Leon was not born as an heir, let alone as a king.
His father was just an ordinary male lion—a follower, not a leader. Their pride was under the command of another lion king who had a legitimate heir. Until one day, when their pride was ambushed by a rival group, everything changed.
The leader of the rival pride did not merely conquer—he purged the heirs.
The cub of Leon's pride leader was slaughtered before the entire pack. His blood soaked into the earth, and his mother's screams were cut short by a roar of victory. Ancient tradition dictated: without an heir, the pride falls.
The pride shattered. Some submitted, some fled, some became carcasses. In the midst of that ruin, young Leon—the son of an ordinary lion, a nobody—was left alive. Not out of mercy, but because he was deemed utterly insignificant.
He grew up not as a trained heir, but as a survivor of the remains. Hunting small game, stealing scraps from carcasses, dodging stronger claws. Leon honed not just his body, but his way of perceiving the world. He learned when to be silent, when to restrain himself, and when to bite until the very end. When the magic in his blood bloomed to the eighth tier, he did not seek a throne—he sought answers.
Yet ultimately, the world demanded he stand at the forefront.
He began challenging pride leaders one by one. There was no "royal" blood in his veins, but there was something else: the ability to make others follow. The prides submitted—not because of lineage, but because they saw a future when Leon roared.
Unlike the leaders who once massacred, Leon did not wipe out the children of the defeated prides. Their heirs lived, forced to prove themselves, pushed to strengthen the pride rather than be eroded by it. Within a decade, the Kusark grasslands were no longer a mosaic of wild packs—but a single, vast entity under one King.
But his ambition did not stop at the grasslands.
Through treaties, threats, and undeniable practical advantages, Leon unified the Demi-human race across all of Crocus. Not through terror, but through cold calculation born from the lowest rungs of life.
White smoke drifted from his nose as he snorted.
"I do not need you to bow to me... slave."
His voice fell like thunder, making the air between them vibrate. The word was not an insult—it was a pointer to the reality of the world they stood upon.
Mujun raised his head, looking directly into the eyes of the Demi-human King. His thin smile hid nothing. Behind it lay only the serenity of someone who had finished wrestling with themselves.
Leon spoke again.
"Humans are weak creatures."
His tone wasn't one of mockery—it was more like a long-studied conclusion from someone who had watched history for too long.
"The first time I saw your kind, I thought: Why would the Creator make such a being? No sharp claws, no thick hide, a fragile body. A misprint of this world, I thought."
He lowered his head slightly, his golden mane trembling in the hot wind of the battlefield.
"But the more I observe you, the more I realize—you are the most dangerous creatures in existence."
His eyes hardened.
"Slavery. That is your greatest invention. Not diagrams, not weapons, not kingdoms."
His voice dropped, heavy, as if coming from deep within his chest.
"We fight each other for territory and life. But you... you will enslave your own kind without hesitation. If this world were filled only with humans, you would wage war against each other until nothing remained."
Then he stared at Mujun—directly, without a veil.
"I do not understand humans. Because of that, I do not understand what you truly want."
Silence fell between them, heavy as the ash of war.
"You... with the power you possess now," his voice turned cold, "wouldn't it be easier to become a king? Kill your king. Sit upon his throne. Force the world to follow you. Why choose the most difficult path... and the most painful one?"
Mujun smiled again. Thinly. Calmly.
A clear question mark lingered in Leon's eyes. Mujun knew that as long as he didn't answer, this meeting would not end. But explaining the inner workings of human logic to a non-human being... was almost impossible. Even humans often failed to understand themselves.
He took a slow breath. He was silent for a moment, as if choosing his words with care.
"The first human was created from the soil. When the Creator announced it, the angels protested. They said: 'Will You create a being that will only cause corruption and shed blood in the world?'"
"But the Creator answered: 'I know that which you do not know.' Then the first human was created... and given one gift that no one else possessed—the ability to know the names of all things."
He pointed to his chest.
"Not just the names of people. Not just labels."
"But the names for everything—objects, feelings, ideas, rules, even things that do not yet exist."
Mujun's voice grew softer.
"With names, humans can understand the world. With names, they can create stories. With stories, they can build commands, laws, and beliefs. All our conversations... all knowledge... all kingdoms... are born from a series of names arranged into a narrative."
"That is the true power of humanity. Not their bodies. Not their magic. But their ability to give names, record them, and pass them down to the next generation."
Then his tone lowered, like a knife being flipped.
"But that gift is also a shackle."
Narrative—the word hung in the air.
"Names passed down continuously can change in meaning. They can be bent. They can be used as an excuse to cause pain."
"Over time, new names were born that were once disgusting... but now feel natural. One of them: 'slave'."
Mujun looked at the blood-soaked ground.
"For humans now, the word 'slave' no longer stands level with the word 'human'. It stands level with the words 'tool', 'clothing', 'food', 'livestock'."
"A slave is no longer seen as a human—but as an object with a function."
Mujun's voice remained calm, but there was a piercing coldness within it.
"That is why nobles can sleep soundly after torturing a slave. That is why a father can watch his daughter be sold without the world even shivering. They do not feel guilt... because in their narrative, a slave is not a human."
He raised his head again, locking onto Leon's gaze.
"And as long as that narrative exists, it doesn't matter who sits on the throne—nothing changes."
"If I become a king, I am only changing the name of the person at the top, not the story that moves the world. The one who rules is still just a 'king', no more than a 'slave who became a king'. Once I die, the old narrative will grow back like weeds."
"Therefore, being a king is not enough."
"I need a new narrative—something far stronger, deeper, and more unforgettable than the word 'slave' itself."
He closed his sentence slowly.
"Only by destroying the old narrative... can this sick world be healed."