Ex-Rank Awakening: My Attacks Make Me Stronger

Leon stood alone in the clearing, the last fragment of the city lord's shadow gone, dissolving into the air as if it had never existed. Silence pressed in on him, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the distant cries of carrion birds circling high above. He stayed there for a long moment, head lowered, offering his quiet respect to the fallen man, no, the fallen soul before sliding his sword back into his inventory.

His task was done.

Turning away, Leon made his way back toward Shantel.

The city was in shambles. Buildings reduced to rubble, scorched streets littered with debris, and wounded citizens carried through makeshift paths toward the few healers who hadn't collapsed from exhaustion. The destruction spoke volumes of the abomination's might, devastation inflicted in less than five minutes before Leon had drawn it away. If it had lingered any longer, there would be nothing left of Shantel but ashes.

As Leon scanned the chaos, his gaze found James. The young man was barking orders, sleeves rolled up, directing his team to restore some semblance of order. Despite the blood and grime streaking his face, he moved with determination, pulling survivors from ruins, calming the frightened and organizing repairs.

James spotted him then. His shoulders stiffened, his voice rising instinctively, respectful, loud enough for all nearby to hear.

"Lord Leon!"

The title rippled through the air. Heads turned. The healers, the wounded, the guards, they all looked at Leon. Some eyes glistened with relief, others with hope. But in nearly all of them was the same subtle question, the same nervous searching glance cast behind Leon as though expecting the towering figure of the abomination still lurking in his shadow.

James stepped forward, lowering his voice but not his reverence. "My lord… what of the monster?"

Leon froze. The words struck deeper than he expected. Around them, silence spread, every ear waiting for his answer. He could see it in their faces, ordinary people, broken and weary, desperate for certainty. And beneath that desperation, fear. Fear of what still lingered. Fear of what they remembered.

A bitter thought coiled in Leon's chest.

'What a sad fate… to be remembered as nothing but a monster by the very people you once fought to protect.'

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, before giving the only answer he could.

"Lord Pius is dead."

The stillness broke. For a heartbeat no one spoke, then the dam gave way. Cheers erupted across the square.

"We are finally free!"

"Shantel's future will be prosperous!"

"All the lost souls can finally rest in peace!"

Voices swelled with relief, with joy, echoing against the ruined walls. James, his own chest rising with pride, raised his voice higher than them all:

"We would not be liberated if not for Lord Leon's intervention!"

And the crowd took up the cry like thunder.

"All praise Lord Leon!"

"All praise Lord Leon!"

The chant rose and spread until it swallowed every street.

Leon stood in the midst of it all, the people hailing him, the city claiming him. Without choosing it, without seeking it, he had become what they needed most.

A ruler.

A lord.

The de facto master of a city that had teetered on the brink of ruin.

****

After the crowd's cries finally died down, Leon did not linger in their praise. He rolled up his sleeves and joined the recovery effort. From his inventory, he brought out several healing potions, true potions, not the watered-down versions the citizens of Shantel had long been forced to endure. He rarely needed them himself; his fights usually ended before wounds could slow him. To him, giving away a handful was nothing.

But to the people, it was everything.

They received the vials like treasures, their hands trembling as the shimmering liquid touched their lips. Where once wounds festered, flesh knit. Where once fever burned, skin cooled. Tears flowed freely. For Shantel, cut off from the rest of the empire, real potions were a dream long buried. Now that dream stood before them in the form of Leon.

Once he was certain the most injured had been treated, Leon stepped back, leaving James and the others to continue the clean-up. His work in the streets was finished. But one final duty remained.

The city lord's manor.

Leon walked its path with no expectations weighing on him. His jaw tightened as he muttered under his breath, "I've been disappointed once already."

The words tasted bitter. It was becoming a pattern, every path that seemed to promise answers ended in nothing. Julius's so-called "Art Path," a mystery turned blank wall. The shadow of Lord Pius, which should have revealed the truth about corruption, had instead only dissolved into silence. One dead end after another, as though the world itself was intent on mocking him.

"All right," Leon exhaled, his tone edged with impatience. "Let's just get this over with—to fulfill all righteousness."

He pushed through the manor gates.

What greeted him froze him in his tracks.

Unlike the rest of the city, which bore scars of destruction, the manor stood untouched. Its walls gleamed unmarred. Its gates remained firm. Not a stone displaced. As if the abomination's roar had never even touched it.

"This is… strange." Leon's voice was a low murmur.

His instincts stirred before his mind could fully grasp it. That familiar prickle crawled along his skin, the one that told him something was hidden. His senses, honed to an almost supernatural sharpness, whispered to him. To most trial takers, Sense and Vitality were the hardest attributes to grow. But Leon's path was different. All it cost him was points. Points, and nothing else. And so his senses had long surpassed what most could dream of.

Now they pulled him like a string, tugging deeper into the manor.

He followed without hesitation, his footsteps steady until he stopped before a grand door. Its carvings were intricate, regal, untouched by dust.

Leon rested a hand on the handle, exhaling softly. "This must be Pius's chambers."

He didn't wait. He shoved the door open.