Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 453: Sir Aden

Sir Aden

"Who dares spill blood under my protection?"

The voice crashed like a hammer of divine wrath, ringing from courtyard walls to ruffle the air itself. The ground itself seemed to freeze, holding its breath in terror and awe. The ring of steel ceased mid-swing; the cries of the hurt cut off as if devoured by the wind. Even the fires that had been burning only moments before stooped low, their flame growing small and shaking embers, as if in respect to the one who had just spoken.

And out of the darkened heavens, smoke curled and unfurled, giving way to a figure falling out of the night. He descended like judgment itself—hindered by the weighty sheen of metal armor, his presence reflecting the gravity of command. His landing sound reached through the courtyard like a deep, sonorous thud that caused every heart to miss a beat.

He came down with a crash that shattered the courtyard stones, the noise ringing through the darkness like faraway thunder. Dust and shards fluttered from the impact, and silence rolled outward as the flames strained and twisted in submission. The man stood at the center of the crater—wearing full steel armor scored with the scarrings of long-forgotten battles. Each scratch, each dent, spoke of blood and survival. Fading light glinted off the surface of his armor, outlining the golden braid of the black cape that streamed behind him like a living darkness.

His grayish-silver hair flowed from under a black helm, outlining a face etched by experience and encumbrance. When he raised his head, the dim light of his eyes arrested the world—cold, cutting, and keen with silent weight of sorrow deep inside steel determination.

He stood up, his own presence sufficient to silence the tumult. The ground beneath him split open, but his stance remained serene, intentional—like a tempest that had decided to rest for a brief moment. His eyes traveled slowly, taking in the destruction around him: broken walls falling into ash, fire devouring hungrily what was left of the courtyard, and bodies of imperial guards littering the ground like abandoned vows.

Every step he took was measured, weighed down with memory—not arrogance, but the tired pride of a man who had lived too many wars and outlasted too many promises. The air thickened with his silent authority.

Then his gaze froze—arrested by the center of the devastation.

A young man stood his ground against the armored figure, tall and unyielding, his golden eyes blazing like the edge of dawn through smoke. He returned the stranger’s glare without wincing; no bow, no shake—only a steadfast refusal to back down. Standing beside him, the woman with tidy green hair observed with the serene command of one who could shatter a man with a glance. Her hair glimmered like silk in the firelight and her face was made up but keen, each line attuned to the danger of the moment.

Behind them their comrades stood in loose semicircle: iron- and sweat-scented fighters, thieves with itching palms for a blade, wanderers whose silence vibrated with unspoken competence. Every presence thickened the air, an unseen tension that made the destruction itself appear animate. Ruined stones and smoldering beams of the courtyard held their breath as did people who lived through this destruction.

Natasha stood alone, beside the prostrate head maid. Her black bob stuck to her cheeks, speckled with ash and blood. She shook so barely that initially nobody observed; then they saw the whiteness of her knuckles as her fists clenched, and the delicate, quivering line of her mouth. Rage, sorrow, and numb shock blazed together in her eyes, making them too bright among smoke and fire. She would not look away from the dead body at her feet, as if looking away would cause the world to acknowledge what had occurred.

The armored man watched them all, calm as a hunter. His jaw clenched until the line of it was equal to the hard metal of his helm. When he spoke, his voice severed the smoke—a tranquil, icy mandate leaving no space for simple responses. "You all appear to be trained fighters," he stated, voice level and unyielding. "I will ignore this violence—once. Hand over the head maid immediately. Disarm yourselves. Do that, and none of you will receive punishment."

His words fell like a rope stretched over an abyss. Shoulders moved, faces stiffened, and someplace, a gasp stopped as individuals gauged whether rebellion was worth the cost. The devastation about them muttered broken vows and scorched guarantees, but he stood there intertwining the murmurs into one challenge: choose, and be prepared to take what comes.

For a long moment he did not say any more, allowing his threat to hang there between them like an ash line. His hand edged toward the hilt of his sword not with rage but with a soft, habitual preparedness—an oath sworn with steel instead of voice. The movement made the threat present; it was the kind that did not need shouting to be known.

Refuse... and you will force my hand."

The world seemed to be holding its breath.

Leon’s eyes didn’t waver for an instant. He examined the man with the patience of a predator, balancing the thick aura that wrapped around him like a living creature. It emanated power—raw, disciplined, tightly leashed, coiled and ready to lunge—but not yet unleashed. Monarch level, he knew. Every movement, every shred of tension implied strength, precision, danger. A tempest bottled up in steel.

A faint smile pulled at Leon’s lips, serene, almost careless, but backed with the subtle rush of a player taking a risk. "That’s a kind offer," he said, his voice smooth, deep, and level, carrying just enough metal to jolt without blaring. "Unfortunately, I don’t make bargains with men whose names I don’t know.

The brow of the knight furrowed, a flash of tension crossing his features, but he bowed himself slightly, dropping his sword just enough to display caution, not weakness. "I am Sir Aden," he stated, his tone measured, a faint pride edging each word. "First Knight of Vellore. Commander of the Imperial Guard. Protector of this court."

Leon’s golden eyes sparkled, keen and provocative, capturing the dying glow of the fire like molten metal. "Sir Aden," he said again, the syllables drawn out slowly, deliberately. "A title fit for a knight. But do you believe I would yield simply because you invoke it?"

Aden’s hold on his weapon tightened, knuckles paling, sinew flexing under the gauntlets. "You’re encircled by my men,