Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 655: The Weight of a Throne

The Weight of a Throne

A spark jumped when metal hit rock again.

It landed without much force.

Heavy.

Final.

Floor tiles split apart under the blade’s edge, branching like frost across stone. Cracks crept outward, quiet, jagged lines breaking the hush of the open yard.

Frozen air sat heavy in his lungs.

Then -

Footsteps.

Soft.

Measured.

Not loud.

Not rushed.

Approaching.

Leon froze.

A blade floated upward, caught between fall and strike, held still by shaking limbs plus sheer refusal to yield.

A hush dropped like a stone. Silence pressed in, heavier than before.

Frozen mid-movement, tendons burned under pressure instead of speed.

His shoulders burned.

His forearms shook.

Quivering ran through his thighs, like they were seconds from collapsing. A shaky weakness pulsed there, ready to buckle without warning. Each breath made them tremble more, close to folding under their own weight.

Frost clung tight to the edge of his breath. Quiet gave way just before the sound left him.

Only after a pause did Leon begin to move.

Still holding it, he left the blade right where it was.

There he kept it, hanging midair, while something moved nearer from behind. The space between them narrowed without a sound. Closer now, its approach slow but certain.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Faint ripples along his skin told him it was near. Distance had shrunk without sound, yet presence pressed against his spine like breath held too long.

It was after that when he finally shifted.

Not quickly.

Not dramatically.

Down went the blade, inch by slow inch.

Inch by inch.

Millimeter by millimeter.

A hush came before the steel fell, heavy as a building pulled down by gravity.

Beneath the shifting load, Leon’s arms began to shake more. The effort pressed down, making each muscle tighten in uneven pulses.

His wrists screamed.

Bent under the weight, his arms trembled at the breaking point.

Yet his hands stayed steady on the drop.

Only silence came when the tip met earth at last.

Still lying flat on the ground.

It pressed.

Fissures spidered through the ground below, snapping like burnt paper.

Stone depressed inward.

Dust lifted.

A sudden tilt sent the blade’s tip into the earth like it was sinking through wet mud.

One of Leon’s hands let go of the hilt.

Then the other.

Fingers loosening at last, though not without resistance, like each joint feared it wouldn’t remember how to stretch. Then came a quiet release, stiff muscles giving way under their own weight.

His spine pushed up into a line.

He shifted his weight, then rolled his shoulders one time.

Pain flared.

He ignored it.

Leon turned.

Into the room came a man with hair like storm clouds. He moved slow, heading straight his way.

Not tall.

Not imposing.

A quiet dignity hung about the figure, clothed in a plain yet perfectly kept robe of office.

Dark fabric.

Clean lines.

No ornamentation.

A ribbon held his hair back, smooth against his neck.

Darkness filled his gaze. Black took over his pupils. His stare held no light. Shadow sat deep in his look.

Calm.

Sharp.

Observant.

A quiet curve tugged at the edges of his mouth.

Not mocking.

Not flattering.

A quiet face showed what years had taught. Stillness spoke where words once were.

Frozen in place, Ronan held back by an invisible line just three paces off.

His hand closed tight against the ribs. A weight stayed there.

Bowed slightly.

"Greetings, Your Majesty."

A small smile touched Leon’s mouth.

"Greetings, Lord Ronan."

Their eyes met.

No ceremony.

No exaggerated reverence.

Just acknowledgment.

Ronan’s gaze drifted.

Furrows of shadow trace down where light slips off his skin.

Across sweat-slicked skin.

Trembling arms.

Next came the blade stuck fast in rock.

A trace of a grin grew narrower.

He let out a soft breath, almost too faint to hear. Quiet filled the space after it left his lips.

So he’s still trying.

Four days ago...

A flicker of something long past stirred behind Ronan’s eyes. Not by choice did it return - just showed up like a cracked window in the middle of calm air.

Footsteps echoed as he entered beside Commander Black, their path set toward talks on reshaping the city. Matters pressed forward without delay.

Few saw it coming when he stepped forward. The crown was supposed to be his, yet silence followed instead.

Or in council.

Instead...

Here is where they came upon him.

Alone.

Barefoot.

Flying through air, that large dark blade cuts weighty arcs. Heavy motion follows each wide arc of the black steel. Big presence fills the space as it moves without sound.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Funny how things looked different up close - Ronan almost believed he wasn’t seeing it right.

Far beyond them in practice stood Leon. His level had grown much further.

Flesh shaped by unseen force, heavy with raw strength. A frame built not for grace but weight, moving like something ancient awakes.

Dense.

Powerful.

Fighting up close came naturally to Leon, his presence alone enough to unsettle anyone near him.

Yet... The sword.

Stillness held it tight.

Frozen in place, Leon saw them waiting. Stillness gave way to recognition.

Smiled. Casual.

He looked at them, noticing the puzzled faces. A pause came before his words slipped out - why not just lift it? Like the idea had been there all along.

His eyes locked on the king. A royal order meant little reason to refuse. What weight would such a task truly hold?

Then he laughed.

Something didn’t budge when he reached for the sword. Each attempt followed the last, just as still.

Fingers trembling, he tried again - no result. Two palms pressed together made zero difference.

Full strength.

The blade stayed still. It did not move at all.

His face darkened.

Then Ronan grinned after spotting it, spoke up - "Commander, I’ll give it a go" - then moved ahead without waiting.

Energy of a quiet kind moved through him.

Folded slowly across his skin, the fabric settled into place.

Fingers closed tight around the handle.

Pulled.

Nothing.

He tried again.

Frowning, Commander Black sent earth-element strength into his limbs. Lifting the sword became possible only after that flow settled.

Muscles swelling.

Bones hardening.

He pulled again.

Frozen again. Not even a tremor ran through the blade.

Each attempt left them breathless, until sweat soaked through their clothes.

They sighed.

A strange warmth crept through them, even before turning toward Leon. His quiet certainty hung in the air, as if time had whispered the answer only to him.

A glance passed between them.

How vast their power once stood

That blade moved like air in his hands - where they’d strained and failed, it stayed rooted, unmoving.

Silent. Heavy.

Built for warriors, not just anyone could wield it.

And Leon...

Despite everything, Leon kept working at it. Still, he pushed forward without giving up. Even now, practice didn’t stop. Though hard, effort stayed constant. Yet again, another try began. Always, progress moved slow but sure.

His eyes found Leon again.

You keep going, Ronan said soft-like.