The Last Heir of Lesthran

The blackened earth smoldered, filling the air with the acrid scent of smoke and death. Here, in the forgotten ruins of a once-great empire, the capital of Lesthran had once stood in all its splendor. Now, only piles of stone and creeping vines bore silent witness to its fall. The broken walls, jagged like shattered teeth, stretched towards the sky, scarred by time and war.

Against the backdrop of the setting sun, a lone figure moved slowly. A tall man, clad in a tattered cloak that concealed his armor, stepped across the ashes, leaving barely visible footprints. His eyes, the color of darkened gold, surveyed the ruins with quiet intensity. This was where he was born. This was where he had died. And this was where he would rise again.

Arcturus Lesthran, the last prince of a fallen empire, had returned.

He was no longer the naive boy who had fled, consumed by the flames of betrayal. The idealistic belief in justice that had once burned within him had long since been extinguished. Only cold determination remained. His hands, scarred from years of hardship, clenched into fists each time he glimpsed another reminder of his home’s destruction. Step by step, he advanced towards what had once been the heart of the capital—the ancient palace of House Lesthran.

“You’ve returned too late, prince.”

The voice that emerged from the shadows of a broken column was deep and rough, weathered by time and battle.

Arcturus didn’t flinch. He recognized that voice. His former teacher, General Kallos, stood before him, his body covered in scars, clad in rusted armor. His eyes held exhaustion, but within them still flickered the fire that had once commanded legions and struck both fear and respect into his soldiers.

“Late or not, I have returned,” Arcturus replied evenly, his voice devoid of emotion.

The general stepped forward, his gaze sharpening as if in quiet approval.

“Then, are you ready to take back what is rightfully yours?”

Arcturus lifted his hand, and in the air above his palm, a blue flame ignited. At that moment, a familiar metallic voice echoed in his mind:

[Judgment Mark System Activated]

A slow smile curled his lips. The game had begun.

***

He didn’t know how long he had been walking through the ashen ruins, but each step echoed with memories of the past. Once, legions had marched these streets, their armor gleaming in the sun. Here, near the ruined bridge, victory parades had passed. And over there, beyond the collapsed arch, had been the marketplace, where he had once bought sweet fruits from merchants of distant lands.

Now, all of it lay buried beneath dust and blood.

“You haven’t changed,” Kallos remarked, his voice gruff. “Still as proud as ever. But now… there is no fire of youth in your eyes. That is good. Have you seen what the world has become without you?”

Arcturus did not answer immediately. His footsteps carried him forward, toward the ruins of the palace. He stopped before the remains of its colossal doors and ran his hand across their scorched surface.

“The world has always been cruel,” he finally said. “I simply never noticed before.”

Kallos let out a dry chuckle, crossing his arms.

“You are right. But if you wish to reclaim your legacy, desire alone will not be enough. Do you have a plan?”

Arcturus turned, meeting his former mentor’s gaze.

“A plan?” He smirked. “I do not intend to ask for my throne. I will take it back with fire and steel.”

At that moment, the wind stirred his cloak, revealing for an instant the mark burned into his skin. The Judgment Mark pulsed with a cold blue glow, as if responding to his words.

The general gave a slow nod. He understood—there was no trace left of the boy who had once looked up to him. Before him stood not a child, but a man who would change the course of history.

And above the dead capital, hidden beneath the ruins, the first sparks of a new war began to burn.