CHAPTER 314: THE DAY LOYALTY TOOK SHAPE

The Day Loyalty Took Shape

Then came the sound of boots striking the floor in unison.

Black, Ronan, and Johny knelt as one—fists across their hearts, eyes closed, their posture speaking of unwavering devotion.

"My Lord," they declared together, voices like thunder. "Even if walking beside you mean doom... then let us be doomed. But do not abandon us. Because we will never abandon you."

"You are our Lord, and always will be!"

For a heartbeat, Leon couldn’t breathe. Their voices didn’t just echo in the hall—they echoed in his soul. In that moment, he didn’t hear loyalty. He felt it. Deep, unshakable, fierce.

His wives stood behind him, stunned into stillness. They had always heard of Leon’s renown—those whispers of his name carried more weight than even the King’s in certain corners of the kingdom. But this... this display, this unity born of love, not fear... it was something else entirely.

Leon’s chest clenched. Because he understood. This wasn’t about titles. This reverence hadn’t been bought with medals, nor earned solely by his deeds. No—it ran deeper.

This was the legacy of a man long gone. A path carved by the one whose body and burdens Leon had inherited. A name that once stood for power now stood for hope... because Leon had made it his own.

Warmth surged through his chest like a rising tide. His heart ached, pulled in too many directions—sorrow for what was lost, gratitude for what remained, and a pride so immense it hurt.

His throat tightened.

His nose stung.

His vision blurred with unshed tears.

Still, he didn’t weep. Instead, he exhaled slowly—deep and steady—and with quiet grace, lowered himself onto the wooden chair behind him. The sound of his seat hitting the floor echoed softly.

They loved him.

Not for his name.

Not for his power.

But for who he had become.

And they would never abandon him.

Then how could he ever abandon them?

The gesture alone said more than any speech could. And as if the people could feel the shift in his heart, they slowly began to rise. Carefully, reverently.

But when they saw him seated, something in them stilled once more. They paused—not out of hesitation, but understanding.

The silence was warm, filled with meaning.

Then, like a breath of wind rustling through leaves, the crowd stirred again.

One by one, they stood. Their faces aglow—not with joy, but something far more powerful. A shared truth. A quiet pride.

And then came the words.

It began softly, as if the first voice barely dared to speak it aloud.

"Long live Lord Leon," someone murmured.

Another joined in, just a little louder.

"Long live Lord Leon..."

More followed.

"Our Lord, forever."

"May our Lord never fall."

"Long live our Lord Leon!"

Their voices didn’t rise in shouts or chants of obligation. No, it was more like a heartbeat—unified, low, sincere. The sound was not deafening, but it was deeply felt. Like a family praying together. A whisper shared by souls bound through pain, hope, and unwavering faith.

This wasn’t a show of loyalty built on fear. It wasn’t about duty, or politics, or even survival.

It was love.

Why wouldn’t they follow him? Why wouldn’t they love the man who had stood beside them—not above them like a distant ruler, but among them like blood and kin? Leon had bled for them. Fought for them. Protected them. Who else would they give their hearts to, if not him?

His wives stood behind him in silent grace. Each of them smiled—not a forced smile for show, but the kind born of quiet pride. Their eyes shimmered as they looked at him, knowing deeply: he was theirs. And they were his.

Leon rose from his chair, the weight of their voices settling in his chest. He didn’t speak right away, as if his heart was still catching up with his breath. But when he did, his voice carried the warmth of a promise.

"From now on," he said, each word heavy with feeling, "we walk together. We rise together. We flourish together."

He let a faint smile pull at his lips. Then his gaze dropped, just for a moment, before returning to meet the crowd.

"But never again... shall we be doomed."

He paused. His voice grew firmer.

"But we will never be doomed again. I promise you this."

A soft ripple of cheers moved through the hall, like warmth rolling out in waves. A few claps followed—gentle, scattered—but full of something real. They weren’t loud, but they didn’t need to be. They held hearts in them. Stirred hearts. Relieved ones.

Leon’s wives shared another glance, their smiles quiet but glowing. It was pride—low, steady, and shining from somewhere deep. Not performative. Not for show. Just the quiet knowing of women who had seen him at his strongest and his most broken. They watched him now, standing tall before the people, exactly the man they knew in every way.

He turned his head toward them. Just a flick of his gaze—but there was something soft there. A flash of tenderness behind the gold. Then he looked forward again, his voice steady as he raised his hand.

"...Now, please," he said, calm but firm, "everyone, stand."

Chairs shifted back with soft scrapes. Laughter broke through, mixed with the last of the tears. People got to their feet, brushing their eyes, looking at each other like they hadn’t dared in days. With hope. With breath.

And then Ronan—because of course it was Ronan—let out a breath and spoke up, his voice riding the new ease in the air, a teasing tilt curling through the words like it belonged there.

"Our Lord sits on that chair with such a grim face. You’d think he ate sour grapes."

The moment sparked laughter.

"Our Lord should smile more often," someone chimed in, cheerful.

"He looks more handsome like that—not stiff and serious all the time."

"He’s right! Our Lord looks much better with a smile!"

"Don’t give us that stiff expression again, Lord Leon!" another woman teased, wiping her tears with the edge of her apron.

And then everyone laughed—laughter that melted the last remnants of stiffness. A room once thick with tension now breathed easy, full of light and love.

Leon blinked, briefly stunned... before a quiet chuckle slipped past his lips.

Even his wives couldn’t help themselves. Their soft laughter mixed with the crowds, and for a moment, the hall felt like a home.

But then—Leon raised his hand again. His expression shifted. More serious. The room quieted in an instant.

"There’s one more thing," he said, voice lowering into a solemn rhythm. "Now that you’ve all decided to follow me... I want something from you in return."

Their gazes sharpened, not with suspicion, but with readiness. Someone whispered under their breath, just loud enough to catch:

"Even if you ask for our lives..."

Leon’s expression softened at that, touched by their devotion.

"I want you all... to act like the people of Silver City are dead."

Silence fell.

Complete.

Someone barely whispered, "We... what?"

Leon stepped forward. Calm. Firm.

"We’re not rebuilding Silver City," he said. "Not now. Not ever."

Gasps scattered across the hall like shattering glass. Confusion churned in some faces. Disbelief tightened others.

But Leon didn’t allow doubt to fester.

"Please—first, I ask my wives to come forward."

Without hesitation, Rias, Syra, Mia, Aria, Tsubaki, Lira, Kyra, and Cynthia stepped forward. Each moved with a grace that quieted the murmurs around them.

Leon looked at them, golden eyes locking with each of theirs.

"You all know what I want to say, right?"

They nodded in silent unison. No words were needed.

Leon gave a small, approving smile. Then he turned back to the hall.

"Please," he spoke gently, but firmly, "can you take all children below the age of twelve to another room? I must speak only with the adults now."

The women beside him nodded.

The crowd hesitated at first. A beat of uncertainty... and then Rias clapped her hands with a bright, welcoming smile.

"Alright, little ones. Come with us—we’ll play and enjoy some candy while your parents listen to something boring."

The children didn’t move. They stood there, small hands clinging to sleeves, eyes flicking from the strangers to their parents like they were trying to make sense of a test no one had explained. A few clung tighter. One girl took a step back.

But their parents... they nodded. Slowly, quietly. One after another. No one rushed them. A silent exchange passed between adult and child—something in the eyes, in the way a hand brushed a shoulder, or a mother gave the smallest smile that said: it’s okay. Go on.

Leon’s wives stepped forward, soft and careful. Each one of them knelt, or crouched, or offered a gentle word—whatever it took. One whispered something that made a boy blink away his worry. Another reached for a girl’s hand with fingers that didn’t push, just waited. Their presence was like warm cloth laid over a wound—soothing, subtle, impossible to resist.

And so, one by one, the children followed them.

The hallway swallowed their voices.

Then the double doors closed with a deep, muffled boom—not loud, but heavy. Like the sealing of something sacred. Or dangerous.

Leon turned.

The rest of the room was quiet, too quiet. No crying now, no shuffling of feet. Just tension. Just that stillness that lives between a question and its answer.

His eyes moved across the crowd. Measured. Steady. The confusion was thick in the air—unspoken, but written into every furrowed brow, every wary stare.

"I know... do you all think why I sent them out?"

The words weren’t loud. But they didn’t need to be.

Nobody replied. Nobody even cleared their throat.

They just watched him—some standing straighter, some frozen where they were, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Leon smiled.

But it wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t for comfort.

It was the kind of smile you give when the truth’s too heavy to say plain. The kind that comes just before something breaks.

He lifted his hand.

And snapped his fingers.

A sharp crack cut through the air.

Then red light bloomed—sudden, violent, and beautiful. It flared like blood under silver, spilling across the center of the room in a burst of heatless color. From the center, something began to take shape. A scroll. No parchment touched by hands, no paper born of ink. It formed, conjured from air and will, hovering just above the stone.

It pulsed faintly. Crimson glow humming at the edges. Not a sound, exactly—but the kind of pressure you felt in your chest, just beneath the ribs. The weight of something alive. Watching.

No one spoke. Eyes locked on it. Not blinking.

Their silence stretched thin.

"This," Leon said, every syllable precise, "is a blood contract."

He didn’t raise his voice.

Didn’t need to.

The words landed hard, one after the other—cold, final, sharp enough to wound.

Then he looked at them.

Not in passing.

Not above their heads.

He met their eyes. Each one. Without flinching, without blinking. Just those golden eyes—burning steady, bright, and merciless. "If you trust me... sign it."

Simple words. Yet they carried a weight heavy enough to silence even the most vocal among them.

"This contract says that whatever I reveal now, you must not speak of it to anyone. Under any circumstance... until the mission I speak of is complete. Unless I say otherwise."

A cold ripple of shock traveled through the crowd. Whispers were held back. Some gasped softly. Others simply stared.

"Lord... a blood contract...?"

Leon exhaled slowly, his shoulders rising and falling with the burden he carried.

"I do not doubt your loyalty," he said, his tone calm but edged with emotion. "But this is not about trust. It’s about lives. If any word leaks—even by mistake—it could cost the lives of my loved ones... or yours."

A silence fell over the hall. Not the silence of hesitation, but of realization.

Leon lowered his eyes briefly, then raised them again. "So I ask... if you truly believe in me, sign it."

For a moment, no one moved. No one breathed.

Then, without hesitation, Captain Black stepped forward. He said nothing. Not a word. He simply drew a blade, cut his finger, and pressed it against the glowing parchment before him.

A red flare surged. The parchment shimmered... and vanished.

In the quiet depths of Leon’s mind, a familiar sound rang clear:

[Ding. 1 Blood Contract signed.]

Ronan stepped forward next. Then Johny followed. Behind them came the soldiers—stern and resolute. Then the maids, graceful and loyal. Then the elders, their faces lined with age and wisdom. And at last, the townsfolk, who had known both the suffering and the hope Leon had brought back with him.

One after another, they walked up, offered their blood, and bound their loyalty—not with words, but with the sacrifice of flesh.

Blood met parchment, over and over, and each time, the voice echoed again:

[2nd Blood Contract signed.]

[3rd Blood Contract signed.]

[4th Blood Contract signed.]

And so, it began.

Leon stood there in the center, unmoving, his golden eyes watching, his breath quiet. His heart wasn’t racing from fear—it beat with something warmer, something deeper.

This was no longer a broken city.

This was a reborn family.

And the silent unity of hearts beneath one name—

Leon Moonwalker.