The doors of the community center creaked open under the weight of silence. Leo stepped through, his presence altering the air itself.
The oppressive aura radiating from him wasn't just powerful—it was suffocating, like the breath of something ancient that had slumbered too long.
The survivors, once accustomed to his strength, now instinctively stepped aside. Their eyes, wide with awe and dread, followed his every move.
Some bowed their heads unconsciously. Others stood frozen, uncertain if reverence or fear governed their stillness.
Leo's aura was like a tide of crimson pressure, invisible but undeniable. It told stories without words: stories of death, of power, of a man who had walked through blood and shadows and come back with a throne.
It wasn't merely strength that terrified them—it was the unknown that clung to him like a second skin.
The glowing mark on his chest, a fine tree etched in blood, pulsed faintly with power. It wasn't just a symbol. It was a statement. A warning.
As he passed, whispers followed. Questions formed in hushed corners of the center.
Was he still the same Leo?
Would he use this power to bend them to his will?
Their reverence was mingled with a primal fear.
The fear of the unknown.
And Leo had become an embodiment of it.
He didn't react. His crimson eyes scanned no one. He walked forward like a shadow in motion and disappeared into his room. The door clicked shut behind him.
Inside, he dropped his sword onto the bed and sat on its edge. The weight of the Blood Crown was gone, yet its presence lingered, a phantom pressure against his temples.
His fingers brushed over the still-healing skin on his chest. The mark had appeared the moment the wound closed. No matter what he did, it was a part of him now. A brand of sovereignty.
His mind wandered.
Was the change bad? The question repeated, lingering like a haunting melody. The world had changed. Power ruled. Morality had become negotiable. And in a world ruled by death, wasn't survival the only virtue that mattered?
The darker voice inside him had grown subtler. It no longer shouted. It whispered. Insidious half-truths. Seductive logic.
Merge with me, it said. You are incomplete alone.
He wasn't sure whether to trust it—or fear it.
Leo's memories of kindness, of schoolyard laughter and shared snacks, of helping Ana when she had a panic attack before exams... they were there. But faint. Like dreams slipping through waking fingers.
The Blood Crown had formed the moment he sat on the throne. Transparent, yet powerful. It pulsed with energy only those sensitive enough could feel.
It declared his dominion. Weak-willed survivors felt compelled to obey. Not through words or commands—but through something deeper, buried in instinct.
Victoria had noticed it all.
She'd watched the shift in him. Not just in power. In posture. In silence. In the way he no longer looked people in the eye unless it served a purpose.
She found him cleaning his sword in the courtyard. Crimson streaks still painted its edge. He hadn't slept.
She approached, cautiously.
"Leo," she said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
He paused. Looked at her. And then simply nodded.
That silence between them wasn't just awkward—it was a canyon.
"I remember," she began, "back in school, when you stood up for me against Aaron. You barely knew me. But you did it anyway."
Leo blinked. The name stirred something. But the memory felt borrowed.
"They don't feel like mine anymore," he said, voice distant.
Victoria's heart sank. She searched his eyes for something—warmth, recognition, doubt. All she saw was cold clarity.
"You're changing," she said. "I just hope there's still something left of you underneath all this."
She walked away without another word.
Elsewhere, Ana and Damien spoke in hushed tones.
"He's not safe," Ana whispered. "He's becoming... something else. I don't know how long we can stay near him."
Damien looked conflicted. "You're not wrong. But he's Leo. He's saved us more times than I can count."
"This isn't about gratitude. It's about survival."
"I know. But sometimes, the world needs a monster to fight monsters."
Ana didn't argue. She knew Damien would never abandon Leo. But she had to think of the others. Quietly, she reached out to an old radio system. It crackled to life.
After hours of tuning, a voice responded. A pair of survivors—brothers—had formed their own community in Dead Zone 8. Ranked 30th and 31st respectively.
They listened as Ana shared her concerns. She didn't criticize Leo directly. Just hinted that they might need to move.
"We'll consider your proposal," one of them said. "But trust is a currency. Spend it carefully."
The world was shifting.
Far across the Dead Zones, other Lords took notice of Leo's rise.
The Kaiser of Dead Zone 1, a militant emperor with ruthless ambition, received the system alert.
"Zone Lord... Leo."
He studied Leo's image. Young. Lean. Crimson aura.
"A wild card," he murmured. "One worth watching. Or using."
In Dead Zone 6, Mira—emotionless, brilliant, cold—observed the same data. "He may be useful. A pawn. Or a rival."
Others noticed too. Sub-rankers, minor factions. The world had changed.
Back at the community center, the survivors sat in tense silence during breakfast.
Discussions began. Whispers turned into debate. Should Leo lead them officially?
Arguments erupted. Some feared him. Others trusted him.
But in the end, the vote passed. Leo was named Zone Lord of Dead Zone 3—both by system and by people.
He didn't react much. Simply nodded and handed the logistics to Ana.
She groaned inwardly but complied. It was, after all, for their survival.
Jack Spanner approached soon after.
"We need an army," he said. "Defense. Offense. Internal order. You lead. I'll manage."
Leo nodded, expression unreadable. But he liked Jack's honesty.
"You're in," he said. "You and Damien."
As he tried to nap later that evening, the blood realm returned.
Blades. Corpses. A world on fire.
And there, standing atop a ruined palace, was the Sovereign.
A future version of himself—older, crueler, regal.
"Still weak," the Sovereign said. "Still bound by old ghosts."
Leo didn't flinch. "I'm not ready to become you."
"You will. Or you will die."
The dream ended with a whisper of a future written in blood.
Then, the sky above the community center cracked.
A corrupted field tore through reality. Mutated beasts spilled out.
The survivors panicked.
Leo stood.
"I'll handle it."
They watched as he walked alone.
The battle wasn't a battle. It was a massacre.
He moved like a crimson blur, his Blood Arts slicing through flesh.
Blood. Screams. Silence.
And then—
The commander of the beasts, a twisted figure of sinew and bone, paused mid-fight.
"You..." it hissed. "I know—"
Leo didn't let it finish. A dagger silenced the truth.
But a sliver of doubt rooted in his mind.
What did it mean?
As the survivors cheered, Leo stared into the horizon.
This is just the beginning, he thought. I don't like the unknown.
I will become the unknown.