Chapter 530: Inevitable XV
The silence that followed was worse than the roar.
Every fragment of the void seemed to lean in, every echo stilled as though the Tower itself had bent its endless body to hear a dying mortal’s whisper.
The first shadow—its crown of splintered light burning brighter now—lowered its hand slowly, as if measuring the weight of Leon’s defiance. The threads it had cast into his chest pulsed once, then stilled, not fading but binding.
Roselia spat blood into the void, her ember blade rising despite her trembling arm. "He said answer. So answer us, throne. Or are you too afraid to step down from your gilded seat?"
Naval barked a broken laugh, the sound half-rage, half-pride. "Aye. You felt it, didn’t you? Your inevitability bled. And now you’re listening to him."
The other Thrones stirred again, their voices fracturing the battlefield.
The wrathful one thundered: "This is blasphemy. Crush him where he lies."
The silken one coiled, voice sliding like knives through velvet: "No. Mark him, shape him. A bleeding flame is still a flame, and flames spread."
The weary voice pressed on, firm as stone breaking rivers: "Listen closer. The Tower itself leaned. That was no mortal act. That was an answer to inevitability. Do not mistake this—he is not your pawn."
Milim’s small body shook against Leon’s ruined frame, but she raised her head, eyes burning through tears. "You want an answer? Fine. Here’s mine. If you come for him—you go through me." Her tiny wings flared weakly, but the pulse of her fury resonated in the cracks of space.
Roman stepped forward, blood dripping from his fists. "And me. Throne or not, I’ve broken monsters bigger than you."
Liliana, tears streaking her face, lifted her glowing threads, weaving them into a net that anchored Leon’s heartbeat to hers. Her voice was hoarse, but iron: "He won’t fall. Not here. Not to you."
The battlefield pulsed again, louder this time. The Fifth Pulse—faint, flickering, but undeniable—beat in time with their defiance.
And then... the shadow of the first Throne spoke again.
Its voice rolled like distant thunder, softer now, but every syllable weighed heavier than worlds.
"Then so be it. You have spoken. And the Tower has heard."
The shadow’s crown split further, light spilling like molten glass into the void.
"The Flamebreaker has answered. The Tower shall answer in kind. War begins."
The sky above them cracked open, showing not stars, not floors, but endless pathways of battle—arenas, fields, citadels, oceans, each one trembling with armies not yet born but already waiting.
And from the depths below, the sound of more chains breaking. The forgotten were stirring.
Leon coughed once, blood and fire spilling from his lips, his grin faint but unbroken.
"Good," he rasped, every word a fracture in itself.
"Let it begin."
The Tower roared again—
not in fury, not in collapse—
but in acceptance.
The roar rolled outward, not as destruction, but as a tide that carried with it a truth none could unhear.
Every floor, every realm stitched into the Tower’s impossible spine, shuddered as the decree sank deep.
The Throne War had begun.
Armies blinked awake where none had stood before. Statues cracked and bled soldiers, citadels birthed legions from their stones, seas foamed with fleets assembled from drowned eras. The Tower was no longer merely a trial—it was a battlefield unfurling, piece by piece, across infinite layers.
Above the ruined field, the constellations of Thrones dimmed to silence. They did not vanish; they withdrew, watching, each voice still heavy in the air.
The wrathful one muttered thunder, swearing judgment yet withholding it.
The silken one chuckled, coils tightening in unseen shadows.
The weary one stood unmoving, its quiet gaze lingering longest on Leon.
The first shadow—the one crowned in splintered light—faded last. Its mark upon Leon pulsed, burning against his soul like a second heartbeat. Not a curse. Not a blessing. A tether.
And then, the battlefield stilled.
Only the broken remained.
Naval dropped to one knee, trident clattering beside him, his breath heaving like waves against jagged rocks. Roselia collapsed with her ember blade, laughing weakly until the sound broke into a cough. Roman swayed, fists dripping blood, but stood like a wall that refused to crumble. Liliana cradled Leon’s chest, her threads glowing faint as she whispered his name over and over, weaving life against inevitability.
Milim didn’t move. She only held Leon tighter, as though her fire alone could keep him here.
Leon opened his eyes—just barely. The faint glow of the Fifth Pulse lingered in their depths, wild, broken, and unyielding.
"...Flamebreaker," Naval rasped, staring at him with a mix of awe and fury. "You damned fool. You just declared war on Thrones."
Leon’s grin was cracked, but it held.
"No..." His voice was a whisper, almost devoured by the silence.
"They declared war on themselves. I just gave them... the excuse."
The Tower shifted again, faint but undeniable—a tremor not of collapse, but of anticipation. As though it too was waiting for the first step, the first clash, the first act of defiance that would define the war to come.
Roman looked out at the cracked horizon, voice low. "Then we’d better be ready. Because whatever comes next..." He exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing. "...it’s already marching."
And deep below, in the forgotten chasms of the Tower where the oldest chains had fallen, something vast stirred.
Something older than Thrones.
Something that had been listening long before Leon ever spoke.
It laughed again.
Not cruelly. Not kindly.
But with hunger.
The war had begun.
The laugh rippled outward, not with volume, but with gravity—an unseen weight that pulled at the marrow of the Tower itself.
Walls that had stood since before the first Ascender cracked. Forgotten glyphs lit across hidden corridors. Even the void between floors began to hum, as if some ancient audience was finally rousing from slumber.
Milim shivered, her wings twitching against Leon’s battered frame. "That... that wasn’t a Throne."
Liliana’s hands shook, her threads nearly snapping. "No. Older. Deeper. Whatever was chained... it’s awake now."
Roselia dragged herself upright, ember flame guttering like a lantern in storm winds. "Good. Let the bastards choke on the monster they buried. Maybe it’ll eat them before it eats us." Her smirk was wild, but her eyes betrayed unease.
Naval pushed himself up, trident grounding him. He looked to Leon—not as a comrade, not as a subordinate, but as if weighing something heavy and inevitable. "You’ve lit a fire that doesn’t go out, Flamebreaker. Thrones will come. Armies will march. The question is..." His jaw clenched, eyes burning. "...where do we stand when the first blade falls?"
Leon coughed again, each hack tearing fire and blood from his chest. Yet his voice, thin though it was, carried like iron through silence.
"We don’t stand behind. We don’t stand aside. We stand against. Thrones, chains, shadows—I don’t care."
The Fifth Pulse stirred, faint but insistent, beating once through the fractured battlefield.
Roman exhaled, a grim smile cracking through the blood. "Then it’s settled. War it is."
And above them, the Tower gave its answer.
Not in words, but in visions—shards of futures bleeding into the air.
—A floor of endless sea, fleets clashing until the water itself screamed.
—A sky pierced by citadels drifting like moons, their cannons brighter than suns.
—An arena of glass where champions of entire worlds would be forced to bleed for Thrones unseen.
Each image hung for a heartbeat, then shattered, leaving only the certainty that they were no longer climbing a Tower. They were marching into a war staged across its every breath.
Leon closed his eyes again, exhaustion dragging him toward darkness. But just before it claimed him, he whispered one last thing—barely audible, yet carried by the Pulse.
"Then let’s burn their war... into ours."
And with that, silence fell.
The Tower kept listening.
The armies kept waking.
And far below, the hunger laughed again—louder.