The ticking of the old wall clock was the only sound in Leon's small, dimly lit room. The blinds were drawn shut, keeping out the sun as though the world outside had no place in his life. Dust had settled on the desk where empty bottles and half-read novels lay scattered, silent witnesses to countless nights of escape.
Leon sat hunched in his chair, his thin arms resting limply on the keyboard of his computer. The glow of the screen reflected in his tired, sunken eyes. On the screen, colorful warriors fought demons with blazing swords, their courage and strength a stark contrast to his own wasted body.
He leaned back and sighed, a hollow sound that echoed in the silence. His legs throbbed faintly—reminders of the disability he had carried since birth. For as long as he could remember, he had been broken. His parents had abandoned him, unable—or unwilling—to deal with the burden he represented.
"Pathetic…" he muttered under his breath, though whether it was directed at himself or the unfairness of life, he couldn't tell.
The only warmth he had ever known came from his grandmother. She had raised him, cared for him, shielded him from the cruelty of the world. She was the reason he had made it this far. But death is merciless, and it had taken her too. Since then, Leon's world had become a cage.
Loneliness clung to him like a second skin.
He closed the game and reached for one of the novels on his desk. Fantasy. Always fantasy. The only places where he felt alive. In those worlds, people like him didn't exist. There were only warriors, sorcerers, chosen ones. Heroes who shaped their own destinies.
"If only I could live in a world like that," Leon whispered. His voice cracked, as if the weight of the wish itself was crushing him. "Maybe… I wouldn't be such a failure."
That night, something unusual happened.
When Leon woke the next morning, he found a book lying at his doorstep. No delivery package, no note, nothing. Just a heavy, leather-bound tome with an ancient, cracked spine. He frowned, dragging it inside.
The title was scrawled in bold, dark letters that seemed almost alive:
"The Cursed Prince: Ryo Asskar."
Leon's fingers brushed the cover, and a strange chill ran down his arm. He hesitated, but curiosity gnawed at him. He opened the book, and the scent of old paper and ink wafted into his nose, mixed faintly with something metallic—like blood.
The first page introduced a tale of despair. A vast empire called Salmara, ruled by power and magic. A prince born into royalty but cursed since birth. His name: Ryo Asskar.
Leon's chest tightened as he read further.
The boy in the story was mocked by his people, hated by his family, and cursed with a sickness that drained his strength every time he tried to use Mana. They called him the "Curse Dog." His life was rejection, pain, and ridicule.
"This…" Leon whispered, his eyes trembling. "…This is just like me."
The words cut too deep. He saw himself in the lines of every sentence. His body weak. His parents gone. His loneliness. The curse may have been different, but the suffering was the same.
He turned page after page, almost desperately now, as though searching for a kindred soul. But the deeper he went, the heavier the story became. The book spoke of despair, of betrayal, of a tragic fate awaiting Ryo Asskar. A fate that ended in destruction.
Leon swallowed hard. He remembered this name, this story. He had read about it once before, in fragments, but he had never finished it. He only knew that the prince's destiny was to bring ruin to the Salmara Empire. How it happened, he didn't know.
Yet the hopelessness within those pages mirrored his own reality too perfectly.
"Ryo… I get it," he whispered, brushing a trembling hand over the words. "I understand you."
And then it happened.
The letters on the page began to glow, faint at first, then brighter. The ink twisted and reshaped itself, the symbols dancing before his eyes. Leon stumbled back, but the book clung to his hands as though glued to his skin.
"What the—?!"
Light burst from the pages, engulfing the room. His computer screen shattered, his desk rattled, and the air grew unbearably hot. Leon screamed, his voice drowned by the deafening hum of magic.
Thud-thump. Thud-thump. His heartbeat roared in his ears. The floor vanished beneath him, and he felt weightless, suspended in a void of light and shadow.
"Wait—stop!" he shouted, but no one could hear him.
The world melted away.
The light consumed everything.
---
When Leon opened his eyes again, he was not in his room.
The ceiling stretched high above him, carved with gilded patterns that shimmered in torchlight. Pillars of marble rose on either side, lined with crimson banners that draped like rivers of blood. The air smelled of incense and iron—a mixture of prayer and war.
His body felt strange. Heavy. Wrong.
He looked down. His hands were pale, delicate, trembling. They were not his hands. His chest heaved with every shallow breath, his lungs burning as though they had been pierced with knives.
Leon staggered. "This… isn't… my room…"
And then the sound of footsteps echoed across the vast hall.
Dozens of eyes turned toward him. Nobles in lavish robes, knights in armor, servants holding trays. All of them looking at him with sneers, whispers, and disgust.
At the far end of the hall, upon a throne carved of black stone, sat a man with a crown heavy enough to crush lesser men. His eyes burned like fire, his presence suffocating.
King Deros.
Leon's breath caught in his throat. He knew that name. He knew this hall. He knew this cursed body.
He was no longer Leon.
He was Ryo Asskar.