Spring arrives with melting snow and budding trees.
Leon stands in the doorway of his cottage, looking at the space that's been his home for seventeen years. The hearth where Garan taught him to cook. The workbench where they maintained tools together. The bed where the old man died.
He's packed light—one bag with clothes, basic supplies, and his grandfather's hunting knife. His bow and quiver are strapped to his back. Everything else he sold or traded to the village for coin.
It isn't much. But it's enough.
Leon closes the door and doesn't look back. The path forward is clear. Orario lies to the south, a journey of several weeks on foot. He can make it alone, but it'll be easier with a caravan.
The village square is busier than usual. Market day brings traders from neighboring settlements, and Leon moves through the crowd with quiet purpose. He sells his remaining pelts to a regular buyer, accepts the coins without haggling, and turns to leave.
"Damn shame about the northern route," a merchant says nearby.
Leon pauses.
"Bandits?" another merchant asks.
"Worse. Monsters. Three travelers killed last week. The Guild's sending adventurers, but until then, the roads are dangerous." The first merchant shakes his head. "Bad for business."
"What about the southern route?"
"Ragan's caravan is heading that way tomorrow. To Orario. But he's not taking passengers after what happened."
Leon approaches the two merchants. "Where can I find this Ragan?"
They look at him—the quiet hunter boy, barely eighteen, with old eyes and a calm that doesn't match his age.
"East end of the village. Big caravan, red canvas on the lead wagon. But I told you, he's not—"
"Thank you." Leon walks away before they can finish.
---
The caravan is exactly as described. Six wagons in total, loaded with goods and supplies. Men move between them, checking wheels, securing cargo, tending to horses. At the center of the activity stands a large man with a graying beard, barking orders with the confidence of someone used to being obeyed.
Leon watches for a moment, studying the operation. Disciplined. Efficient. The guards are experienced—he can tell by how they carry themselves, how they position their weapons. This is a professional outfit.
He approaches the bearded man. "Are you Ragan?"
The man turns, looks Leon up and down. "I am. You need something, boy?"
"I want to travel with your caravan to Orario. I can pay."
Ragan snorts. "I'm not taking passengers. Too dangerous right now."
"I heard. Monsters on the northern route."
"And bandits on the western. The southern route is safest, but that doesn't mean safe. I've got enough to worry about without protecting soft travelers." Ragan turns back to his work. "Find another way."
Leon doesn't move. "I'm not asking for protection. I can contribute."
"Contribute how? You're just a kid."
"I'm a hunter. I can provide fresh game for the journey. I know herbs and plants—I can improve your food, maybe help with minor injuries. And if there's trouble, I can fight."
Ragan stops and looks at Leon again, more carefully this time. The boy stands calm and straight, no bravado, no desperation. Just quiet confidence.
"You can really hunt?"
"Yes."
"And fight?"
"Yes."
The caravan master strokes his beard. "I've got hunters. I've got guards. Why should I take you?"
Leon meets his gaze steadily. "Because you're short on supplies after what happened. Because fresh meat is better than dried. Because an extra pair of eyes costs you nothing. And because I won't slow you down."
Ragan studies him for a long moment. There's something about this boy. Something old in those young eyes. The kind of look you see in veteran soldiers, not village hunters.
"What's your name?"
"Leon Fury."
"Fury, huh? Doesn't match your attitude." Ragan crosses his arms. "Alright, Leon Fury. You can come. But you pull your weight. Hunt, cook, help with camp. If you can't keep up or cause problems, I'll leave you behind. Understood?"
"Understood."
"We leave at dawn. Don't be late." Ragan turns back to his workers. "Tomas! Check the axle on wagon three!"
Leon nods and walks away. He got what he came for.
---
Dawn comes cold and clear.
The caravan assembles quickly, everyone knowing their role. Leon stands at the edge of the gathering, his pack ready, bow strung. A few guards glance at him with curiosity or skepticism, but no one speaks.
Ragan emerges from his wagon. "Listen up! It's three weeks to Orario if we don't hit trouble. Stay alert, stay together, and do your jobs. We move in an hour." He looks at Leon. "You. You're with Mira's wagon, third in line. Stay close and don't wander off."
"Yes, sir."
The journey begins with the sun rising behind them, casting long shadows across the road. The wagons move in a steady line, wheels creaking, horses plodding. Guards walk alongside, scanning the trees. Leon walks near the third wagon, silent and observant.
By midday, he slips away into the forest.
The guards notice. "Hey! Where's that kid going?"
"Probably running away already," one laughs.
But an hour later, Leon returns with two rabbits and a pheasant, already cleaned and ready to cook. He hands them to Mira, the cook who manages the third wagon's supplies.
She's a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and capable hands. She takes the game, examines it, and nods. "Clean kills. Good knife work. You actually know what you're doing."
"I grew up hunting."
"Most boys your age can barely hold a bow steady." She gestures to her workspace. "Can you cook, or just kill?"
"I can cook."
"Good. Help me with dinner tonight. If you're useful, Ragan might actually keep you around."
---
That evening, the caravan makes camp in a clearing beside the road. Fires are built, watches assigned, wagons circled for defense. Leon works with Mira, preparing the game he caught.
He moves with quiet efficiency—skinning, portioning, seasoning with wild herbs he gathered. The meat goes into a stew pot with vegetables from the wagon's stores. Within an hour, the smell of cooking fills the camp.
The guards and drivers gather to eat, and the complaints Leon heard earlier disappear after the first taste.
"This is actually good," one guard says, surprised.
"Better than good," another agrees. "Mira, where'd you find this kid?"
"I didn't. Ragan did." She looks at Leon, who's already cleaning the cooking tools. "He knows his work."
Ragan approaches, takes a bowl, and eats in silence. After a moment, he nods. "You earned your spot today. Keep this up, and we'll have no problems."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. We've got two more weeks on the road."
---
The days settle into routine.
Leon hunts each morning before the caravan moves, bringing back fresh game. He helps with cooking, with setting up camp, with breaking it down. He never complains, never asks for special treatment, never causes problems.
The guards slowly warm to him. They see how he moves through the forest—silent, efficient, aware. They see how he handles his bow—steady hands, smooth draw, arrows that rarely miss. They start asking questions.
"Where'd you learn to shoot like that?" a guard named Torven asks one evening.
"My grandfather taught me."
"He must've been something. You're better than half the hunters I've seen."
Leon says nothing, just continues sharpening his knife with smooth, practiced strokes.
Another guard, Kael, leans forward. "You're heading to Orario to become an adventurer?"
"Yes."
"You joining a Familia?"
"That's the plan."
"Which one?"
"I don't know yet. I'll decide when I get there."
Kael laughs. "You know it doesn't work like that, right? Familias choose you, not the other way around. Most gods are picky. Unless you've got some special talent, you'll be lucky to join anyone decent."
Leon looks up from his knife. "Then I'll show them I'm worth choosing."
Something in his tone makes Kael pause. The boy isn't boasting. Just stating a fact.
"You're a weird kid," Kael says finally. "But I like your confidence."
---
On the tenth day, trouble finds them.
It starts with an arrow.
The caravan is moving through a narrow section of road, forest pressing close on both sides. Leon is walking near the rear, his senses alert. Something feels wrong—the birds went quiet, and the air holds a tension he recognizes from his past life.
Combat is coming.
"Ambush!" a guard shouts.
Bandits pour from the trees, a dozen men with crude weapons and desperate eyes. The guards react quickly, forming a defensive line around the wagons. Steel rings against steel as the fighting begins.
Leon moves without thinking.
His bow is in his hands, arrow nocked, string drawn. The first bandit charging Mira's wagon takes an arrow through the shoulder and goes down screaming. The second takes one through the thigh. Both shots precise, disabling rather than killing.
"Leon!" Torven shouts. "Get behind the wagons!"
But Leon is already moving forward. A bandit swings a club at his head. Leon ducks under it, steps inside the man's guard, and drives his knife into the bandit's wrist. The club falls. Leon sweeps the man's legs and drops him face-first into the dirt.
Another bandit charges. Leon sidesteps, redirects the momentum with a palm to the shoulder, and sends him stumbling into a wagon wheel. A quick strike to the back of the head, and the man collapses.
Two more come at him together. Leon moves between them like water, deflecting one blade with his bow, trapping the other's weapon arm, and using leverage to throw both men into each other. They tangle and fall.
The entire exchange takes less than thirty seconds.
When Leon looks up, the ambush is over. The bandits are fleeing into the forest, leaving five of their number wounded or unconscious on the ground. The guards stand in shock, staring at the young hunter who just disabled four men with casual efficiency.
Ragan approaches slowly. "What in the gods' names was that?"
Leon lowers his bow. "Self-defense."
"Self-defense?" The caravan master gestures at the groaning bandits. "You moved like a Guild adventurer. Where did a village hunter learn to fight like that?"
"My grandfather taught me."
"Your grandfather was a monster."
Leon says nothing. He simply cleans his knife and puts it away.
Torven steps forward, eyes wide. "That was incredible. The way you moved—I've seen adventurers fight slower than that."
"We should go," Leon says quietly. "More might come."
Ragan studies him for a long moment, then nods. "He's right. Bind these bandits and leave them. We're moving now." He points at Leon. "You and I are talking tonight."
---
That evening, Ragan calls Leon to his wagon.
The caravan master sits with a cup of wine, looking tired. "Sit."
Leon sits.
"I've been running caravans for twenty years," Ragan says. "I've seen hunters, soldiers, adventurers, mercenaries. I know what skill looks like." He leans forward. "You're seventeen years old. No one fights like you did today after learning from a grandfather in a village. So tell me the truth—who are you?"
Leon meets his gaze calmly. "I'm exactly who I said I was. A hunter from Torren Village. My grandfather raised me, taught me to survive. I'm going to Orario to join a Familia."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
Ragan sighs. "You're keeping secrets. Fine. Everyone does." He takes a drink. "But I want you to know—you saved lives today. Mira's wagon was exposed, and those bandits would have killed her if you hadn't acted. So whatever secrets you're carrying, you've earned my respect."
"Thank you."
"When we get to Orario, if you need help finding a Familia, come find me. I know people. I can make introductions."
Leon nods. "I appreciate that."
Ragan waves him away. "Go. Get some rest. We've got another week on the road."
---
The remaining journey passes without incident.
Leon continues hunting, cooking, and helping with camp. The guards treat him differently now—with respect bordering on awe. Even Mira seems more comfortable around him, asking questions about herbs and cooking techniques.
Leon answers politely but never reveals more than necessary. His secrets are his own.
On the twenty-first day, they crest a hill, and there it is.
Orario.
The city sprawls across the valley, massive white walls encircling thousands of buildings. At the center, rising impossibly high, stands a white tower that pierces the clouds—Babel, built over the entrance to the Dungeon.
"There she is," Ragan says, pride in his voice. "The Labyrinth City. The Center of the World."
Leon stares at the sight. In his past life, he traveled to many cities, saw many wonders. But this is different. This is a place where gods and mortals live together. Where power beyond mortal limits is granted freely. Where the impossible becomes possible.
This is where his second journey will truly begin.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Mira says beside him.
"Yes," Leon says quietly. "It is."
The caravan descends toward the gates, and Leon feels something stir in his chest. Not excitement, not fear. Just calm anticipation.
He spent seventeen years preparing for this moment. Eighty years before that, he reached the peak of mortal achievement and found it insufficient.
Now, he'll see what lies beyond that peak.
The gates of Orario open before them, and Leon Fury steps forward into his new life.