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Twenty years had passed.
June's kingdom — the Roan Kingdom — had been carved out by his own hands.
He wasn't a leader by virtue or diplomacy.
He was a ruler by force.
By sheer survival.
Twenty years ago, he had been a nameless slave, thrown into the dirt, beaten, mocked, and crushed under the boots of masters who saw him as less than an insect.
But June had refused to stay there.
He rose.
Not by inspiring others.
Not by uniting the slaves in hope or righteousness.
He rose by domination.
By systematically killing the masters one by one, draining their power, taking their resources, stripping their strongholds.
He became something feared — not loved.
He didn't lead as a noble or a general.
He ruled as a tyrant.
The Roan Kingdom wasn't vast, but it was solid.
A human foothold on the edges of the demon lands and dark elf territories.
June had smashed through countless forces to carve out enough land —
small demon clans, roaming ghouls, scattered succubi bands.
