Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 526: Chapter

Chapter

In the far corner, half-hidden behind stacks of old banners, sealed scrolls, and rusted weapon racks, a presence waited.

A blade.

A black, broad sword. Massive. Heavy. Silent. Its surface didn’t shine, didn’t hum, didn’t glimmer in the torchlight—or the fading sunlight filtering through cracks high in the treasury walls. And yet, it called to him.

The moment Leon’s golden eyes landed on it, something slammed into his chest.

A pull.

Sharp. Deep. Primal.

His breath hitched.

"What the—fuck," he muttered, though the sound barely left his throat.

The sword didn’t glow. It didn’t react to mana. No magic hummed from it. And yet, it reached for him. As if it had been waiting. As if it had recognized him. As if some unspoken contract had already been forged, long before he ever stepped foot into this room.

Leon took a hesitant step forward. Then another.

Thump... thump... thump.

His heart hammered against his ribs, erratic, wild, unrelenting. He didn’t even notice his legs moving, carrying him closer to the weapon as though drawn by some invisible thread.

The sword wasn’t resting on a pedestal like the others. No, it lay upon a jagged stone boulder, as if the weight of the world itself had pressed it into place. Around it, other weapons—spears, swords, bows—stood in neat alignment, each accompanied by a small tablet describing its history, its wielder, its deeds. But none of them called to him like this.

Leon’s hand trembled as he reached toward the hilt. The metal was cool beneath his fingertips, colder than any steel he’d ever touched. And yet, it vibrated faintly—like a heartbeat responding to his own.

This sword... it’s like a vast sea, waiting for just a single drop to disturb its surface, he thought, staring at the black blade. It was quiet, restrained, but immense. Immovable. Infinite.

His gaze fell on the tablet beside it. His brow furrowed as he read the inscription, the letters etched in the language of the first kings of Vellore.

"This blade was wielded only twice by the founder of Vellore, retrieved from the Forbidden Forest. No mortal could bear its weight more than once. Five hundred kilograms. Steel unknown to any forge. The king who bore it never used it twice, and never again after his second battle. Whosoever enters the Forbidden Forest to claim it risks madness, or death."

Leon blinked. Five hundred kilograms?

What the hell...

His mind raced, connecting dots he hadn’t realized were there. The Forbidden Forest of Galvia. Four forests guided by the Grand Empire, one at the border shared between five small kingdoms. Legends whispered that those who ventured one kilometer in never returned—and those who did were never quite the same. Mad, broken, haunted.

And yet this sword had survived, preserved, waiting.

He shook his head, clearing the swirl of possibilities. Adventure, the Forest, conquest—all that could wait. First, the sword.

Focus, Leon. Focus. You’re here now. No one else can call this sword. Not yet.

His heartbeat still thundered in his ears as he extended his hand further. The hilt was almost impossibly heavy, yet magnetic, pulling at him. He grasped it fully, fingers wrapping around the grip, expecting resistance, expecting the metal to give in under its own weight.

Nothing.

Yet the sword refused to budge. Not an inch.

He exhaled, frustration tugging at his chest.

"Come on... come on," he muttered.

He adjusted his stance, placing his feet firmly on the stone floor. Muscles tensed, back straightened, mana flowing subtly from him—but even the faintest pulse of energy did nothing. The blade was immovable.

What is this...?

Leon crouched slightly, examining it. The black steel absorbed the light around it, a void that seemed to swallow the glow of the torches. Its edges were faintly embered—not glowing, not burning—but alive. It demanded something. Recognition. A worthy hand. Something beyond mere strength.

His eyes flicked back to the tablet. The words haunted him: the king who wielded this sword never used it twice.

And then his thoughts drifted. If the first ruler of Vellore—legendary, revered, brutal—had risked himself to wield this once, what had it required of him? What had it cost him? And if this sword could resist centuries of storage, of dust and stone and time... what would it do to Leon, should he manage to pull it free?

His pulse quickened again, a mix of excitement and dread curling in his chest.

No. This is the moment. Not later. Not tomorrow. Here. Now.

He squared his shoulders, gritted his teeth, and tried once more.

The hilt did not move.

Fuck... okay... think. Think, Leon.

He stepped back, took a deep breath, letting the cool air of the treasury wash over him. His mind cleared. He could feel the weight of the blade, the unspoken intelligence behind its restraint. It was testing him—not just his strength, but his judgment, his patience, his readiness.

Not now, buddy. Not now... we’ll have our adventure soon enough. First... just get to know each other.

He crouched again, studying the hilt, the faint ember-like glow along its edges, the way the metal seemed almost to breathe. Every fiber of his being told him: it wanted him to respect it, not force it.

Okay... respect. Got it.

He adjusted his grip slightly, angling his wrists in a precise alignment he didn’t consciously calculate, letting his body weight shift subtly, feeling the stone under his feet. A small, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the blade.

There. Something moved.

Leon’s heart raced. He tried again, more deliberate, more patient, drawing on his core strength but without forcing it. The sword responded faintly, a tiny quiver in its length.

Yes... yes, okay... we’re getting somewhere.

He paused. Let the feeling settle. Let the sword speak in silence. His breath was slow now, deep, controlled. His hand rested on the hilt, his eyes locked on the black steel as though willing it to recognize him, to acknowledge that he was here, and ready.

"Come on... just a little... just a little," he whispered, almost to himself.

The pull in his chest flared again, sharper this time. Not pain. Not anger. Recognition. Approval. It was primal, visceral, and intoxicating. His pulse thundered, and a small shiver traveled from his fingers, up his arms, to the base of his skull.

This is it...