Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 462: When Pride Falls

When Pride Falls

Leon’s thoughts reeled. If Aden exploded, the whole fortress would be gone. He might survive it, perhaps — the divine object within him could protect his form for an instant. But all the soldiers in Vellore would perish.

Images flashed in his mind—barracks falling, banners burning into their useless ash, the cries of men he had trained with and joked with. He felt every possible death as a branding iron on his flesh. The artifact that lay hidden under his ribcage thrummed in sympathy, impatient to be unleashed, but Leon could already envision the emptiness left behind: a short-lived shelter for one man and devastation for the rest.

He spat a curse. Think, Leon. Think.

Then Aden’s aura burst furiously, a dark hurricane of raw power emanating from him. The earth around his boots appeared to tremble as he planted his feet, all his muscles coiled with suppressed rage.

"Stop!" Leon’s voice was like a scythe through the hurricane of wind and pandemonium, cutting short. He raised a hand, his eyes blazing with intensity. "Sir Aden!

The knight’s head lifted, pale in the dim light, yet his eyes blazed with stubborn defiance. "You have no right to command me, boy," he said, his voice low but unwavering.

"I’m not commanding you," Leon’s voice cracked, a hint of desperation threading through it, before steadying again with deliberate calm. "I’m asking you."

For the first time, Aden faltered, a flicker of hesitation in his storming gaze.

"You’ve spent your whole life fighting for these people," Leon pressed, stepping closer, his tone firm but threaded with sorrow. "And now you’ll kill them all to prove what? That your pride is worth more than their lives?"

Aden’s jaw locked so hard his teeth chattered together. His body shook with great violence as the black-violet force about him surged, leaping into the air in angry curves. He stood poised on the verge of eruption, a volcano of rage and fatigue set to engulf everything around him.

Then —

"Sir Aden!"

The shout cut through the waiting, sharp and focused.

From behind the destroyed archway, silhouettes started to step out of the smoke and ruins. Nova went first, her black hair flying wildly in the intensity of the fight, green eyes very slightly glowing in the dimness, firm and keen. Following her came Captain Black Johnny, Rona, and what was left of Leon’s troops, weary and bruised but unbroken. With them walked what remained of Vellore’s army, shattered but alive.

Hundreds of men now stood before Aden, armor battered, banners frayed, some bruised and exhausted, some hanging on by a thread of consciousness. And one at a time, they bent to their knees. The harmonious motion vibrated across the wasteland, a living pulse that resonated across the rubble.

Aden went numb, his eyes constricting, agony and fatigue obscuring his vision. Each breath was like a labor. The men standing before him — the men he had commanded, instructed, shed blood with — now crouched not to him, but to his foe. The image cut at something long buried, a crack developing in his pride and confidence.

A chill coursed through his arm, and the black-violet aura trembled, flapping uncertainly like smoldering coals against the chill moonlight.

Leon advanced, his tone softer now, nearly intimate in its gravity. "See them," he murmured. "They’re alive because you let up."

Aden’s hands relaxed, and his sword fell from his fingers, clanking over the broken stone. The blade reflected the moonlight, casting an ugly shimmer over the blood spattered along its length. For a horrible, drowning moment, he was immobile, the universe contracting to that tiny, shivering reflection.

Then, gradually, his shoulders drooped. The aura that had been a tempest around him started to recede, closing little by little, like the final sparks of a dying fire in the wind.

"I..." His voice was nearly inaudible, raw and chopped, the burden of what he had almost done crushing him. "I can’t do it. Not to them."

The ruins were quiet now, except for the quiet hiss of fading energy and the far-off rumblings of soldiers bowing, waiting. Amidst that tenuous silence, Aden’s body trembled, his eyes shining with a hurt that had nothing to do with fighting. Pride and anger and guilt and love crashed around him, reducing him to pieces but making him human.

Leon moved closer, his voice dipping into a rough, almost intimate whisper. "You don’t have to."

The older knight let out a quiet, bitter laugh, a sound that carried exhaustion and defeat all at once. "You’re... cruel, Leon."

"Maybe," Leon admitted, his eyes never leaving Aden’s. "But you’re not a monster either."

Silence lay between them, heavy and oppressive, the sort that weighed upon the chest. The soldiers standing close by did not dare move, paralysed by fear or wonder. The only noise was the muted crackle of dying fires and Aden’s harsh, uneven breathing.

Then, very slowly, the knight raised his head. His lips quivered as he spoke, the words hardly more than a whisper, but somehow distinct enough to penetrate the quiet.

"You won."

Leon blinked, his face frozen between shock and disbelief. "...What did you say?"

Aden’s gaze met his, weary but unyielding, with a lucidity that transcended fatigue. "You won, Leon."

The crater fell silent in that instant. Each soldier, each knight, each injured survivor looked at the two men in the center, drawn to the gravity of those words. They suspended there in the air, irrefutable, unmovable.

Leon did not move, his body tense, his face inscrutable. For an eternity, the world narrowed to the distance between him and Aden. All he could do was breathe—slowly, consciously, allowing the beat of his chest to calm him. And then, unwillingly, he dropped his hand.

He didn’t grin. He didn’t brag or yell "I win." Instead, he nodded once, gravely, allowing the reality of what had occurred to sink into him.

Aden bowed his head, shutting his eyes. The pale violet light that had clung to him disappeared, evaporating in the night like mist.

By the shattered light of the moon, there was no victory, no taunt. It was not a easy one man defeating another. It was the end of an age—the quiet collapse of a knight who had worn his kingdom on his back for too many years, and the patient, inexorable ascension of the man who would wear it into the future.