From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman
Chapter 116: What Follows the Flame

Chapter 116: What Follows the Flame

They didn’t stop running until the cliffs turned sharp again.

Leon’s lungs burned, but he kept moving. Mira was already ahead, checking every rise before motioning them forward. Tomas stayed close behind, his knives drawn, breath ragged. None of them looked back.

Not until the sound stopped.

Not the roar. Not the wind.

Everything.

Stopped.

Leon slid to a halt beneath a jut of rock, holding up a fist. Mira froze. Tomas stumbled, caught himself, and pressed low behind a fallen pillar.

The silence wasn’t natural.

It was waiting.

Leon turned slowly. The valley behind them no longer glowed. No red fire. No rising ash.

Just stillness.

Then came the voice.

Not loud. Not spoken.

It threaded through the rock.

"Return what was taken."

Leon staggered a step back. Mira reached for his arm but stopped when she saw his face. Pale. Eyes wide. Not with fear—clarity.

"You heard that?" she whispered.

He nodded once.

Tomas looked between them. "I didn’t hear anything. What the hell’s happening?"

Leon gripped the shard tighter.

The voice wasn’t for all of them.

It was for him.

Something ancient.

Something bound.

And it knew his name.

He closed his eyes briefly, steadying his breath. The pressure around his skull faded—but the message remained, imprinted behind his eyes.

"Return what was taken."

But he hadn’t taken anything.

The crown was still in the chamber. The shard—the mask fragment—was all he carried. And yet... it was enough.

"It’s not the crown," Mira said quietly. "It’s the bearer."

Leon opened his eyes. "What?"

"You heard it. Return what was taken. Not stolen. Not broken. Taken. You bonded with the throne—if even for a moment. That was enough."

Leon looked down at the shard. It pulsed once. Soft. Like a heartbeat.

Tomas sat heavily on a stone. "So what now? Go back and give it to the monster?"

"No," Mira said. "We move forward."

Leon nodded slowly. "There’s one seal left."

They looked at one another.

None of them had to say it.

Whatever came next wouldn’t wait.

The Reclaimers were behind them. The Ashbound were already here. And now... something older had awoken.

Mira broke the silence. "We still follow the path. We still end this."

Leon sheathed the shard again, locking it beneath his armour.

And the air shifted.

Not wind. Not heat.

Weight.

A presence.

The creature hadn’t followed them.

It was already ahead. Leon crouched, drawing a slow breath. The weight in the air wasn’t pressing on them—it was pulling. Forward. Toward something unseen but undeniable.

"It’s guiding us," he muttered.

Mira tensed. "Guiding or herding?"

Tomas stood again, stretching his legs with a grimace. "Do monsters usually invite you to your own funeral?"

Leon said nothing. His eyes followed the path—a narrow strip of stone that rose gently along the inner cliff face. It glowed faintly. Not with torchlight or flame, but with pale veins that pulsed beneath the rock. Like roots feeding a tree they couldn’t see.

He touched the stone. It was warm.

"We move," he said. "Keep your pace low. Don’t speak unless necessary."

The climb was quieter than before. No footsteps echoed. No gear clinked. Even their breathing seemed dampened by the strange air.

The path curved sharply and revealed an archway—older than the bone gate, older than the runes, older than anything Leon had seen in the dungeons before. It wasn’t carved. It had grown. Grown from the cliff itself, twisted into form by time and pressure.

Beneath it lay a stairwell. Spiral. Descending.

Tomas sighed. "Of course it’s down. Always down."

Mira stepped forward first this time. Leon followed. Tomas came last, glancing back once at the empty path. Still nothing behind them. Still no wind.

The steps were narrow and slick. Somewhere below, something glowed softly. Gold—not the sterile blue or cursed red from before. This light flickered gently. Living. Breathing.

By the time they reached the bottom, the tunnel widened again, revealing a chamber unlike any other.

A forest.

Underground.

Tree roots arched across the ceiling, knotted and gnarled, dripping with sap that shimmered like starlight. Vines blanketed the walls. The floor was soft, covered in a layer of ash and moss.

And at the centre stood a figure.

Not monstrous. Not twisted.

A man.

Tall, cloaked in grey, face hidden beneath a hood woven with old thorns. He stood barefoot, toes sunken into the moss. In his hands—cupped gently—rested a crown.

Not the one from before.

This one was darker.

Burned.

Ash fused with silver.

He looked up as they entered. Not startled. Expectant.

"Leon Thorne," he said.

His voice was deeper than the one before. Not invasive. Not violent. Just... final.

"You’ve come to the Threshold."

Leon stepped forward, instinctively placing himself in front of Mira and Tomas.

"I didn’t come for a crown."

"No," the man said. "You came for the seal."

He extended the crown toward him.

"But the two are no longer separate."

Leon didn’t move.

The man didn’t push. "You broke the fourth. That was enough. The last doesn’t need to be destroyed."

"Then why are we here?" Mira asked. Her hand hovered over her dagger.

The man didn’t look at her.

"You came because the Ashbound moved. Because the Order sent agents into places they once feared. Because the Reclaimers stirred the Gate too early. You are all pieces of a storm, and the crown... chose one."

Leon frowned. "I didn’t choose it."

"No," the man said again. "But you didn’t refuse it either."

He set the crown down at his feet.

And the moss withered beneath it.

Leon felt his heart slow. Not with calm. With weight. The shard under his armour pulsed again.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The man finally lifted his hood.

His face was ageless. No scars. No lines. But his eyes...

Leon stepped back.

They were the same as his.

Exactly.

Mira hissed. Tomas reached for a knife.

The man smiled faintly.

"I am not you," he said. "But I was."

And before anyone could speak—

He dissolved.

Not into smoke.

Into roots.

Ash and thread spun upward from where he’d stood, curling around the crown, binding it in a shell of pulsing wood.

The seal.

The last one.

Reforming.

Mira stepped back, stunned. "What the hell just—"

Leon fell to one knee.

Pain surged through his chest.

The shard burned against his skin.

And in the roots...

Something opened its eyes. Leon gasped. Not from the pain—but from what he saw.

A slit formed in the centre of the seal.

A single, vertical blink.

Then another.

And another.

Eyes. Dozens of them. Opening inside the roots.

No iris. No white. Just layered rings of dull crimson, watching through bark and ash.

Tomas swore under his breath. "What is that?"

Mira stepped in front of Leon. "Don’t touch him."

But the roots didn’t lash. The eyes didn’t blink again.

They watched.

And then... the whisper returned.

This time, not only in Leon’s head.

It echoed softly through the chamber like wind brushing against glass.

"Bearer. Fragment. Return."

Leon’s hands shook as he clutched his chest.

"I don’t know what you want," he hissed.

The shard under his armour blazed again—hot enough to burn fabric, hot enough to singe skin.

But Leon didn’t let go.

He looked up.

And the crown began to rise.

Not lifted by hands.

Lifted by presence.

Roots spiraled upward, carrying it. The thorns twisted, forming a cradle. The burned silver glowed faintly, catching light from the sap-dripping canopy above.

And then... it split.

Not violently.

Cleanly.

The crown opened like a flower.

Inside—

—a fragment.

Another.

Just like the one Leon carried.

Mira stepped closer, voice hushed. "Another shard. Leon, yours is reacting."

It was more than that.

The shard on Leon’s chest began to pulse faster. Harder.

As if drawn. As if called.

Tomas threw out a hand. "Wait. What if it’s a trap?"

Leon didn’t answer.

He reached under his tunic and slowly pulled his shard free.

The moment it cleared his armour, the roots twitched.

Every eye focused on him.

And the voice came again. Clear. Unfiltered.

"Two halves."

Leon stepped forward.

And the ground trembled.

The shard in his hand lifted slightly, weightless now, hovering above his palm.

The fragment in the open crown shimmered in response.

They pulsed. Matched.

And merged.

A single sound filled the chamber.

Thunk.

Like a lock sliding into place.

The roots recoiled from the impact, some splitting open, sap spraying like water. The crown snapped shut. The thorns clenched tight.

And the chamber darkened.

Leon staggered back, clutching his arm. The pulse had stopped—but something had changed.

The shard—no, the whole thing—was gone.

The crown. The roots. The eyes.

Everything vanished.

The moss beneath where it had been still smoked slightly. But nothing else remained.

Just silence.

And then—

A soft click.

From inside Leon’s chest.

He fell back to his knees.

Mira rushed to him, grabbing his shoulder. "Leon!"

His eyes opened wide.

They weren’t his colour anymore.

Not completely.

Faint rings of crimson circled his pupils.

He blinked once. Twice. Then the colour faded.

He breathed.

And stood.

"I’m fine," he said.

Tomas didn’t look convinced. "What just happened?"

Leon looked at his hand. "The seal didn’t break."

"No," Mira said. "You took it."

He nodded slowly.

"The last one.""