The Tyrant's POV

The era in which Leon Winter ruled was a time whispered about in every tavern, scribed in every scroll, and feared in every heart. The medieval world he inhabited was ancient and weathered, its cities built upon the bones of forgotten empires, and its people huddled beneath stone walls, ever fearful of the creatures that lurked beyond. It was a time of simplicity and grandeur, where cobblestone streets intertwined with overgrown forests, and monstrous creatures roamed the wilderness. Goblins scurried through shadowy woods, dragons perched atop blackened cliffs, and trolls haunted bridges that no man dared cross at night.

Yet, amidst the everyday fears of commoners, there existed something far rarer and far more enigmatic—Essences.

Essences were not the wild, chaotic powers of myth or grand wizards casting fire from their hands. No, they were subtle, like whispers in the fabric of reality itself. These gifts were not bestowed at birth, but awakened within those who had shaped the world with their presence. To some, an Essence seemed like an ironic trick of the gods, while to others, it was a perfect complement to their nature.

An archer of unrivaled skill, already heralded as the finest in the land, found his Essence sharpen his precision to inhuman levels. His arrows, once capable of missing their mark by the barest margin, now never faltered. His shots curved impossibly around trees and hills, guided by some unseen hand.

On the other side of the coin, a humble janitor—a man whose name few even knew—found himself awakened. His Essence did not make him a warrior or hero, but it allowed him to clean anything so thoroughly that even time's wear and tear could not mar his work. Floors, once caked with grime, sparkled as if forged from pure marble, their true form revealed only under his touch.

Essences reflected the world's judgment of a person's worth, or so people believed. They were said to be gifts from the divine, a mark of God's favor, though no one truly understood why some were chosen. But whatever the reason, to bear an Essence was to stand apart, for better or worse.

And so, it was often whispered: why, of all men, had God chosen Leon Winter?

The grand throne room of the kingdom of Valtoria stretched out like a cavern, its vaulted ceilings held aloft by towering pillars of black stone. Stained-glass windows, portraying battles and conquests long past, cast fractured beams of light across the floor, as if the very history of the kingdom was in constant conflict with itself.

At the center of it all sat Leon Winter, the king of Valtoria, the largest and most powerful realm in the known lands. He lounged upon his throne with a casual disregard, his chin resting in one hand, his legs lazily crossed. His crown, though heavy and ornate, tilted slightly on his brow, as if even his symbols of power could not make him care. He was draped in the finest silks and furs, but his expression—cool, detached—was that of a man utterly unbothered by the wealth and influence surrounding him.

Leon Winter was not a kind king. In fact, he was not a good man in any sense of the word, and he knew it. His heart, if it could be called such, had long been hardened to the plights of others. The people of Valtoria called him many things—tyrant, usurper, villain—but always with a tremor of fear. His armies had conquered, his will had bent nations, and yet, behind the cruelty that everyone saw, there was something far more dangerous.

He didn't care.

Leon's Essence, whatever it was, had made him invincible in the eyes of the world. His reign was uncontested, his decisions unquestioned. Every move he made was as though fate itself had written it into the stars. He had tried to understand why, but every time he searched for an answer, he came up empty. Was it his charm? His ruthlessness? The sheer weight of his presence that bent the world to his will? He had never sought favor from the gods, never prayed for strength or power, yet here he was—the world's favorite.

A flicker of light caught his eye. One of the kingdom's courtiers shifted nervously by the door, clearly hoping not to draw attention. Leon's gaze drifted toward him, but with the same air of disinterest he gave everything else.

"Speak," Leon said, his voice low and unconcerned.

The courtier hesitated before stammering out some report—something about a distant skirmish with goblins, the movement of the northern armies, the usual chaos that ebbed and flowed around Valtoria like the tides. Leon listened, but his mind wandered.

This kingdom, this world—it all felt so… inevitable. Whatever happened, whatever challenges arose, he would overcome them. He always did. His Essence ensured it, even if he had never truly grasped what it was. All he knew was that the world bent to his will, and no one—no creature, no man, no god—stood in his way.

He let the courtier finish his report with a nod of dismissal, watching as the man practically fled from his presence. Leon sighed, shifting slightly on his throne.

In the end, what did it matter? He ruled, and that was enough. The world could hate him, fear him, despise him. It made no difference. The gods had chosen him, whether they realized their mistake or not.

And yet, as he sat there, bathed in the fractured light of his throne room, he couldn't help but wonder: why?

Why him, of all people? Why had the gods handed such power to a man like Leon Winter, who cared so little for the world they had created?

With a wry smirk, he dismissed the thought.

It didn't matter.