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In the royal palace of the Neon Kingdom, Nelson—the Mercenary King who had dragged every last royal to the gallows for the crime of war—sat upon the throne and gazed down at his gathered ministers.
"So," Nelson said, his voice laced with derision, "Anyone got a problem with a no-name mercenary sitting in this seat? Speak now, and I'll be happy to remove that little problem myself."
Not a soul dared to answer. The palace had already seen too much blood. One terrifying purge after another had left the survivors too cowed to do anything but bow their heads and await orders.
Nelson nodded, pleased. Upon his head rested a crown adorned with gleaming jewels—an absurd sight for a man who had once worn chains.
"This is why life is so funny," Nelson said, chuckling to himself. "A low-born slave rises to become king of a nation. Quite the tale, don't you think?"
No one replied.
Nelson laughed, deep and hard, remembering the days of his youth.
This kingdom—Neon—had been his homeland. But as the son of slaves, he too had been born into slavery. Refusing to spend his life in chains, he had escaped and become a mercenary. That had been the beginning.
Battlefield after battlefield had hardened him. He grew stronger, savvier, and more dangerous. Even the very kingdom that once enslaved him had come crawling back, asking for his help.
Now, decades after his escape, that same slave had marched into...
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