Curiosity Has Teeth
He stepped out of the prison's shadowed entrance with a breath that failed to settle anywhere in his chest, more a shaky attempt at breathing than an actual inhale. The air outside wasn't truly fresh—Vel's capital still held that faint scorched dryness left behind by Leon's battle days earlier—but after the stale, wet heaviness inside the cells, it cut against his senses like sothing sharp, almost clean.
Behind him, the iron door slamd shut with a hollow thud that chased a shiver down his spine.
But the noise wasn't what stayed with him.
It was the conversation. Or rather, the feeling of it.
Not the literal sentences—they'd been simple enough. What lingered was the tone. That strange, almost unsettling confidence curling beneath the voices of three n who should've been shattered long before now. It was wrong. It was inconsistent with their situation. And it clung to him, refusing to let go, as if their certainty had followed him out into the open air.
Leon rolled his shoulders once, a subtle tension rippling under his skin as if trying to shake sothing stubborn free. The movent did little. His thoughts clung to them, uninvited yet insistent, gnawing at the edges of his mind.
Why the hell am I thinking about them this much? The question sounded absurd even to him. He didn't have an answer, not a real one. All he knew was that the curiosity—the pull—was growing instead of fading. Every thought of them felt sharper, more insistent, like it had a life of its own.
Curiosity, for most n, was a quiet thing. A flicker, a passing glance, an idle wonder. But in Leon, it had teeth. It bit at his mind, tugged at his restraint, and made every mory of them feel urgent, almost dangerous.
He paused halfway down the stone steps, letting the warmth of the sun wash over his face. The sky was still bright, clear and open, but the light had softened, tilting just so. Shadows stretched long across the courtyard, painting the worn stones in gold and gray. The world felt still, almost intimate, as if the day itself had leaned closer to watch him wrestle with his thoughts.
Leon breathed in slowly, tasting the quiet tension in the air, feeling it coil around him like a thread pulling him toward sothing he couldn't yet na.
"Half a day already gone…" Leon muttered under his breath.
It annoyed him.
Not because ti passed quickly, but because he'd done nothing he considered aningful yet. Ruling a kingdom ant paperwork, reports, council sessions—and today he had dodged most of it. But the boredom clung to him anyway.
He needed sothing—anything—to keep his mind sharp.
His fingers twitched at his side.
Then a mory flickered, sudden and sharp.
Crimson Lotus Sword Art.
The system-granted sword technique he'd barely had ti to explore, simply because he hadn't had a proper sword worthy of it. Sothing fitting. Sothing balanced. Sothing that wouldn't snap the mont he poured his strength into a technique.
A slow smile crept over his face.
"Vellore Treasury…" he murmured. "There has to be a good blade in there."
He turned. Aden and the prison warden were still speaking quietly several steps behind him, the nervous young guard hovering awkwardly beside them like a man stuck between two storms.
Leon's gaze found Aden first.
"You," he said, pointing loosely at the general. "Back to your duties. I'm done here."
Aden blinked, then bowed. "As you command, Your Majesty."
Leon's eyes then shifted to the jittering guard.
"You—nervous guy."
The guard jerked so hard he almost hit his head on the wall, snapping to attention with a squeaky, "Y-Yes, sire!"
Leon didn't hide the amused tilt of his lips.
"Co with . You're going to lead to the treasury. I want to take a look around."
The guard's eyes went round. "H-Huh?"
Leon raised a brow. "Did I stutter?"
"N-No, sire! I an yes—no—ah—I an—this way, sire!" He straightened, swallowed, then tried again. "Please follow , Your Majesty!"
Leon chuckled under his breath at the man's scramble, then nodded. "There we go. Lead on."
The guard's legs shook just enough to be noticeable as he turned, but he started walking. Leon fell in behind him at a steady pace, hands tucked behind his back, expression relaxed.
Behind them, Aden watched for a second longer before returning to his post with the warden.
Leon didn't look back.
His mind had already shifted.
The prison.
Those three n.
Their unbroken stares.
Their laughter—actual laughter—when he threatened them.
Who the hell laughs at death like that?
He didn't have answers yet, and that gnawed at him more than he cared to admit. The weight of the unknown pressed against his mind, a silent, insistent reminder that so truths were still just out of reach. And yet, despite the pull of unanswered questions, another hunger tugged at him—quicker, sharper, impossible to ignore.
Sword art. The idea alone made his pulse thrum with anticipation. Not the ordinary drills or clumsy swings of training, but a real blade in hand, a proper test of skill, precision, and instinct. A chance to push himself, to feel the raw edge of sothing new under his control. His thoughts danced over the possibilities, each one igniting that familiar spark of thrill and danger.
He moved with asured steps, the corridor stretching ahead, shadows growing longer as the sunlight faded behind them. The nervous guard before him practically radiated tension, his every motion stiff and jerky, as though the very walls of the palace could sense their approach and were judging their worth. Leon's smirk curved lightly at the corner of his lips, a teasing glint in his golden eyes.
So this was the stage. The inner halls, polished and austere, slled faintly of stone and old secrets. Every footfall echoed, carrying their presence forward into the heart of the treasury of Vellore.
Leon felt the thrill of anticipation coil in his chest, a slow burn of power and curiosity. This was no re stroll through familiar halls; it was the prelude to sothing far more intimate, far more dangerous.
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