THE KINGDOM OF WOLVES - PART 3: A True Champion

A champion has no bounds. A champion has no fear. A champion wants nothing but victory. And so it was for Leon.

The Colosseum was alive as never before. With the crowd roaring “Death!”, their champion cut down five opponents, one after another—a sword in one hand, a dagger in the other. They all fell before him.

For over a decade, Leon had held the title of the finest swordsman in the Kingdom of Wolves. But his ideal set him apart from any warrior who had ever lifted a blade. Blessed by the Gods and unmatched in skill, he had no equal.

Yet he had sworn an oath: never again to take a life.

For that oath, the wealthy called him a warrior fallen from grace. They watched only in hope of his defeat.

But the beggars, the farmers, the unseen—saw a hero. As did the emperor himself.

Even as the shadows of Leon’s past clung to him with every breath.

Eight years before, Leon and twenty guards had been escorting members of the Gewels family when a hundred Red Ruin warriors ambushed them. Half a day from the kingdom’s walls, Leon ordered a messenger to ride for help while the rest held the enemy in a narrow cave.

By the time reinforcements arrived, Leon was on his knees, soaked in blood, despair carved into his face.

The Gewels were unharmed.

Every Red Ruin soldier lay dead.

That day earned Leon the title of hero. It also burdened him with ghosts.

His only family—a younger sister, known for her oddly spiced pastries, never watched him fight. She knew his oath. She feared not just his death, but the day his love for battle might finally break the man she remembered.

And yet, he could not lay down his blades.

Each victory was more than a fight; it was a raging war within his own heart, a search for direction he could not yet name.

Every three years came the Champion’s Games.

Seven kingdoms. Seven warriors each. Trials of mortal ordeal.

With the Games only a month away, the Kingdom of Wolves began its selection. From a thousand soldiers, only seven would be chosen by the emperor—the elite, each with a legend already written in blood and glory.

Leon wanted no prize. No fame. Only the challenge.

He had refused all previous invitations.

But this time, he would enter. His blade would become his compass. Though his purpose remained shrouded, he had begun to accept a hard truth: perhaps he was not a man with a weapon, but a weapon in the hands of the Gods.

Everyone knew Leon would be the emperor’s first choice.

On the day of the announcement, he was summoned to the palace.

When Leon arrived, the emperor dismissed the guards.

He had watched Leon since he was a boy—this warrior they said was touched by the divine. Leaning forward, his tone shifted from regal to personal.

“Does that day still haunt you?” the emperor asked.

Leon did not flinch, but his silence was answer enough.

“And if so… why join the Games now? You know death waits in every trial.”

“I fight to understand why I was spared,” Leon said, his voice low. “And to see if a blade can be more than a tool for killing.”

The emperor studied him, then sighed softly.

“When I was young,” he began, “my father spoke of you. ‘The weapon of the Gods,’ he called you. He believed that as long as you drew breath, this kingdom was safe.”

He paused, his gaze distant. “My sister told me of the ambush. She said you slew ninety Red Ruin warriors alone. She called it a miracle—said you fought like something more than a man.”

That memory hung between them—a moment of slaughter turned legend.

When Leon left the palace, he went straight to the Colosseum.

Alone in the empty arena, he looked up at a starless sky. Memories swarmed him: the smell of blood in the cave, the weight of his oath, the silence after killing.

The air grew cold.

Will the Games bring me more than glory? He wondered. Or will they finally show me what I am?

From the shadows of the night, a figure emerged.

Clad in foreign armor, a scar cutting across one eye, he moved without sound. In his hands gleamed a blade and an ax.

Leon’s stance shifted instinctively—not into battle, but into watchfulness. He did not recognize the armor, but he knew intent when he saw it.

And then the rain began, a sudden downpour in the dead of night.