Reincarnated as the Weakest Magical Beast

Once upon a time, long before the rise of the Dravalon Kingdom, there existed a small yet proud realm in the western lands—the Kingdom of Lionera.

It was a land of beauty and abundance: mountains rich with glittering minerals, forests thick and vibrant with life, and rivers that shimmered like glass beneath the golden sun. Its fields were ever green, its seas bountiful, and its people lived in harmony. Their days were filled with song, labor, and laughter that echoed across the hills, carried by winds that smelled of pine and salt from the western shores.

And ruling over this blessed kingdom was a wise and valiant monarch—King Amaras the Lion Sword. A man whose might could rival the greatest heroes, whose heart was steadfast and kind. His sword arm never wavered in battle, and his compassion never faltered in peace. He lived for his people, fought for his homeland, and swore to guard Lionera's light until his final breath. Under his reign, hope bloomed like spring after every storm.

But peace, as always, is a fragile thing.

It was during those golden years that the invasion of Abyssia intensified. Soon, the tides of darkness surged across the continent: an endless horde of demons and abominations, devouring one kingdom after another. The sky grew red, the land sickened, and even the blessings of Arventia's gods began to wane before the spreading corruption.

And inevitably… the darkness reached Lionera.

Yet King Amaras refused to yield. For nearly a decade, he and his knights fought with unbreakable resolve. Under his command, Lionera stood firm while countless other kingdoms crumbled. Time and again, his warriors drove back the enemy.

The clang of steel and the roar of war became their daily prayer. And though each victory was bought with blood, Lionera endured. Its flame flickered… but never went out.

But the enemies were too strong. No mortal wall can stand forever.

At last, the final line of defense broke. Abyssia's forces poured into the capital like a flood of nightmares. The once-radiant city burned crimson under a dying sky. Towers collapsed, bells shattered, and the streets turned into rivers of blood. The corpses of humans and demons alike piled high, the stench of death drowning even the smoke.

Lionera was doomed.

And yet, the Lion Sword still fought.

Even as hope withered, even as the heavens turned their gaze away, Amaras and his warriors stood their ground, swearing to fight until the very end.

"Please… please help us!"

Kneeling in the ruins, drenched in rain and blood, the king raised his sword toward the heavens.

"Gods of Arventia, I beg you—save my people!"

But the sky answered only with thunder.

No miracle came.

Only the screams of the dying.

"Ah… so this is it, huh…" Amaras whispered, lowering his gaze. The world around him blurred through smoke and falling rain. He could see the enemy's shadowed silhouettes advancing through the haze—the end closing in. Yet even then, he raised his sword one last time, its edge glinting faintly beneath the storm.

"If the gods have abandoned us… then I shall face death as a king."

But before the blade could meet the enemy's steel—

Time itself stopped.

The rain froze midair, every droplet glimmering like glass. The sound of battle vanished into silence. Even the demons halted mid-strike, their snarling faces suspended in the mist like grotesque statues.

And then… came the light.

A rift tore open in the blood-red sky, spilling silver radiance upon the scorched earth. From that brilliance descended a lone figure—a goddess draped in black and white. Her long, ashen hair flowed like moonlight across her dark armor. Two wings stretched from her back—one black and feathery, the other white and skeletal, moving as if life and death breathed together. In her hand, she carried a massive bone blade.

It was her.

Neferia, the Goddess of Death.

Overwhelmed, Amaras fell to his knees. "O divine one… have you come to save us?"

But Neferia simply looked at him with sorrowful eyes and shook her head.

"Save you? No, Amaras. You're already dead."

"What?" he gasped. "No! I'm still here! My heart still beats! My men—my people—they're still fighting!"

Without answering, Neferia raised her hand. A small iron lamp appeared within it—an ancient cage holding a single black candle burning with white fire. The light flared so bright that Amaras had to shield his eyes.

"Look again," the goddess said.

When he opened them… the battlefield was gone.

The sky had turned gray and silent. The castle behind him lay in ruins, crumbled to dust. The land was covered in pale ash, stretching endlessly to the horizon. There were no demons, no soldiers—no life at all. Only he and the goddess remained.

"No… no…" His voice trembled, his eyes wide with horror. "This can't be… where are my people? What have you done to them!?"

Neferia's gaze softened, though her tone remained calm.

"As you can see, the battle ended long ago. Lionera has already fallen."

Amaras staggered, clutching his chest as the weight of her words sank in.

"But… how? I—I was just fighting…"

"What you saw," Neferia said gently, "was merely your memory—the echo of your final moments, repeating without end."

"My… memory?" he whispered.

She nodded. "Yes. Your soul is bound to the past, Amaras. You died that day—and yet your heart refused to accept it. Your will to fight, to protect your people and your kingdom, has transcended both time and space. Instead of returning to the circle of reincarnation, you are trapped here—between life and death—forever reliving that final day on a loop."

At those words, Amaras stood speechless.

The truth lay before his eyes now.

And yet… something deep within him refused to accept it.

Because if Lionera had truly fallen…

Then what was the point of fighting anymore?

What was the point of trying?

As despair filled his heart, his form began to flicker—his very being fading into nothingness.

But before he could vanish, Neferia raised her lamp. The white flame within it flared softly, and its light washed over him, soothing his heart and stilling his soul.

"I have been looking for you, Amaras," the goddess said.

"A valiant hero. A soul of immense strength and unyielding will. Someone who refused to back down, even in the face of death."

Amaras slowly lifted his head.

"Even though Lionera has fallen, and even though your men perished beside you… the war is not over. Arventia still stands—barely holding on. Tell me, King of Lionera… do you still wish to fight?"

"Fight?" he repeated, his eyes widening. "Can I… still fight?"

"Yes," Neferia answered, a faint smile curving her lips. "If you wish it, you may join my kingdom. Serve under me, and I will grant you strength. Together, we shall avenge your fallen home."

And as her words fell, hundreds of radiant pillars of light descended from the heavens around them. When the brilliance faded, Amaras saw figures emerging from within the glow. Warriors. Knights. All clad in Lionera's armor, bearing its proud crest and banner.

Amaras froze in disbelief.

"What—?! Alex? Marco? You're all here?"

His voice trembled as he recognized the faces of his most loyal knights—men who had once followed him into countless battles.

The soldiers fell to their knees as one, their voices echoing through the silent wasteland.

"WE GREET HIS MAJESTY, THE LION SWORD KING! MAY THE LIGHT OF LIONERA SHINE FOREVER!"

Amaras turned to Neferia, eyes wide. "Goddess… this—what is this?"

"You see," Neferia said softly, "it took me some time to find them all. Just like you, their souls refused to move on—forever trapped in their final fight."

At that, Amaras could no longer contain his emotions. Tears welled up in his eyes.

"I see…" he whispered, clenching his fist, a proud and sorrowful smile forming on his face.

Neferia extended her hand toward him. "You, Amaras, are the last missing piece. Will you accept my offer? Will you join my Legion of Death—and once more lead your people into battle?"

There was no hesitation in his voice this time.

"Yes!" he declared firmly.

The Lion Sword King dropped to one knee before the goddess and bowed his head.

"I, Amaras of Lionera, swear before the Goddess Neferia—

To rise again from death,

To wield my sword in her name,

To lead the lost and fallen who share my will,

And to fight until the end of time."

And so the Lion Sword King became something new. He was no longer a mortal ruler of the living, but a commander of the dead—Amaras the Corpse King, Guardian of the Grave, and one of the highest commanders of the undead legions beneath Neferia's dominion.

Many years later, when Neferia rose to rule over Duskwald, at the request of other gods she created the dungeons there, each ruled by her chosen champions. Amaras offered a fragment of his soul to serve as one of them, guarding the grave that bore his name.

The grave of a fallen king who refused to die.