Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 500: The Crumbling Borders

The Crumbling Borders

A murmur spread like ripples through the veins of Vellore—no, Nagareth. The proclamation of a new king had fallen upon the capital like thunder after drought.

The first to shout had been a single voice in the square:

"All hail Sire Leon... and the Golden Naga of Vellore!"

Then came the roar. The crowd erupted—some in reverence, some in disbelief, and some in sheer stunned silence. The air was thick with smoke, sunlight cutting through the ash like threads of gold over a wounded city.

Leon stood at the center, his black hair tousled by the faint wind, golden eyes burning steady. His face was calm, not proud—certain. He looked over the kneeling soldiers, the trembling commoners, the once-proud nobles who could no longer find words.

This was not conquest. It was rebirth.

He raised a hand, the faint glow of golden mana weaving along his arm like a pulse from the land itself. Behind him, the massive spectral naga unfurled in the sky, its scales glimmering faintly as the people of Vellore—now Nagareth—looked up in awe.

When he spoke, his voice carried not by force, but by conviction.

"I was born as Leon Moonwalker," he said, every word ringing with quiet gravity. "But names fade. Kingdoms fall. Blood spills until the soil forgets what it belonged to. From this moment... I will no longer bear the name of the fallen."

He paused. The silence was heavy enough to bend the wind.

"From this day forth," he declared, his voice cutting through the ash and smoke, "I am Leon Nagareth. As your king, I claim not your obedience—but your courage. Together, we will rebuild not a kingdom of stone, but a home of strength."

For a moment, no one moved. Then slowly, the people began to bow—their disbelief melting into something like faith. The chant rose again, but now it carried new weight, a new name.

"All hail Leon Nagareth!"

"All hail Nagareth!"

The city, scarred and bloodied, seemed to breathe again. The golden naga shimmered, then faded into the sky, its light bleeding into the clouds like a promise.

Leon lowered his hand, exhaling softly. Beside him, Nova watched—her black hair brushed with green light from the fading glow. Her gaze was steady, her lips curved faintly. "You changed more than a name today," she murmured.

Leon glanced at her. "A name defines what we stand for. Vellore was a memory of fear. Nagareth will be one of resolve."

Nova nodded once, though her eyes flickered toward the horizon, where the smoke still rose from the ruins of outlying districts. "Not everyone will accept it so easily."

Leon’s jaw tightened. "I know."

---

By nightfall, the message had spread far beyond the capital’s scorched walls. Messengers raced through ruined roads, carrying word of the coronation.

Across the duchies and baronies, nobles gathered in shadowed halls, their candles burning low as whispers filled the air.

"The capital’s fallen?"

"Leon... Nagareth, he calls himself now."

"A common-born king?"

"No, not common—he’s something else."

In some estates, shock gave way to fear. Others... to hunger. The ambitious smelled blood in the change. They formed quiet circles, murmuring in wine-soaked conspiracies about who would kneel, and who would rise.

Yet even among their scheming, one truth settled deep and cold—Vellore, as it had been, was gone. And what replaced it would either unite them... or crush them.

---

Far beyond the walls of the reborn capital, the land itself still bled.

The border of Nagareth and Moonstone Kingdom had become a graveyard of banners. For seven days, war had consumed the plains—steel against steel, spellfire against sky.

Now, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the battlefield lay shrouded in red haze and silence.

The earth was torn open by craters and drenched in blood. The stench of smoke and iron hung so thick that even the dying clouds seemed to choke on it. Shattered armor lay scattered across the field—helmets caved in, spears snapped, swords driven into corpses like forgotten prayers.

Men moved slowly among the dead, dragging the wounded back toward dimly lit camps. Horses limped, eyes wide and rolling.

The war between King Garay of former Vellore and King Aurelian of Moonstone had become an endless nightmare of attrition. Neither side victorious. Neither willing to yield.

Tonight marked the seventh sunset since the first charge.

At the center of Garay’s camp, silence ruled.

Fires burned low, casting long, restless shadows across the trampled mud. The smell of burnt oil and dried blood lingered over every tent.

Within the main command pavilion, the mood was heavy—grim.

King Garay sat beneath the dim glow of a lantern, half-armored, his broad shoulders hunched forward, hands braced on his knees. His once-bright eyes had dulled, the weight of defeat pressing into every line on his face.

The golden sigil of Vellore had been torn from his cloak days ago. He hadn’t ordered it replaced.

Around him, his surviving generals gathered—old names that once commanded glory now reduced to husks of exhaustion.

Edric, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, leaned against the war table, his gauntlets still stained with blood. "The seventh day," he muttered, voice rough. "And we’ve gained nothing but graves."

Garay didn’t answer.

Another general spoke—a woman in dented armor, her arm bound in cloth. "We’ve lost the Third Division entirely, my king. Moonstone’s aerial mages decimated them before dawn."

The words drew no reaction from Garay. He sat still, staring at the flickering map before him—lines drawn, erased, redrawn. Territory traded for lives.

Then the flap of the tent stirred.

A man stumbled inside. His armor was shattered, one arm limp, face smeared with dirt and blood. His eyes were hollow, yet burning with something like desperation.

Every head turned.

Garay slowly raised his gaze, recognition flickering in his dark eyes. "You..." he murmured. "Commander of the Fourth Division."

The man struggled to remain standing, breath ragged. "My... liege," he rasped. "The flank... it’s gone. We held as long as we could, but they—"

Garay’s voice cut through the tent, sharp and low. "Why are you here, commander of the Fourth Division?"

The tent fell silent. The only sound was the crackling of fire, the whisper of the dying wind.

The man froze, lips parting—but no words came.

Outside, thunder rolled across the distant hills.