Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 664 664: When the Gates Learn the Truth

When the Gates Learn the Truth

He mounted his horse again.

"Open no gates until I confirm."

"Yes, sir!"

Faster than silence, Commander Black turned his horse and pushed ahead, racing for the closest gate. Wind tore at his cloak, making it snap like drumfire above galloping hooves that pounded the dirt path without pause. From behind came war horns, rough and jagged, drifting between buildings - uneven cries swelling then vanishing like something hurt trying to rise.

Footsteps echoed behind, hanging thick in the stillness.

The checkpoint was already awake with tension.

Right when the first horn sounded, the men reacted like a single body pulled by unseen threads. Shields crashed side by side, forming a solid wall. Spears pointed ahead, each held at the exact slant practice carved into their arms. Bowstrings stretched taut, whispering with tension, though arrows stayed loose at hips. Not a word broke the silence. Nobody fidgeted. Each soldier remained rooted where endless drills had etched his stance - spine rigid, teeth clenched, gaze fixed past the barrier onto open ground.

Fumes hung thick, mixed with grit on the wind.

Ahead, not quite clear at first, a blend of brown and gray hung low across the land. Rising slow, heavy with grit, the air turned dull as if pressed by weight. Not random, this movement had purpose behind it.

Only near the end did Black ease up. The horse exhaled hard when pulled back, then he dropped from the seat like it was routine, feet hitting rock. While the beast still shifted under its breath, out came the officer, hand snapping to heart in stiff greeting.

"Commander!"

Relax, Black murmured, staring past the barriers into the open stretch ahead. Dust specks moved far off, shifting slowly across his line of sight. He watched them closely - measuring how fast they came, how far apart, what they might mean. Then he asked for an update

"Unidentified force still seven kilometers out," the checkpoint head reported. "No banners. Formation intact. No hostile movement so far."

A lone nod came from Black. Not a word more than needed. Binocular passed between them

The pause came first - a half-second wobble beneath the calm - and then everything moved. With a sharp tilt of his arm, direction was given. One man bolted, gravel spraying under heavy steps, balance slipping but recovered mid-stride. Dust hung in the air as he halted hard, offering the metal-framed glasses fast, voice gone quiet, gaze aimed at the ground.

It stayed in his hand, motionless at first.

Forward he moved, toward the rampart's edge. Down came his heel, firm. Weight settled into place, like the earth had to know he was there before anything else. The word formed on his lips - soft, steady, close.

Green light flared.

Beneath his feet, a ring-shaped mark appeared out of nowhere. Around its rim, symbols turned slowly - old, exact - while raw energy from the soil shot up without warning. A low sound came from deep below. Cracks formed first, then lifted into walls of rock.

A chunk of stone broke loose, then rose higher instead of falling.

Upward it rose, fast, a floor made of stone chunks locked together, no saw marks, no mortar. Fifty meters high now, floating past the outpost below, held by nothing seen. Not built, just willed - shape given by grip on the earth itself.

Beneath, troops held still, air caught in their lungs.

One person looked straight without hiding it. Still another missed the moment to close their eyes.

Facing away, Black moved on without looking back.

The cold weight of the metal touched his skin when he lifted the binoculars at last. His breath slowed just before contact.

Fog lifted. The path came clear.

A large force.

A shape stretched across the horizon, larger than any trade fleet could manage. Not chaos like refugees fleeing. Lines stayed sharp, gaps even, steps moving together but loose - nothing like soldiers showing off. Distance between them meant something. Each shift felt planned, yet fluid.

Horses moved ahead at the front of the line.

Fleet after fleet rolled forward, bolted tight, watched close, moving with intent.

Then -

His brow furrowed.

Women.

Facing forward, never hidden behind walls or signs. Out in front where eyes could find them, seated tall yet loose on their mounts. Reins held firm but without tension. Their stance said sureness - nothing reckless about it.

Armed.

These were no parade swords. No decorative suits of mail hung on walls. Tools meant for hands that knew their weight.

Fascination pulls you in, yet their threat holds you back. A single glance might charm - then cost too much.

This time, Black turned the focus knob more slowly. A muscle in his jaw clenched.

A shock of red stood out across the yard. That color caught your eye before anything else did.

Famously purple, dripping with royal vibes, impossible to miss.

Frost does that - shimmers just like metal when sun hits it right. A pale gleam, quiet but sharp.

Green.

Black.

A sudden clarity took hold. Outlines snapped together, rigid and sure. The past crashed back without warning.

A weight dropped into his chest. That was it.

A look shot beyond, slicing through those ahead like mist, eyes locking on the back lines without warning. Stillness broke into sharp attention, moving fast behind blank faces. The moment turned cold, fixed on what waited further away.

Silver City soldier.

Blackthorn City soldier.

It hit me like a cold wind at midnight. A sharp truth cutting through fog.

Same stance. Same pace. Not just the tiny gaps between footsteps, but also how their shoulders tilted, plus the way they stayed rigid even when moving forward - each move burned into their bodies until nothing could mask it. Men he'd know without seeing.

Down it fell, the binoculars sliding loose from his grip.

A hard knock against rock rang out. Bouncing came next, just one time. Toward the platform's rim it moved slowly. There it paused, tipping slightly. A pause like hesitation gripped its balance.

Below, soldiers gasped.

A sudden tilt of the guard's head, eyes wide with surprise. "Sir?"

Black didn't answer.

A hush fell over his body, spine straight, arms hanging free. Then, out of nowhere, the rock underfoot twitched, stirred by the barest slip in his attention.

Something caught his eye. Fixed right away.

He paused, then filled his lungs slowly.

Then he exhaled.

Slowly. Steadily.

A weight slipped from his shoulders, slow and steady, not sudden - more like tucking steel into its holder than letting it fall.

Memory surfaced.

Out of nowhere, a chat with Ronan floated back, sharp as a whisper just now replaying in his mind. That choice about the ministries had come straight from the king. Changes were already shifting through the halls. Her coming - no later than two days away - hung in the air like dust before rain.

Suddenly, things began fitting together. A slow certainty moved through each moment. One after another, parts found their spots without force. It happened like breath - no rush, just motion. Silence made it clearer.

A sound slipped from Black, close to laughter but held too tight to be sure. It came out quiet, laced with an odd mix of ease and something darker, like a joke only he understood.

He whispered the words almost silently, just to himself.

One hand rose into the air.

The moment passed, and the stone slab dipped downward, vanishing where it first appeared, leaving behind no trace, not even a line. Down came Black, one foot after another, meeting unyielding rock beneath his soles, steady by design. Clarity returned to his gaze - steady sight, intent mind - yet the tightness across his shoulders had slipped away.

"Stand down from combat posture," he said.