Chapter 9; The Upcoming Tribulation.
Leon has always seen a peculiar phenomenon among those who lived for confrontation.
Whether in competitive arenas, simulated battlefields, or even do or die struggles, there existed an unspoken skill between veteran players.
A single glance at an opponent’s chosen units was often enough to infer their habits, temperament, and preferred methods.
Even without exchanging a word, one could already sketch the outline of the coming fight.
However the best way to gauge everything was only possible through one way.
Experience, she believed, was the only honest teacher.
That was the true reason she had not consulted Vanon’s list.
Information obtained in advance can't give you a proper full picture.
It guided the mind too readily, bending perception toward an expectation.
Once a conclusion was formed, the eyes stopped observing and began merely confirming.
Leon disliked that state.
She preferred to come in ready for all the surprises so she can form an actual better plan.
Standing before the boy now, she found her choice justified.
After declaring him weak, she remained where she was, posture relaxed, expression indifferent, as though she had merely commented on the weather.
In that brief stillness, her Tree of Wisdom had already begun to sift through what little he had revealed.
His strikes were grand, but shallow.
His confidence, loud but unexamined.
Each attack arrived with excessive intent, the kind born from belief rather than calculation.
When the massive draconic arm descended again, Leon did not retreat.
She took a single step sideways. A faint shimmer appeared beside her—no more than a palm-sized shield—nudging the edge of the blow just enough to redirect its force.
The ground behind her cracked violently, yet she herself remained untouched.
She repeated this several times, neither hurried nor strained.
From this, she reached her first conclusion.
The boy possessed an extraordinary Tree of Wisdom.
A transmutation-type authority—one that allowed him to assume and inherit the traits, abilities, and symbolic dominance of monsters.
Not mere shapeshifting, but conceptual succession. Such a power was exceedingly rare, and in theory, terrifying beyond measure.
And yet…
Leon felt a trace of disappointment.
“So you only use the dragon,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “How predictable.”
The boy bristled at her tone. His eyes burned brighter, scales rippling as his anger surged.
“Enough,” he snapped. “You don’t get to speak.”
Leon glanced at him, her gaze calm, devoid of provocation.
“With an ability like yours,” she continued evenly, “you should have tested me with variety. Instead, you clung to authority and mistook it for mastery.”
“Shut up!” the boy roared, his voice shaking the air.
Leon sighed.
As expected.
Rage replaced judgment. His movements grew faster, but also sloppier—power without structure.
There was no technique to analyze, no feint to respect. Everything followed a single, obvious line.
Then she noticed the change.
Heat gathered in his throat, the glow spreading beneath translucent scales.
The air trembled, distorting around his mouth.
Dragon breath.
Leon raised her hand.
A spherical barrier formed instantly, swallowing the torrent of flame. Fire twisted inward, compressed, robbed of space and oxygen.
Within seconds, the barrier’s interior collapsed into vacuum, extinguishing the breath as though it had never existed.
The boy recoiled, shock flickering across his expression.
That reaction told her something important.
He had encountered someone stronger before.
And survived.
His form convulsed violently. Flesh and concept realigned as he abandoned his current shape.
Six wings unfolded, vast and radiant, blotting out the sky. The pressure in the air deepened, heavy with myth and inevitability.
Leon’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Bahamut…”
The name surfaced from memory without effort.
In the game’s lore, Bahamut was a dragon that appeared only at the edge of annihilation—a harbinger of endings.
Players farmed it relentlessly, stripping apocalypse down to materials and profit.
Its most infamous ability was its debuff breath, a conceptual negation that ensured whatever it touched would burn endlessly.
Leon’s fingers moved into a precise hand seal.
The ring-shaped tattoo along her finger glowed faintly. She had refined her casting long ago—compressing complexity into speed, abandoning excess formality.
High above, Bahamut fixed its gaze on her.
Its intent was singular.
Destruction.
As it inhaled, something pierced through its wings.
Invisible pillars anchored its form, arresting motion while sustaining flight.
The breath faltered, power collapsing inward as paralysis spread across its body.
“Sky-Sealing Barrier,” Leon said softly.
Another structure manifested above the dragon’s back, driving downward and inverting gravity.
Bahamut plummeted, only for the force to lessen moments before impact. The massive body struck the ground with a dull tremor, intact but helpless.
For several seconds, the dragon did not move.
Leon approached, footsteps unhurried.
“Did you truly think,” she remarked mildly, “that leveling the area was an acceptable response? This is a world your master made with love.”
The boy could neither speak nor resist. It could only watch.
Leon turned away, already disengaging.
“In any case,” she thought, her attention shifting elsewhere, “there are still three children left.”
She exhaled quietly.
This day, it seemed, would be longer than expected.
—
Five hours passed with unsettling ease.
When Leon finally allowed herself to fall backward, the grass received her without resistance, cool and forgiving.
Her body showed no sign of strain—her barriers ensured that much—but her mind felt heavy, overworked, as though each thought had been ground thin by repeated use.
Mental exhaustion was a subtler enemy than physical fatigue. It arrived quietly, and lingered.
She lay there for a moment, staring up at the immaculate sky, before turning her head toward the four figures she had gathered.
They sat apart from one another, each occupying their own invisible boundary.
No hostility, no curiosity—only indifference.
They did not acknowledge one another’s presence, nor did they seem inclined to.
As if coexistence itself was an inconvenience.
Leon found that… curious.
In a world like this, isolation should have been impossible. And yet, they had perfected it.
She wondered how long they had lived this way—side by side, yet entirely alone—but the thought faded quickly.
There was no time to indulge in sentiment.
Gathering them had already consumed far more of the allotted hours than she had anticipated.
The last one, in particular, had been troublesome.
The void-born boy had required an exclusive containment barrier—layered, adaptive, and constantly repaired—to prevent herself from being erased outright.
Even then, she had been forced to intervene repeatedly, patching instability not only in the barrier, but in the boy himself.
The effort had not been in vain, however. Progress, however small, was still progress.
More importantly, she had seen their capabilities.
That alone made the exhaustion worthwhile.
Leon rose into a seated position and addressed them at last.
“If I am to teach you,” she said calmly, “then I should know what to call you.”
Silence lingered, thick but not hostile.
The dragon-blooded boy was the first to respond. His red eyes still carried a trace of anger, though it no longer burned as brightly.
“Leviathan,” he said curtly.
The eight-winged girl hesitated before speaking. Her wings folded neatly behind her, silver-blonde hair spilling across her shoulders as her eyes were covered by a black cloth.
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Micheal.”
The purple-haired girl did not even look up. The countless letters etched across her skin shifted faintly, as though alive.
“Anis,” she said, tone flat, uninterested.
All eyes—or what passed for them—turned to the final boy.
He did not speak.
I
nstead, he lifted a hand and traced a single character in the air. The symbol lingered briefly, glowing faintly before fading.
V.
Leon nodded, committing each name to memory.
“Very well,” she said. “Then from today onward, I am Leon.”
There was no grand declaration, no attempt at warmth. Merely a statement of fact.
“You will grow accustomed to me soon enough.”
Behind her, the air began to distort.
A familiar door manifested slowly, its presence undeniable. Time, it seemed, had reached its limit.
Leon stood and brushed the grass from her clothes.
She turned once more toward the four children—her students, her responsibility—and raised a hand in a brief, almost casual wave.
“We’ll continue next time,” she said. “Try to start getting along with each other.”
With that, she stepped through the door.
It closed soundlessly behind her, leaving the four calamities seated beneath a perfect sky, alone once more—yet no longer untouched by the idea of tomorrow.
—------
Vanon did not end the observation immediately.
He remained standing within the office, his gaze fixed upon the projection formed by the magic apparatus.
Inside the image, the pocket world lay silent once more. The children had dispersed.
The foreign presence—Leon—began to walk seemingly unhurried.
That, more than anything else, unsettled him.
Only after several moments did Vanon raise his hand.
The projection faded.
He had done his reach through the imperial secret force.
Once he possessed her name, acquiring the corresponding records required little effort.
His authority was sufficient to bypass most restrictions, and the information unfolded before him in layered segments, each sealed by different branches of the imperial system.
Leon.
Twentieth Imperial Princess.
Born without talent.
Academy expulsion—classified incident.
Disposition: non-hostile. Threat level: negligible.
Vanon’s expression remained composed, but his fingers tightened slightly.
The data was precise. Yet it contradicted everything he had just witnessed.
When they first met, his perception had placed her firmly within the third star—an unremarkable level, common even among civilian mages.
He had trusted that judgment. His eyes had rarely failed him.
And yet, inside the pocket world, her conduct had been flawless.
She neither rushed nor hesitated. She did not rely on brute force, nor did she display the reverence or terror that inevitably surfaced when one confronted a Child of Calamity.
Instead, she observed. Tested. Adjusted.
That manner of engagement did not belong to the weak.
More concerning was the fact that he could not discern her limits.
Such concealment was not a technique.
It was a hierarchy.
If she truly exceeded him in rank, then his initial assessment had not been deceived—it had been short.
Vanon exhaled slowly.
If the imperial records were accurate, then the empire had discarded something it failed to comprehend.
If they were not… then the woman calling herself Leon was something else entirely.
His thoughts turned to intent.
Why approach the Children of Calamity?
Exploitation was the most obvious answer, but he dismissed it almost at once. Her actions lacked the cold calculation of one seeking to bind or harvest. Nor had she attempted domination.
Reverence was absent as well.
What remained was uncertainty.
Vanon reviewed the safeguards.
Every contract remained intact. Every information chain is sealed.
Even those with knowledge of this place were bound beyond betrayal.
There had been no leak.
Which meant the anomaly stood before him, not behind him.
In the end, Vanon made a measured decision.
Observation would continue. Caution would be maintained.
When the appointed time arrived, he raised his staff and manifested the door.
Within the pocket world, spatial currents shifted.
Leon rose as the doorway took shape behind her, its outline shimmering against the unreal sky.
She turned once, cast a final glance at the gathered children, and stepped through without hesitation.
She emerged into the office a moment later.
Vanon had already composed himself.
“How was it?” he asked. “Was your curiosity satisfied?”
Leon nodded lightly. “Yes.”
The simplicity of the answer caught him off guard.
“I look forward to working,” she added, as though the matter concerned an ordinary post rather than the guardianship of calamities.
Vanon inclined his head. “Very well. We will speak again tomorrow.”
She offered a faint smile and departed.
Only after she had gone did Vanon notice the subtle distortion left behind—a residue of spatial fluctuation, faint but deliberate.
His gaze sharpened.
“Continue observation,” he said quietly.
The distortion acknowledged the order and vanished.
Leon took advantage of the late hour.
She moved through the city efficiently, purchasing what she required with quiet deliberation. Large sheets of paper. Ink, pins and Measuring tools.
And then simple mechanical watch.
Nothing extravagant.
Back in her residence, she arranged the materials across the walls and began recording her observations.
Each Child of Calamity was documented separately.
Their abilities were not written as raw descriptions but reorganized—simplified into conditions, triggers, and boundaries. It was easier to think that way.
When she finally leaned back, mental exhaustion settled in. Her body remained unharmed, but thought demanded its own toll.
They were not game units.
They were students.
Dangerous ones, certainly—but soon to be academy students nonetheless. Which meant they required a fitting structure.
Guidance.
Leon stared at the pinned papers for a long while.
Eventually, she decided to rest.
Floating down the stairs atop a thin barrier, she prepared a cup of tea and returned to the room. Steam curled lazily as she took a sip.
“You’ve seen enough?,” she said calmly.
The room remained silent.
Then, a faint distortion appeared in the corner.
Leon did not look at it.
“I understand the caution,” she continued. “Truly. But I would appreciate some privacy. I’ll be sleeping soon.”
The distortion lingered.
Then it disappeared.
Leon released a quiet breath and extinguished the lights.
Tomorrow, work will begin.
—-
Leon was dreaming when the knocking began.
At first, it threaded itself into the dream like an errant sound—distant, indistinct, easily ignored.
Her mind folded it into something else: the echo of footsteps, perhaps, or the dull percussion of rain against stone.
She turned slightly, burrowing deeper into sleep.
The knocking persisted.
It grew sharper. More deliberate. Each strike landed with a patience that suggested it would not stop simply because it was inconvenient.
Leon frowned.
The dream unraveled.
Her eyes opened.
For a brief moment, she lay there in silence, staring at the dim ceiling of her apartment, trying to reconcile the world she had left with the one she had returned to.
Then the sound came again—clear this time. Firm. Unyielding.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” she murmured.
She reached for the clock beside her bed and squinted.
5:00 AM.
Leon closed her eyes.
Opened them again.
The numbers did not change.
Who in their right mind visited at this hour?
The knocking intensified, no longer polite but still restrained, as though whoever stood outside was determined to be heard without crossing into outright rudeness.
With a resigned breath, Leon rose.
She did not bother changing clothes.
Whatever awaited her could endure the sight of a half-awake girl with uncombed hair.
As she descended the stairs, her thoughts we're still hazy.
She reached the door and hesitated.
Something felt… off.
Leon placed a hand against her cheek and gave it a light tap, just enough to ensure sensation followed. It did.
Then she opened the door.
And froze.
On the other side stood a line—no, a formation—of maids. Neatly arranged.
Perfect posture. Dresses immaculate. Black gloves clasped at their fronts. Their presence filled the narrow hallway outside her apartment with an almost ceremonial gravity.
Leon blinked.
Once.
Twice.
They did not vanish.
“…Right,” she said quietly. “So I’m awake.”
She leaned against the doorframe and regarded them with the tired scrutiny of someone who had already decided this day was going to be long.
“May I ask,” Leon began, “why is my apartment being invaded by an honor guard at dawn?”
As one, the maids bowed.
The movement was so synchronized it was almost unsettling.
“We were dispatched by Lord Vanon,” the one at the front said, her voice composed and measured.
“To assist you in preparation for your departure.”
Leon stared at her.
Then she laughed—softly, incredulously, the sound edged with sleep and disbelief.
Of course.
Of course he would do this.
She rubbed her eyes and exhaled, the breath carrying with it equal parts resignation and amusement.
“Fantastic,” she muttered. “I’m employed by a madman.”
Straightening, Leon stepped aside and gestured vaguely inward.
“Well,” she said, tone dry but not unkind, “since you’re here… I suppose I’d better start getting ready.”
As the maids entered in orderly silence.
She closed the door behind them, and that was how her day started.
