Chapter 533: Inevitable XVIII
The battlefield shifted once more, not with cracks but with rhythm.
The pulse that had been faint before now struck like a hammer against the marrow of every being present. It didn’t roar. It didn’t command. It simply was, undeniable, older than crowns and cycles.
Roman staggered under the weight of it, blood dripping between his clenched knuckles. "...That’s no battlefield. That’s a summons."
Naval grit his teeth, trident thrumming as if resisting the call. "Summons? To what?"
Leon’s eyelids fluttered, his broken body little more than a vessel barely clinging to will. Yet his voice—ragged, cracked, but carrying—slipped between the pulses like a thread binding meaning.
"...Not summons. Recognition."
The earth beneath them convulsed. From the sea of eyes carved into the Tower’s bones rose shapes—colossal, humanoid, but wrong. Their outlines rippled like half-forgotten memories, their flesh composed of runes and fractures instead of sinew. They were not soldiers. They were witnesses.
Liliana cried out, threads sparking as they recoiled from the towering figures. "They’re not attacking us—they’re watching him!"
One of the witness-shapes tilted its head, a canyon-wide motion. Its eyes burned with runes that twisted and reformed, bleeding light. And in its silence, they all felt the message:
The Flamebreaker has been chosen.
Roselia spat blood, her laughter ragged, desperate. "Chosen? He’s half-dead, you bastards. What kind of savior do you think you’re crowning?"
The laughter from below rippled again—not mocking, but approving. It wasn’t their laughter. It was the Listener’s.
Milim bristled, wings flaring like firebrands against storm. "He’s not your crown. He’s not your pawn. He’s ours."
Her defiance echoed sharp, but the pulse only deepened. The witnesses leaned closer, their runes bleeding faster now, inscribing themselves into the air. The battlefield’s trenches lit like veins, stretching outward to infinite horizons, a script being written with every beat.
Naval’s voice was low, strained, almost reverent despite himself. "The war’s not just Thrones against us anymore. The Listener... it’s staking its claim."
Roman stepped forward, planting himself between Leon’s ruined body and the watchers above. His fists trembled, but his voice was steady as steel. "Then it better be ready. Because if it thinks Leon fights for anyone but himself—it’s wrong."
The pulse hammered once more.
And for the first time, the Listener answered in more than laughter.
A voice—not sound, not echo, but a resonance carved directly into the soul:
"NOT PAWN. NOT CROWN. FLAME."
The witnesses straightened, their runes blazing brighter. Above, the Thrones’ constellations flickered violently—some with fury, some with hunger, some with fear.
The Tower itself had spoken.
And Leon—bleeding, broken, yet still breathing—was at its center.
The constellations of the Thrones writhed like wounded stars.
Their silence fractured.
The wrathful one roared, its thunder crashing so violently that entire skies trembled:
"BLASPHEMY! THE TOWER DOES NOT SPEAK—IT OBEYS US!"
The silken one’s laughter coiled through the air, sly and sharp.
"Flame or pawn, what does it matter? A fire consumes. Let it burn the weak first, and we’ll see what remains."
The weary one’s voice cut through, heavy as mountains shifting.
"...No. The Tower has spoken. And if we defy it, even Thrones will fracture."
The battlefield groaned under their discord, trenches cracking deeper, runes flaring like veins of fire. The Witnesses did not move, but their glow only grew stronger—like torches raised against the constellations above.
Leon stirred, his breath shallow but his eyes burning faintly with the Fifth Pulse’s ember. His lips parted, words dragging themselves from the edge of collapse.
"...Not theirs. Not yours. The Tower... was never yours to claim."
Liliana pressed closer, her threads holding him together like fragile veins of light. Her voice trembled. "Leon, stop—don’t provoke them further—"
But it was too late. His words had already reached upward.
The Thrones’ stars flared in fury. Entire constellations bled fire, and shadows the size of continents leaned closer, pressing the weight of inevitability down like a collapsing sky.
Naval braced his trident, snarling through grit teeth. "Here it comes—"
Then the Witnesses moved.
Not with speed, not with violence—just one step forward. And that step shattered inevitability.
The pressure of the Thrones broke like glass against stone.
For the first time in memory, the Thrones were resisted not by mortals—but by the Tower itself.
A hush fell.
Even the wrathful one faltered.
Even the silken one went quiet.
Roman’s chest heaved, his fists dripping blood, his jaw tight. "...They’re standing for him."
Roselia coughed a laugh, fire leaking from her mouth. "Hah... Then the Thrones aren’t gods anymore. They’re just kings in stolen crowns."
The pulse struck again, harder.
And the Listener’s voice carved itself deeper into them all:
"FLAMEBREAKERS ARE NOT GIVEN. THEY ARE MADE. THIS IS MY WITNESS."
The constellations recoiled, their lights flickering in wild disarray.
Milim’s tiny hands clutched Leon tighter, her tears streaking but her fury blazing hotter. "Then he’s not just Flamebreaker. He’s ours. If this Tower tries to take him—if any of you try—" She bared her teeth, wings sparking like burning suns. "...I’ll break it first."
For a long moment, nothing moved.
The Witnesses burned.
The Thrones seethed.
The Listener pulsed.
And Leon—half-dead, broken, bleeding—smiled faintly through the fire on his lips.
"...Then war it is."
The Tower trembled again.
Not as collapse.
Not as threat.
But as acceptance.
The battlefield had chosen.
Fury’s one eye never wavered from Thor, though his jaw tightened.
He let out a low breath, almost like a hiss.
"Don’t play games with me, boy," Fury said coldly. "I know lies when I hear them. I’ve spent a lifetime spotting them. Now answer me straight—your people, your world... how much of this invasion is tied to you?"
Thor’s shoulders squared. His face held pride, but there was also a weariness under it. "These enemies—yes—they come for me. But do not mistake that for guilt. I did not summon them. They come because I stood against them. Because I dared to strike first when they threatened Midgard."
The room grew heavy. Natasha shifted slightly, hand brushing the edge of her holster. Steve’s eyes flicked between the two men, measuring if this was about to explode into a fight.
"And how many more of your enemies should we expect to come crawling out of the sky?" Fury pressed, his voice sharpened. "How many more wars follow wherever you plant your feet?"