Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 460: The Last Stand of Vellore

The Last Stand of Vellore

The courtyard was lost. All that remained was a crater—a raw, gaping wound ripped out in the skin of the earth. Smoke crept from its rim, slow and agitated, twisting skyward like the weak sigh of something already dead. The night was quiet but for the muted hiss of settling stone. Over it all, the moon hung low and far, pale light spilling across the wreckage like a pall.

Shattered rocks twinkled dimly in the silver light of the moon, scattered over a landscape etched by ruin. Dust floated in the air, moving slowly in unseen whirlpools, reflecting light as though it, too, wept for what had been here—walls that had defended, towers that had stretched towards the sky, laughter that had rung out, lives that had been extinguished in an instant. The world was empty now, a mere scrub of jagged points and stillness.

In the midst of destruction, there were only two left. One crouched in the rubble, shoulders hunched, each breath and release a struggle. The other stood, unmoving, her body a shadow in the faint, ghostly light, a guard of what was left. No words existed between them. Only the burden of loss hung between them, drawn tight as a bowstring ready to break.

The man on his knees was Aden. His armor, once so proud and shining silver, etched with the Vellore crest, was now broken in remembrance of what it had been. The metal twisted, blackened along the edges, and bloodstreaks discolored the breastplate, running along the sculpted ridges down to the earth below. His grey-white hair, normally tied back, had escaped, dripping wet streaks across his sweat-glazed face. A shudder of a cough raked his chest, spitting onto the shattered stone a fine strand of red. His eyes blazed with weariness, incredulity, and the stark burden of a man who had lived through battle after battle only to be brought up against a wall that refused to be climbed.

Leon stood across from him, the difference stark and disquieting. He carried his own scars of the battle—his coat ripped and burnt, soot and blood smeared on it, cuts marked on his cheek and arm—but he never weakened. He stood like the ruin that surrounded him had no hold over his backbone, no dominance over his posture. His golden eyes reflected the moonlight, molten and wild, but restrained. Every breath he took was controlled, calculated, the sort of mastery only brought about by years of refusing to give in, of curving the madness around him without snapping.

The silence that sat between them was choking, not the quiet of serenity but the crushing hush that comes after the shriek of conflict. Aden’s chest rose and fell, each breath drawing sorrow and rage into his system, and Leon stood unmoving, a statue chiseled from tolerance itself. The darkness appeared to be leaning in, crushing down, observing, waiting, as if the world itself waited with bated breath for whatever would happen next.

He gazed down at Aden — not with cruelty, not with arrogance, but with the calm, measured composure of a man who had already witnessed how this battle would turn out. There was no urgency in his posture, no glint of victory in his eyes, only the quiet surety of a man who had weathered countless storms and never been shaken.

"I warned you," Leon said, his voice deep and gruff at the edges, heavy with fatigue. "Sir Aden, if you battle me... you lose. And now—" His eyes hardened, steel cutting through the moon-bright fog, "—you do."

Aden’s shoulders shook, minute but unmistakable. His hand tightened around the pommel of his sword, knuckles white, the blade shuddering as if it sensed the ebbing rhythm of his aura. Painfully, slowly, he raised his head, every movement extracting agony across his bruised face.

"Not yet." he grated, each word thick with effort and obstinate defiance. "Not until I choose it’s done.

Leon let out a slow, nose-exhaled breath that was more of a sigh than air. "You never quit, do you?"

A faint, jagged smile spread across Aden’s battered lips, though it only disguised the pain and exhaustion chewing its way through him. "That’s... the bane of men like me," he rasped, voice now hoarse but unbreakable. "We only give up when the world itself does."

He punched a hand into the broken earth, heaving himself up from the ground with a guttural grunt that shook the bony plating in his chest. Veins pulsed on his neck like taut ropes and loose pebble-gravel slid and skittered beneath his boots as he forced himself up from the ground. Every part of him yelled fatigue, every movement bearing witness to years of warfare that had honed him into legend alive.

Leon’s face relaxed, a delicate blend of respect and pity dancing across his face. He could sense it — the unbending, unshaken will that had etched Aden’s name into the pages of Vellore’s most renowned knights. Even in the last blow — that final crushing punch with the undiluted strength of Leon’s new soul — Aden would not give way completely.

"Still standing," Leon murmured, almost to himself. His voice carried a quiet note of reluctant admiration. "You’re stronger than most men I’ve met."

Aden let out a brief, harsh laugh that immediately turned into a dry, rasping cough. The noise shredded through the quiet like shredded steel. He leaned hard against his sword, his chest laboring with ragged, unbalanced breaths. "And you..." he struggled to say, taking a moment to calm his voice, "you’re not the boy I thought you were." Each word was strained, flavored with astonishment and the bitter aftertaste of respect.

Leon leaned his head to one side, his golden eyes unwavering, serene, and inscrutable. That wild spark which used to blaze in him no longer existed. What took its place was something tougher, something won — a subdued tranquility that came only from passing through flames and never giving up.

When this battle started," Aden continued, his voice rusty but somehow calm, "I saw a child — drunk on his own strength, irresponsible, arrogant." He took a shuddering breath, raising his eyes to Leon’s. "But now..." He paused, raw eyes searching, voice heavy with weariness and something near pride. "Now I see the spine beneath that arrogance. You’ve earned it.

Leon’s lips twitched slightly — not a smile, really, but the shadow of one. It was part acknowledgment, part challenge. "That’s good to hear," he murmured, "from the man they call Vellore’s First Wall.