Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 497: The Voice of a New King

The Voice of a New King

The courtyard still hummed with the echo of the crowd’s chant.

Then, all at once, silence.

The kind of silence that didn’t just fall—it pressed.

It sat heavy on the chests of every soul gathered there, as if the very air refused to move until the man standing above them spoke.

Leon stood motionless for a long time, the faint breeze tugging at the hem of his black cloak. The morning sun had climbed higher now, cutting through the smoke-stained clouds that still drifted from the battle. The scent of burned stone and dried blood lingered in the air—a cruel reminder that peace hadn’t yet settled, only paused.

He let his gaze sweep the courtyard. Thousands of eyes stared back—some wide with awe, others tight with confusion or fear. He could feel it in the air: uncertainty, disbelief, and a quiet, fragile hope fighting to breathe.

He had seen it before.

In the Silver City.

In the ruins of Moonstone.

In every nation that had lost its faith before learning what it meant to rise again.

Leon’s golden eyes dimmed slightly, shadowed with memory. He understood this silence; he was born from it.

He took a slow breath, then finally spoke.

"Fear," he said softly. His voice carried without effort. "Uncertainty. Confusion. Shock."

Each word hung in the air like the toll of a bell.

"I see it in your eyes."

A ripple of movement ran through the crowd. No one dared speak, but many lowered their gazes, ashamed of what he named aloud.

Leon’s voice deepened, steady and deliberate. "I know this feeling. Because once—I stood where you stand now."

The faintest murmur rose, hesitant, questioning.

He continued, "I was once lord of Silver City, where dawn itself feared to rise after the war. I ruled the ashes of a proud kingdom, the same way you now look upon yours." His jaw tightened. "I know what it means to lose everything you trusted."

He took a step forward, his boots scraping lightly on cracked stone. The light caught the curve of his jaw, the subtle gleam of the sigil etched into his glove—a mark that shimmered faintly with silver.

He raised his chin slightly, voice now echoing across the square.

"People of Vellore," he said, his tone a mix of steel and gravity, "let me introduce myself properly."

He paused—then let the words fall like a hammer.

"My name... is Leon. I come from the Moonstone Kingdom."

Gasps burst through the crowd like sparks. The noise surged, rising from disbelief to outright panic.

"Moonstone?! But—"

"That’s impossible—our war with them still rages!"

"Then he’s—he’s our enemy!"

The shouts overlapped, crashing against each other in waves. Men stepped back, women clutched their children. Even the kneeling soldiers exchanged looks, tension sparking in their eyes.

Leon stood unmoving. Only his cloak stirred.

Then, in one fluid motion, he lifted his hand.

"Silence."

The single word tore through the uproar like thunder. His voice wasn’t loud—it was commanding, heavy with something that made the air itself tighten.

The courtyard froze again. The echo of his word lingered, vibrating in the chest of every person present.

Leon lowered his hand slowly.

"First," he said, his tone even and deliberate, "let me make something clear. The battle between Moonstone and Vellore has not ended. It still burns across the borders."

He let the weight of that truth settle, the crowd holding its breath.

"But..." He paused, his eyes sweeping the faces before him. "I am no longer the Duke of Moonstone."

The wind carried the faint rustle of banners and broken fabric.

"I walked away from that title," he continued, his voice softening, "and from the bloodline that chained me. I devoured the throne that birthed me. I killed the name they gave me."

The silence deepened.

"I am one of them by birth," Leon said, "but I am no longer theirs by soul."

He took another step forward. The faint golden glow in his eyes brightened as he spoke the next words.

"And more importantly..." he exhaled slowly, "I am your king."

The crowd recoiled. A thousand faces stared up, mouths open, disbelief etched across every one of them.

Even the captains—Black, Ronan, Johnny—shifted in shock, exchanging uncertain glances. Nova, standing to his right, didn’t move. Her gaze was fixed on him—calm, proud, unreadable.

Leon’s voice rolled through the courtyard again, strong and unwavering.

"I know what you’re thinking," he said, a faint smile ghosting his lips. "You fear that I am another tyrant in the making. You’ve seen enough kings who called themselves divine, only to feed on their people’s pain."

He took a long breath, his tone softening—not weak, but human. "I know your last ruler. King Garry." His voice hardened with quiet contempt. "A man who reigned through cruelty, who burned loyalty for entertainment, and called fear devotion."

Murmurs rippled again, this time bitter, confirming his words.

Leon raised his hand again—not to silence them, but to guide them.

"So listen," he said, his tone deep and resonant now, almost like a vow. "If you fear I will become like him—then don’t. I will not. I cannot."

He opened his palm. A faint crimson light shimmered there, pulsing once like a heartbeat.

"Because I have already signed a blood contract."

Gasps spread again—this time not in fear, but awe.

"This contract binds my will to yours," Leon continued. "It means I cannot take your loyalty by force, nor rule through fear. My life is tied to your peace. If I break that bond... I die."

The crowd whispered—hesitant, yet slowly changing tone.

Somewhere near the front, a soldier whispered to another, "A blood oath? That’s impossible... no ruler would risk that."

Another answered, "He just did."

Leon’s gaze softened as he watched them, seeing disbelief start to fade, replaced by something new—curiosity.

He lowered his voice, letting it slip into something raw and real.

"I don’t want to impose my rule on you," he said. "I don’t want to sit on a throne made of corpses or bowing heads."

He took another step forward, close enough now that the first row of soldiers could see the faint scar across his neck, the one shaped like a blade’s memory.

"I want to earn it," he said simply. "Not through blood. Not through fear. But through trust."

The wind rustled faintly, as if the world itself leaned closer to listen.