CHAPTER 507: SHADES VIII

The light sank into Leon like molten iron poured into cracked stone.

His body jerked, every wound screaming at once. The fissures across his skin glowed brighter, his blood turning into streaks of burning light before fading back into red. The weight of the Throne pressed down on him—chains of power, of dominion, of command—but instead of binding him, they broke, one after another, shattering into echoes that folded into his rhythm.

The Throne of Shackles didn’t survive him.It bent to him.

Leon gasped, dropping to one knee as the last of the light sank in. His chest heaved, his heartbeat thundered, and then—silence. The Fifth Pulse settled back into stillness, leaving only exhaustion in its place.

Naval gripped his shoulder, steadying him. "Leon. Talk to me."

Leon forced a ragged breath, his voice low but steady. "...Still here."

Relief washed over the group. Roselia hurried to his side, glowing sigils wrapping around his body to slow the bleeding. "You nearly tore yourself apart," she whispered, her hands shaking. "Don’t ever do that again."

Milim knelt in front of him, her grin wide and sharp, though her eyes burned with something closer to worry. "Hah. You scared us, you know. Thought you were about to blow yourself into pieces."

Leon managed a faint smile, even through the blood on his lips. "...Almost did."

Liliana’s staff dimmed, her voice quiet, thoughtful. "But you didn’t. You broke a Throne. You claimed its power." Her gaze lifted toward the shattered sky where the banners had once flown. "The Tower itself must be watching."

Roman finally caught up, his steps heavy, his body a mess of bruises. He dropped beside them with a grunt, spitting more blood onto the stone. "Well... I’d say that makes us the kind of people no one should mess with." His grin widened. "Our Leon just broke a Sovereign’s law."

The ruins around them trembled, as if agreeing. Faint chains of light stretched across the sky, then dissolved into nothingness.

The Throne of Shackles was gone.And in its place, Leon stood as its successor.

But the shard inside him pulsed once, faint but sharp, reminding him—This was only the beginning.

The air hung heavy with the smell of ash and ozone.

Leon sat with his back against a broken column, his breathing ragged but steadying. His body still ached like it had been torn apart and sewn back together with fire, but the worst had passed. The Fifth Pulse had gone quiet inside him, like a storm retreating past the horizon—but he knew it was waiting.

Naval crouched close, keeping an arm’s length but his sharp eyes never leaving Leon. "You’re holding it down. For now."

Leon gave the faintest nod. "It... doesn’t fight me. Not like before. The chains... they’re gone. It’s just power now."

Roselia pressed a glowing seal into his arm, the cracks in his skin slowly knitting shut. She shook her head, her lips tight. "No. It’s not just power. It’s a Throne. And Thrones don’t submit quietly."

Liliana’s voice cut in, calm but edged with thought. "She’s right. The Throne of Shackles may be broken, but fragments linger. The Tower itself will notice. It always does."

The ground shuddered, faint but undeniable, as if to prove her words true.

Above them, the sky rippled like water. New banners of light unfurled, not to honor Leon’s victory, but to mark him. Whispers rolled through the air, not voices but the memory of them—an unseen audience taking note.

Roman smirked, wiping dried blood from his mouth. "Good. Let them notice. Means they’re afraid."

Milim stretched, her smile a flash of fangs. "Or excited. Either way, I don’t care. Whoever’s next, we’ll smash them too."

Leon closed his eyes for a moment, gathering strength. When he opened them again, the glow was gone from his skin, leaving only the quiet steel of his will. "This changes things. We’re not just challengers anymore. We’ve crossed into their war."

Naval tilted his head. "Whose war?"

Leon’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. "...The Thrones’."

The group fell silent. Even Milim’s grin faltered for a moment.

The Tower groaned again, louder this time, as if a sleeping giant had rolled over in its slumber.

The Throne of Shackles was gone. The balance had shifted. And every other Throne had just felt it.

The silence after Leon’s words was broken by a low rumble that didn’t belong to the ground or sky—it was deeper, like the Tower itself was exhaling.

Liliana gripped her staff tighter, eyes darting upward. "They’re stirring already..."

The banners of light that hung in the air began to twist, each one aligning toward different points in the vast heavens above. Sigils of fire, storm, shadow, and countless other domains flared briefly—marks of the other Thrones. Each was watching. Each was weighing.

Roman cracked his knuckles, forcing a grin even though blood still stained his teeth. "Good. Let them watch. I’d rather they come now than wait for us to knock one down at a time."

Naval’s trident glimmered faintly as he leaned on it, his voice more cautious. "No. This isn’t like the arena ranks. We’ve stepped into their circle. They’ll strike as Thrones, not as champions. That means wars fought in echoes... wars where the battlefield itself bends to their rule."

Milim’s eyes burned bright with excitement. "Perfect. Then we bend it back until it breaks."

Roselia shook her head, her tone sharp. "Don’t be reckless. Leon only just held the Fifth Pulse without tearing himself apart. If he loses control in another Throne’s domain..." She trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought.

Leon finally stood, slow but steady. His gaze rose to the sky, to the glowing marks that pulsed like distant stars. His body still hummed with quiet resonance, but his voice was calm. "They’ve already decided. The first move won’t be ours."

As if on cue, the sky split.

A jagged crack of light tore across the heavens, spilling not radiance but endless night. From within it came a sound like a thousand bells struck at once—harsh, discordant, unstoppable.

Liliana’s breath caught. "...That’s no Throne. That’s a call."

Roselia’s face paled. "No... it’s a Proclamation."

One by one, the glowing sigils above dimmed, leaving only a single mark burning brighter than all the rest—a crown of jagged iron, dripping with flame.

Naval’s eyes widened. "The Throne of Ash and Iron... He’s moving first."

The proclamation spread like wildfire across the Tower’s domain, echoing in every fragment, every floor, every battlefield:

"A Throne has fallen. The Flamebreaker has risen. The War of Seats begins."

The world shook with the weight of it.

Leon clenched his fist, feeling the echo pulse through his bones. There would be no more pauses. No more duels.

The war had begun.