CHAPTER 499: WAR OF THRONES VIII

Leon felt the shift before it happened.

A whisper of air, the faintest distortion in the ruined street—his instincts, honed through countless battles, screamed a warning. His hand moved before thought, Shell Reverb flickering in a defensive pulse.

The ground split.

A fissure tore through cobblestone, jagged and abrupt, as though the earth itself recoiled. Black light poured upward in silence, swallowing sound before it could even be born.

Roselia flinched, her hands pressed to her ears though nothing could be heard. "This... isn’t mana," she whispered, face pale. "It’s absence."

The others drew closer to Leon, weapons already in hand.

And then—they emerged.

Figures, tall and thin, almost human in silhouette. Their forms were draped in tattered robes of no fabric the eye could follow—woven from shadow and distortion, their hems unraveling into dust with every step. Their faces were veiled, yet from beneath the veils glowed faint traces of silver light, like forgotten stars burning inside hollow sockets.

Roman’s grip tightened on his hammer. "Shades?"

"No..." Leon’s voice was low, steady. He recognized the rhythm of this silence now. "Sentinels."

They moved as one. Their steps were soundless, but the world seemed to tilt with each motion, the ruin around them groaning like it remembered their passage from centuries before.

Milim frowned, her usual mischief gone. "They’re bound."

Leon nodded. "Bound to the Throne."

The distortion above flickered in response, as though the sky itself acknowledged them.

One Sentinel stepped forward, its form less frayed than the others. From its hollow gaze, a thread of light descended—straight toward Leon.

He didn’t move. He let it reach him.

And in that instant—he heard it.

Not words, not voice.

A decree.

"No throne may be claimed without silence.

No law may be spoken where this law reigns."

Leon’s breath hitched. A law of silence.

Behind him, Liliana whispered sharply, "Leon—"

But even that sound was wrong. Her voice didn’t echo, didn’t belong. The air itself smothered it, eating away at the syllables until they vanished.

Naval’s blade hand trembled. "...It’s suppressing language."

Roselia pressed a hand to her chest, struggling to form a prayer. No words came. Only breath.

The Sentinels drew closer.

Leon clenched his fists, the storm of Fracture Requiem rumbling within his bones. His thoughts churned like fire against ice. A Throne of Silence. A domain where speech itself dissolved, where decrees could not carry unless sanctioned.

But Kaelith’s Command still burned in him. He had faced law against law before.

He lifted his hand slowly, motioning his allies back, his eyes fixed on the advancing Sentinels.

If the path to the Throne required silence...

...then he would carve his own decree without words.

The Sentinels advanced in absolute stillness. Their robes dragged against stone, yet no scrape, no rustle followed. Only the shifting of their silver-lit eyes broke the void.

Leon raised his hand—not to strike, but to halt his team.

The others froze, uncertain, but they understood. Words would not work here. Every syllable was devoured before birth, leaving them with only motion, only instinct.

Naval gave a sharp nod, shifting into a low stance.Milim twirled her finger once, a lazy signal: bait or break?Roman flexed his hammer-arm, pointing it forward: break.

Leon’s lips curved faintly, a ghost of agreement.

The first Sentinel stepped into range.

Its arm, long and bone-thin beneath shadowed cloth, reached outward. No chant. No incantation. Just a gesture—yet the air itself obeyed, walls buckling inward as though their silence weighed more than stone.

Leon moved.

Shell Reverb flared in his chest, but not with sound. With memory. The aftershock of battles past echoed through him, vibrating outward in defiance of the imposed void. The distortion cracked. The Sentinel’s pressure faltered.

Then Leon struck.

His fist, wrapped in Tripart Echo, hammered forward—three strikes overlapping, bound in the rhythm of war. The Sentinel staggered back, robes tearing into ash where the force landed. No cry left its lips. Only silence deeper than before.

Another Sentinel lunged from the side. Roselia stepped in, staff flashing with radiant light. The spell broke the moment it left her hand—words lost, command erased. But Leon felt her intent through the echo, and his pulse caught the fragment, bending it back into form.

A lance of golden light erupted from his side, her miracle carried on his resonance. It pierced the advancing figure, leaving its body unraveling into strips of shadow.

The rest descended.

Eight in total, moving like a tide. Weapons unseen, yet the void around their arms sharpened into edges.

Roman roared, but the sound collapsed into nothing. Still, his hammer crashed into the ground, releasing a shockwave so raw that even silence couldn’t contain it. The nearest Sentinel crumpled, folding in on itself as though it were no more than brittle parchment.

Milim darted between them, laughing without voice, her small form weaving in and out of void-born strikes. Every flick of her hand, every snap of her heel drew sparks that Leon caught, folded, and multiplied into blasts that tore gaps in the advancing line.

They fought not with words, but with intent.With rhythm.With the shared pulse of battle that bound them tighter than language.

And still...

Leon felt the decree pressing deeper. With every strike, the silence grew heavier.

The Sentinels weren’t just guardians. They were enforcing the law of this Throne.

If he could not shatter that law...

...then even victory here would mean nothing.

The silence pressed harder.

Leon could feel it now—not just around them, but inside him. Each beat of his heart echoed fainter, as if the law of this place sought to erase even his pulse.

One of the Sentinels moved differently. It didn’t strike. It only stood. Its presence deepened the decree, thickening the void until even the team’s movements felt brittle. Naval’s blade strike dulled mid-swing, collapsing into a limp tap against air. Roselia’s staff trembled as her magic flickered out like a candle.

This was no simple enemy. It was the center. The fulcrum around which silence reigned.

Leon’s eyes narrowed. He understood.

They weren’t meant to kill these Sentinels. They were meant to submit. To accept silence until no resistance remained.

He stepped forward, lifting his hand. Not to strike—this time, to listen.

The echoes of battle he carried—Kaelith’s decree, Vorrak’s anvil-force, Vaer’Zhul’s nightmare—resonated faintly in his core. But here, they were being drowned.

So Leon shifted.

Not by adding more sound. But by removing it.

He let his breath go. He let his heart slow. He stilled the tremor of Shell Reverb inside him until there was no clash, no echo, no return. Only a single, suspended vibration—like the string of a harp waiting to be touched.

The decree of silence bent.

It did not shatter. But it recognized.

Leon opened his eyes. The Sentinels froze. Their heads turned in eerie unison toward him.

For the first time, they did not advance.

Milim’s fists paused mid-swing, her eyes darting between Leon and the unmoving foes. Naval’s knuckles whitened on his blade, caught between instinct and awe.

Leon spoke—or rather, he shaped the intent of words without voice.

"Wordless Decree."

The pulse rippled outward. Not sound, not silence—something between. A resonance that accepted the void but refused erasure.

The Sentinels’ robes shuddered as if a wind had passed through them. Then, one by one, they lowered their heads. The center figure’s eyes dimmed, silver light fading into dusk.

They stepped back, robes dissolving into dust.

The path forward opened.

Leon stood still, breathing slow. His team gathered behind him, uncertain, yet unbroken.

The silence remained—but now, it was no longer their enemy.

It was his to command.