CHAPTER 498: WAR OF THRONES VII

The air around Roselia rippled.

The ruined city bled away in silence, giving way to an endless field of white lilies swaying in a wind that carried no scent. The flowers stretched to every horizon, a sea of pale blossoms under a sky so empty it hurt to look at.

Roselia exhaled slowly, her staff steady in her hands. Unlike Roman’s fury, Milim’s panic, or Liliana’s sharp denial—there was no trembling in her voice, no hesitation in her step.

Leon watched her closely. That calm wasn’t peace. It was resignation.

The Archivist’s decree resonated across the endless field:

"The written must endure. But you—your beginning is unwritten. Present truth... or be erased."

The lilies shivered, and from them rose blurred figures—shapes of women, cloaked and faceless, each carrying a fragment of bloom in their hands. They moved in unison, their heads bowed, their bodies dissolving like smoke with every step.

Roselia’s lips curved in a faint, tired smile. "So. It finally comes to me."

Milim shifted uneasily. "Rose... what does it mean? Beginning unwritten?"

But Roselia didn’t answer her.

She stepped forward into the lilies. The flowers wilted where her feet touched them, their pale petals shriveling into black ash.

Leon’s fractures stirred violently, reacting to her silence. His gut clenched. He understood.

Roselia had no origin. No birth recorded. No first page in the law.

The Archivist was already moving to erase what had never been properly written in the first place.

The decree pressed harder. "To begin without law is to be false. Falsehood is not remembered."

Her outline flickered faintly. The field of lilies bowed under an unseen weight, as though the world itself agreed.

Naval swore. "Leon—she’ll vanish faster than the rest—"

Leon’s voice cut like steel. "Quiet."

Because Roselia wasn’t fighting it. She was walking calmly, deliberately, toward the faceless women. Each of them dissolved as she passed, as if acknowledging her existence was enough to undo them.

Finally, she stopped, lifting her chin to the sky. Her voice rang soft, but clear, carried by an echo deeper than words:

"I don’t need a beginning to be true. I don’t need the law to write me. I have written myself every day I’ve walked beside them."

Her staff struck the ground.

The lilies ignited—first white, then crimson, then a bloom of burning gold that spread in every direction. The faceless women dissolved completely, and the endless field was consumed by flame.

Roselia didn’t falter. She stood tall, her hair whipping in the heat, her body resolute.

The Archivist’s threads quivered, bending under the force of a truth it could not erase.

And then—the field shattered, falling back into the ruined city.

Roselia exhaled and lowered her staff, sweat streaking her brow but her eyes sharp, unwavering. "My life was never written by anyone else. And it never will be."

Silence pressed heavy for a moment. Even the group didn’t dare speak.

Then the Archivist’s gaze shifted again.

Threads of fracture turned, swaying, and reached outward.

This time, they coiled toward Naval.

And Leon felt the fractures in his chest seize.

Because Naval—unlike the others—looked utterly unprepared.

The threads tightened around Naval before he could speak, before he could even draw breath.

The city dissolved.

Stone and moss fell away, replaced by steel—an endless hall of black iron walls, polished so perfectly they reflected the world like mirrors. But in these mirrors, only one figure stood. Not Leon. Not Roselia. Not Milim, or Roman, or Liliana.

Only Naval.

Naval in his youth. Naval in armor. Naval with his blade raised. Naval with his blade lowered. Naval, Naval, Naval—an army of reflections that surrounded him, all staring back with sharp eyes and clenched jaws.

Naval froze. His hand tightened on his sword hilt until his knuckles turned white.

The Archivist’s decree cut through the iron hall, cold as frost:

"Your vow of loyalty is unwritten. To whom did you swear? And does it endure?"

Leon’s breath caught. The fractures inside him thrummed violently. He understood at once.

This wasn’t about a battle. This wasn’t about a birth. This wasn’t even about family.

This was about allegiance.

Naval’s chest heaved. His body flickered faintly, his outline threatening to unravel as the iron mirrors rippled. Each reflection raised its blade, pointing at him. Hundreds of Navals, thousands, every one demanding the truth.

Liliana’s voice broke the silence, desperate. "Naval—answer it! Just say who you serve!"

But Naval didn’t move.

Leon’s eyes narrowed. His voice was low, dangerous. "...He can’t."

Roman snarled. "What the hell do you mean, he can’t?!"

Leon’s gaze didn’t leave the hall. His hand trembled at his side as Fracture Requiem screamed in resonance. "Because he’s never chosen. He’s always fought, always killed—but never for himself. Never for one Throne. Never for one oath. The Archivist sees the emptiness in that."

Naval staggered back as the mirrors advanced, every reflection’s blade aimed at his chest. His teeth ground together, sweat running down his temple. "I... I swore... I..."

The decree sharpened: "Unwritten vows are lies. Lies are not remembered."

His outline tore violently, threads peeling from him.

Milim cried out, tears in her eyes. "He’ll vanish—Leon, do something!"

Leon’s fractures blazed white-hot. Every nerve in his body screamed to unleash Requiem, to tear the decree apart before it erased Naval completely. But he gritted his teeth, forcing himself still.

If he acted now, Naval would not survive.

Naval’s knees hit the ground. His reflection army loomed over him, thousands of blades raised to strike.

His voice cracked, raw, desperate. "I—don’t know who I swore to!"

The mirrors trembled, ready to strike him down.

Then, through the deafening silence, he raised his head—eyes blazing, teeth bared.

"But I know who I fight beside. I know who I’d die with. And that’s enough!"

He roared, his blade flashing as he slashed across the iron floor. The mirrors screamed—not with voices, but with the screech of shattering steel. One by one, his reflections splintered, cracking, breaking, until the hall exploded into shards of black iron.

Naval collapsed forward, chest heaving, blood dripping from his lips—but he was whole. Solid.

The ruined city reformed around them.

The Archivist’s threads swayed once more.

And now, every one of them turned toward Leon.

The fractures inside him detonated at once, tearing down his spine like lightning.

Because unlike the others, Leon was not just being judged.

He was the only one who had broken laws before.