!" the boy called, drawing near. Crost paused, smiling at him. Leon lowered his axe, wiping his sweat. "I'm Blas Valmers, eleven," the boy said, grinning. "We moved into the house next door last night. My mom's Martha, my dad's Victor." He handed the basket to Crost. "Fruit for you guys."
Crost smiled, taking the basket. "Welcome, Blas. I'm Crost, and this is my son, Leon." He ruffled Leon's hair.
"Hi, Blas. I'm Leon, turning twelve soon. My mom's Rola," Leon said. "Bringing fruit to neighbors? In my old life, they'd borrow stuff and never return it," he thought wryly.
Blas looked at Leon, his eyes sparkling. "Then you gotta invite me to your birthday," he said confidently. Leon smiled. "Sure thing," he replied, his tone calm but intrigued.
"Let's be friends, then," Blas said, extending his hand with a grin. Leon shook it. "Why not?" he said, his voice steady.
Crost feigned a dramatic sigh. "Looks like you've got a friend now, Leon. Guess you don't need me anymore," he said, pouting. Blas blinked, confused.
"You always do this, Dad. People'll think you're crazy," Leon teased. Crost shot him a mock-glare. "Talking to your father like that?"
Blas stood awkwardly as they bantered. "Uh, I'll head back now. See you later!" he said. Leon apologized, "Sorry, Blas. My dad's always like this."
Blas laughed nervously. "No worries! Parents are weird. You haven't seen my dad after a glass of wine—he gets bizarre!" Leon and Blas shared a knowing look. "Yeah, I can imagine," Leon said.
Blas waved one last time before disappearing behind his house's fence, his footsteps fading into the garden. Leon stood beside Crost, his axe dangling, his eyes tracing the dense forest beyond the wildflowers. A cold breeze stirred, carrying a strange whisper from the trees. A faint prickling stirred in his chest, as if the dream—the energy-charged blade, Rola's anguished voice—had returned to haunt him. He shook his head, clinging to the hope of his new life with his family and new friend. But deep in his heart, he knew the forest hid secrets, and his quiet world might not last.