The world around him was silent, almost as if it were holding its breath. Smoke and ash filled the air, the ground was scarred and shattered, and the faint smell of burnt earth lingered. Leonhard stood there, still and unsteady, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.
It was over. The kidnappers who had torn his life apart lay scattered and broken, their evil snuffed out. Yet the victory felt hollow, empty, like a cruel joke. The adrenaline that had pushed him through the fight seeped out of him, leaving behind nothing but a crushing weight on his shoulders.
He swallowed hard, forcing his shaky legs to move as he approached his mother's body. His vision blurred with tears, but he couldn't wipe them away—his hands felt too heavy to lift. A faint breeze stirred her hair, as if the world itself didn't dare disturb her rest.
When he reached her, he knelt down, his knees scraping against the cracked earth. Slowly, almost as if afraid to hurt her, he slid his arms under her lifeless body and pulled her into his embrace. Her head rested against his chest, and he stared down at her face, waiting—just waiting—for her eyes to flutter open, for her lips to form that warm, reassuring smile.
But nothing happened.
His tears fell freely now, soaking her shoulder as he buried his face against her neck.
"Mom... please... wake up," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Please..."
A sob tore through him, raw and desperate, and he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping—no, praying—that she'd move, breathe, give him any sign that this nightmare wasn't real. But reality remained mercilessly still. His grief grew sharper, digging into his heart like a thousand blades. Anger followed, simmering beneath the pain.
His mother—his gentle, loving mother—had done nothing to deserve this. She had been kind to everyone, even strangers. She had always seen the good in others, had always believed that people could change. But those monsters had taken her from him—ripped her away without a second thought.
As his grief deepened, his hands trembled, clutching her body tighter. His heart felt like it was being crushed, his mind spinning with rage, sadness, and pure, unending despair. His magical powers, intertwined with his emotions, began to stir inside him, feeding off his breaking soul.
One thought drowned out all others, a single, bitter word repeating over and over:
"Destroy... destroy... destroy everything."
A sudden surge of energy erupted from him. His hair, once purple, turned white as snow, lengthening as it flowed around him. His eyes, usually so gentle, burned with a fierce, deep golden glow, even through his tears. A bright, white energy pulsed around him, growing stronger and wilder with each heartbeat.
The ground beneath him cracked and splintered, spreading outward like a spiderweb. Trees shattered into splinters, rocks crumbled to dust, and the very earth seemed to scream as waves of power tore through it. Villages on the horizon vanished in blinding light, mountains crumbled like sandcastles, and rivers boiled away. Nothing within a thousand kilometers survived the storm of his grief.
When the chaos finally stilled, Leonhard stood alone at the center of a massive crater, his hair flowing around him like a spectral veil. The realization struck him all at once—crushing him like a landslide. He looked down at his hands.
"No... no... no... nooooo... no..." he whispered, his voice barely audible.
He looked around, his eyes wide and haunted, struggling to grasp what he had done. The innocent lives that had been caught in his outburst, the homes wiped off the map, the lives lost because he couldn't control his power. His legs gave out, and he crumpled to his knees, a piercing scream ripping from his throat:
"AAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
His cries echoed for miles, carrying the weight of his guilt and agony. When his scream faded, the land remained eerily quiet. Only his ragged breathing and choked sobs filled the emptiness.
Suddenly, he felt a warm, heavy hand on his shoulder. He glanced up and saw the familiar face of an orc. The orc's face was grim but understanding. Noticing that the explosion had left Leonhard bare, he draped a heavy coat over his shoulders, offering silent comfort.
Leonhard barely registered the gesture. He was too numb, too shattered to respond. One by one, other magical creatures gathered around him, hesitant and unsure. They exchanged glances, their eyes filled with sadness and concern. In the end, they did the only thing they could think of—they hugged him, forming a circle around him, shielding him from the world.
They stayed that way for hours, the silence broken only by his quiet sobs and the occasional rustle of fabric. Eventually, Leonhard lifted his head, his tear-streaked face hardening as his gaze fell on the mask—the mask that had led to all of this. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the dried blood on its surface.
His hand tightened around it, and he forced himself to his feet, his legs shaky but determined. The orc, sensing the shift in his demeanor, spoke cautiously.
"So, what do we do now, Leonhard?"
Leonhard looked at him, his golden eyes still glistening with tears but now holding a newfound determination.
"From now on, call me Hexrend," he said, slipping the mask onto his face.
The orc hesitated but saw the resolve burning in Leonhard's gaze. The others looked at each other, unsure, but they couldn't deny the fierce certainty in his eyes. One by one, they nodded in acceptance.
They had witnessed his pain, his breaking, and now his rebirth. Though they didn't fully understand, they chose to follow him—no longer just Leonhard, but Hexrend—the one who would carry the burden of his pain and the memory of his loss.
As Hexrend stood there, his hair whipping in the wind, he knew that he would never be the same. His past was shattered, his soul scarred, but he would move forward—guided not just by pain but by purpose. The mask, once a symbol of torment, was now a reminder of the choice he had made. To rise from the ashes, even if it meant becoming something new.
And so, Hexrend took his first steps into the unknown, surrounded by allies who had seen his darkest hour, determined to shape his fate with his own hands.