Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 504 504: The Dead Walk Again1

The Dead Walk Again

The air inside the command tent was so still it almost hurt to breathe.

The wounded commander knelt before Garay, the mud of the battlefield still clinging to his armor. Blood—dark, half-dried—marked his cheek like a brand of shame. The tent's flame shivered, and shadows twisted along the walls, warping every face into something tired, older, more haunted.

Garay's glare cut through the man's trembling. His voice came low, deliberate, with the kind of fury that didn't explode—it burned.

"Leon Moonwalker is dead," he said again, quieter now, every word heavy with memory. "So what the fuck are you saying?"

The commander's eyes were wet, his throat working to form words that refused to come. His breath rasped, and when he finally spoke, his voice cracked like old timber.

"I don't know, sire," he whispered. "But the dead… walk again."

A flicker passed over Garay's face—first disbelief, then a dry, humorless smile that carried no warmth. He turned away, running a gloved hand through his green hair as a quiet laugh escaped him. It wasn't amusement; it was denial dressed as composure.

"Walk again," he repeated softly, as though tasting the absurdity of it. Then, with a rough snort, "You expect me to believe that? That some ghost crawled out of the grave to mock my kingdom?"

The guards stationed near the tent entrance exchanged nervous glances but said nothing. The flamelight caught the edge of Garay's blade resting on the war table beside him, and for a moment, the metal seemed to breathe in rhythm with his anger.

The commander didn't move. His voice came again, low but firm this time.

"My king… I saw him. I swear it. His face, his eyes—it was him. The same black hair, the same golden gaze that cut through the smoke like the sun itself."

Garay's smile vanished.

He turned sharply, his cloak flaring behind him, and in two strides stood before the kneeling man. "You dare," he hissed, "bring me ghost stories in the middle of a war you already lost?"

"Majesty, I—"

"Silence!" Garay's hand slammed onto the table. Maps and parchments jumped, an ink bottle toppled and bled across the territory of Vellore like a spreading wound. "You don't even know what you're saying."

At his side, Edric moved. His armor creaked as he stepped forward, the flickering light catching the deep lines around his eyes. "Garay," he said quietly, trying to temper the storm, "the man's half-dead from battle. Perhaps—"

"Perhaps he's delirious?" Garay barked, cutting him off. "Yes, I agree."

But the commander's voice broke through, ragged, desperate. "No, my lord! I'm not delirious—I saw him with my own eyes! He led the assault at dawn. The banners of Vellore burned under his command!"

The tent fell into a silence so sharp it could have split skin.

Garay's expression hardened. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over the man's face. "Who was it that told you this name?" he asked quietly. "Who whispered Leon Moonwalker into your head?"

The man looked up, face pale and hollow. "No one," he whispered. "I was there when he walked among the flames."

Garay laughed again—but this time, there was no humor at all. "Then you've seen a demon wearing a dead man's face."

He turned, pacing, his boots crushing spilled parchment underfoot. His voice rose—not loud, but suffocating in its weight.

"I watched Leon die," he said. "I saw the sky itself tear open above Silver City. Aden was there. Edric was there. That bastard was swallowed in the fire he created. There's nothing left to crawl out of that."

Edric's gaze dropped. He remembered it too—the fall of Silver City, the screams, the blinding light. The memory still smelled of ash.

But the commander didn't yield. He lifted his head, blood dripping from his lips as he forced the words out. "Then tell me, my king… how does a corpse command an army?"

One of the guards flinched. Another took half a step back. The fire hissed as a log cracked, sending a burst of sparks up like a rain of dying stars.

Garay's expression froze.

Edric exhaled slowly. "Garay… perhaps—"

"Enough." Garay's voice came cold now, detached, but his eyes betrayed the storm beneath. "You truly believe Leon Moonwalker lives?"

The commander's nod was slight but unwavering. "I do."

Garay turned toward his men. "And the rest of you? Do any of you share his madness?"

One of the younger soldiers swallowed hard, then hesitantly stepped forward. His armor rattled faintly. "My lord… I too heard the name," he said. "The troops from the eastern line spoke of a commander with golden eyes who turned the tide at Vel's gates. They said… they said he carried the Moonwalker crest."

The tent seemed to exhale all at once, the silence collapsing into a heavy unease.

Garay stood still for a moment, head bowed slightly, his jaw clenched. Then slowly, his lips curved into a cruel smile—cold, thin, deadly. "If that's true," he murmured, "then I'll go to the capital myself. And I'll kill him again."

The words hung there, sharp as steel.

Edric's face hardened. "Garay—"

"No." Garay's eyes flared green under the dim light. "If he's alive, then he's mocking me. Mocking us all. Leon Moonwalker died by my command, by my blade, and by the gods, he'll die by it again."

The commander bowed his head, trembling, uncertain whether to feel relief or terror.

Outside, the wind howled—a low, mournful sound that slipped through the seams of the tent like a whisper of the dead. The night smelled of iron and smoke, the land still scarred by Leon's last battle a month before. Even now, the soil refused to heal.

Garay turned to the open flap of the tent, staring out toward the black horizon. Somewhere out there lay the capital—his throne, his pride, and if the rumors were true, his enemy reborn. The thought made his blood thrum with both dread and fury.