CHAPTER 343: THE ROARING LION STIRS

The Roaring Lion Stirs

Vellore’s camp was agitated before the sun had even risen above the horizon.

Cold breath swept in the darkening light, winding like smoke around lines of tents. Men in silver-plated armor stepped with practiced ease, their boots hitting the frost-hardened earth in solid cadence. The sigil of roaring lion flared on every breast, burnished so well it reflected the faint gleam of smoldering campfires and blazed like sparks in the darkness.

Morning weighed down with a chill that nipped through cloth and metal both. It was not the quiet of peace, but one strung tight, as if the world itself breathed quietly. Men and women stooped over their arms with deferential seriousness—an oiled rag worked across the edge of a sword until it shone, bowstrings drawn back and tested, leather cinches tightened around greaves and gauntlets. Fingertips traced the length of spear shafts, seeking out cracks, each movement infused with the gravity of decision. The noise was a symphony of metal, leather, and air—measured, calculated, invigorating.

No laughter shattered the silence. No idle gossip relaxed it. The soldiers were wise enough to know today was not usual. The biting smell of smoke and the stinging smell of oiled iron filled their lungs, a silent portent that something weighty was going to come crashing down on them.

The rank-and-file did not know the entire truth. They sensed only the tension, read it in the stern lines of their captains’ faces, and in the manner, orders were issued with more brief words and more clipped tones. But the officers knew. They carried it in the hardness of their jaws, in the unrelenting way their eyes never lost their focus. This was going to be the day when Vellore would end its games of prudence. This was the day the lion showed its fangs and thrust its spear deep into the heart of Moonstone.

In the middle of the camp stood a gigantic tent that overpowered the landscape. In front of the largest tent, a group of giant figures stood frozen in utter stillness. The first row supported two of the most towering—broad-shouldered, armored as rolling fortresses, their bulk heavy enough to cause the air itself to tighten. These were Grandmaster Realm cultivators, army commanders, men who had warped the direction of wars with their power and lived to do so once more. Surrounding them were other generals and captains in a silent wall of power, their eyes fixed on the shut flaps of the middle tent.

The canvas moved.

And then—the flap of the middle tent changed.

A man emerged, his whole form bathed in the morning light. Armor of gold hugged him, so brightly polished it turned sunlight into a sword, blinding everyone who saw. The quality of the plates reflected wealth and power, but the manner he wore it reflected something additional—power not necessarily born of crown, but of will.

He was high, his green hair long and rich, as spring leaves following rain, falling over his shoulders, the locks dancing in the faint morning wind. His eyes were black, like sharpened blades, but burning with an inner fire. They were not the tired eyes of a king numbed by long years of rule, but the burning, hot eyes of a man still famished for triumph.

His face bore the innocence of youth, smooth and unmarked, but the manner in which he moved dispelled any pretense of softness. Each step, each look, was weighted with the bearing of a battle-hardened warrior, a man who had witnessed the blood and grime of combat and yet would not allow it to seep into his spirit and turn it to mush.

Still, there raged a storm under his composure. The armor rendered him invincible, a golden statue, but his eyes revealed the thrum of tension inside him—a wariness, a keenness, the unmistakable tension of a man preparing for battle.

In unison, the commanders, captains, and guards went to one knee. Their voices rose as one, pure and sharp like metal ringing against metal.

"Your Majesty!"

The cry bellowed across the camp, loud enough to vibrate through the morning air.

Gary’s eyes raked over them, his face relaxing just enough for a small nod. "Rise, all of you."

They complied at once, the movement sharp, their training honed by the authority of his presence. Gary’s gaze narrowed a fraction as he sized them up, the sting of his stare growing sharper with each second.

"One moment before we proceed," he growled, his voice deep but authoritative. His gaze settled on a specific commander.

"Where is my friend Edric? I see him nowhere among you." His brows furrowed; his voice tinged with irritation.

The commander shifted uncomfortably, ready to speak. "My lord, he—"

But before he could get out the words, a voice came from behind the men, smooth and unruffled.

"You called, and here I am."

Each head in camp swiveled towards the voice.

Edric walked over with the confidence of a man who had nothing to prove. His dark hair, pulled neatly back at the nape of his neck, was catched by the faint glint of morning light. His face was striking, plain and unlined, almost misplaced in a war camp where most men wore weariness on their faces. The armor of silver on his body did not appear metallic but rather like alive skin, taking the dawn’s glow without reflecting it. There was a sword at his side that lay as comfortably as if it were part of him, not something made. He appeared to be a man who had slept under open heavens and awakened unscathed by dreams.

Gary’s lip curled into a smile the instant he spotted him. "My friend, finally you choose to show yourself. I was beginning to think you’d still be wrapped in the arms of some loveliness."

Edric’s lips twitched into a small smile. "Indulgent, no doubt. But we both know—three things will bring a warrior down sooner than any sword of his enemies.

Gary furrowed his brow, raising an eyebrow. "And those would be?"

Edric held up one hand, counting them off with intentional composure. "One, allowing emotions to control us. Two, forgetting our swords. And three..." His grin grew more wicked. "Women. Surrender yourself to any of them without control, and you’ll be digging your own grave before your foe does. I indulge my pleasures, but I know when to lay them aside."

Gary’s laughter boomed out, gruff and authentic. "Ha! Good. That’s why I keep you close, Edric."

Edric replied with a knowing smile, one that indicated he didn’t need thanks.

"Then let’s not waste another heartbeat. Are you ready?" Gary asked, his grin giving way to the hard line of command.

They walked forward into the center of the camp together. The soldiers along their route stiffened into sharp discipline, boots snapping against the ground, guns lowered in joint salute.

"Your Majesty," the soldiers chanted, their voices ringing as one—sharp, joint, like one sword pulled from its scabbard.

Gary nodded curtly. "Mount up."

A white stallion stood waiting for him, its mane brushed to silk, its black leather bridle shining as if polished for ceremony. By it, a great black warhorse pawed at the ground, snorting clouds into the cool morning air. The stallion was Edric’s.

With skilled ease, the two men mounted. Gary settled into the saddle of the white creature, its muscles rippling under the steel barding like a waiting predator poised to bolt. Edric mounted the black stallion by his side, the two of them silhouetted against the morning sun as if they were hewn from two halves of the same steel.

Gary stood tall in his stirrups, his voice thundering around the camp like a war drum.

"Warriors of Vellore! Today the lion roars not to warn, but to conquer! Our foes sleep in their beds, convinced they are safe from us. Today, we will rouse them. The Moonstone Kingdom calls us slow, timid, reluctant to strike. But today, we will show them our teeth. You are my lions, my blades.". You are the steel in my hand, the thunder in my roar. Stand with me, and together we will chisel our victory into the very marrow of Moonstone itself!

"

The response was immediate—a roar of assent, fierce and ravenous.

"Yes, Your Majesty!"

Golden eyes flashed on Gary. He dropped his hand. "Then forward!"

His stallion burst forward, hooves pounding earth in strong cadence. Edric’s black warhorse stepped in his wake, step by step. Behind them, the mighty columns of Vellore marched as one, banners streaming in the wind, the golden lion sigil shining in the dawn sun. Spears and blades glinted in the light, flashing like impatient lightning. The solid drum of hooves and marching boots blended into a single heartbeat that vibrated through the earth.

Ten minutes had passed when the country ahead yawned wide—the borderlands where Moonstone and Vellore met. Gary reined in his mount, and the huge army behind him came to a stop, each rank unfolding into quiet with practiced precision.

He looked at Edric. "Then, my friend... shall we ride the journey that makes you a king?"

Edric’s lips twisted into that small, controlled smile. "Of course."

Gary reached a hand out toward the distance. "Then it’s your turn."

Edric once nodded, then spurred his stallion on. From the ring set on his finger, a creased parchment materialized in a burst of light, its face covered with complex runes. He read the lines for a single beat, then pinched his thumb. A single drop of blood landed on the seal.

The parchment began to glow. Red light coursed through the runes as veins stirring from sleep. The air seemed to thicken at once, energy seeping into the ground, into the air, until it covered the tongue with metal taste.

A subtle shiver rolled across the ground.

And then the first boom.

BOOM.

From the side of the Starlight Duchy came a pillar of fire, shooting upwards, the boom spreading out into a huge mushroom cloud. Fire and smoke streamed upwards, curling, coiling, obscuring the blue sky. The shockwave slammed down like a giant’s fist, pushing horses aside, shaking armor, searing lungs with dust and iron particles.

Another explosion came.

Then another.

And another—ferocious, every explosion jolting the earth, until it seemed like the earth’s own bones were breaking apart.

The air darkened under a cloud of black smoke.

The soldiers were quiet at last, their earlier whoops devoured by awe and terror.

And Edric... just smiled.