CHAPTER 350: EDGE OF BLACKTHORN CITY

Edge of blackthorn city

The forest thinned as though it had reached its own border, ending like the unraveling of a dream.

The giant trees that had stood like sentinels of a lost era, their limbs screaming with wind and brutes, fell before crooked stumps and knotted scrub. Slivers of late sunlight filtered through the thinning leafage, casting feeble shadows to the earth. Out of deeper places the low rumble of hidden horrors still lingered, but at the perimeters the sound was waning—like a threat that clung to the breath yet dared not pursue.

This was not a place for men. Hunters shunned it. Merchants never braved it. Even thieves and wayfarers retreated long before they reached its shadow. The edge of the forest bore a quiet too weighty to shatter, as though the earth itself had made a vow: none shall tread lightly here.

And beyond that quiet, seven kilometers distant, the world ascended in counterpoint—stone and metal set against raw savagery. A city.

Blackthrone.

It grew from the ground like a response to the wild challenge of the forest, colossal and authoritative, as though the earth had hammered out a fortress and topped it with iron. Its walls, far away, appeared less sculpted stone than a hill of hammered will, enormous and unmovable, taking bites out of the horizon. Sunlight clung to its battlements, catching for an instant before disappearing into darkness. Surrounding the city was a wall that stretched as wide as the arm of a kingdom, towers sharp and unforgiving, soldiers standing in them like sentinel blades.

At Blackthrone’s center, spires reached for the heavens and domes shone in the declining light. Marble palaces loomed tall and unyielding, their radiance unmistakable. This was no mere fortress but one of the kingdom’s greatest jewels—governed by Duchess Nova, whose name brought both respect and gravitas.

On normal days, Blackthrone’s gates drew the world towards them. The central road would teem with life—pilgrims standing in line with prayers on their lips, merchants protecting carts laden with merchandise, mercenaries bragging of triumphs, commoners pushing ahead for their shot at wealth. Voices would swell in chorus, merging into a stream of sound and laughter that enveloped the city in restless vigor.

Today was different.

The border war had etched fear into the hearts of people. The highway was half-emptied, caravans were scarce, and the queue in front of the gate was lean, a trickle where there had been a flood. Passengers moved uncomfortably, looking over their shoulders as if the air itself bore evil.

Its inhabitants, those who had survived, found no respite. The streets pulsed with steel—troops marched up and down every corner, their boots ringing out like the sound of iron bells. Order weighed heavy upon them. Even the narrow alleys seemed to be guarded, their emptiness interrupted by the scuffle of boots or the sound of metal striking metal. Peace in this place was not an existence but a maintenance, harsh-edged and unforgiving.

Even the laughter in the bazaars sounded brittle, wrenched from lips that did not anymore believe the air.

It was a city encased in its own armor—stone walls and steel veins hard against the world. But behind that tough line of civilization lay the whispering forest edge in another voice, softer, older, not concerned with wars or crowns.

At the edge where wild and built met, a single boulder stood like a neglected sentinel. Across it lounged a man as if it were the most natural throne in the world, his attitude relaxed, his comfort complete. Both hands were cradled behind his head, his right leg draped across his left knee, the epitome of someone who had nothing to answer for to urgency. A limp blade of grass hung from his lips, moving with the slow, deliberate pace of his chewing.

A low growl emanated from his throat, slow, as if he were playing music for his own pleasure. The wind rushed to greet him, caressing his skin like a friend, pulling threads of his dark hair into his face. Pine and wet earth filled the air, and in that simple interaction between man and wind, the burden of the world seemed distant.

Even though his eyes were shut, the recollection of their golden sparkle remained, a radiance that made even quietness blush. His face possessed the sort of beauty that discomfited—cutting, rebellious, not delicate but hardened like steel forged from flames. It was the kind of beauty a person who did not seek the world’s permission to live would have.

It was Leon.

Having finished speaking with Nova last, he had selected this location to rest, not to hone his blade or pursue the excitement of the hunt. For a moment, he let himself breathe, permit the vast expanse of sky to seep into him without resistance. Peace was no longer something he was fighting.

For a time, the quiet endured. A silence so delicate it seemed to be a stolen gift from time itself. But peace, as ever, was too tenuous to endure.

A voice awakened within his head—not remote, not cold. It bore an indignant sting, almost human, the way a patient friend might reprimand while affectingly denying it.

([Well, host... the minute you woke that new body with your lineage and became more powerful, it appears you’ve become more lazy.])

Leon’s lips quirked into a faint smile. He did not bother opening his eyes. His voice was low, measured, unconcerned, following the relaxed cadence of his breathing.

"Well, I didn’t say I was lazy," Leon drawled softly, his voice low and nearly playful. "I’m just. myself, system.

[(Yourself?)] The voice hummed in his mind, icy with incredulity, quivering as if it wanted to laugh. [No. Don’t play with words. You’ve grown complacent—smug, even. You become powerful, yes, but you do not have control. You require practice, subtlety. And instead of practice, you recline on boulders like some half-baked poet... masticating grass!]

A mirthful chuckle escaped Leon’s mouth, a low, cajoling sound, as if the system’s rebuke only pleased him all the more. "And what is so bad about that? Would you have preferred to see me scream myself brain-dead in another cultivation binge? No thank you. I’ll have the grass and the breeze any day.

[You don’t have discipline. Power without control is a storm waiting to consume you. Do you wish to perish when that storm breaks finally?]

He opened one eye, the sunlight slicing across his face, putting his iris ablaze with a sliver of molten gold. "Later," he drawled. "I’ve already chased beasts all morning. My body’s creaking, and a few hours of quiet won’t kill me. I need it."

The system breathed in his head, a sigh so piercing that it nearly had weight.

[Tch. You really are... unbelievable.]

Leon’s smile grew, smug and untroubled, for he recognized that tone. His so-called partner was annoyed, and its annoyance was his new favorite game. "You sound increasingly like a nagging wife with each passing day. Isn’t that overkill for a system?"

There was no answer, heavy and sulking. He almost laughed again. Then—

[...Whatever. Have it your way, host.]

He leaned his head back against the rock, allowing the wind to finger through his hair. His sneer relaxed into a soft curve, a hint of victory tugging at his lips. He’d learned this odd friend well—its words always bore steel, but if he prodded hard enough, those blades lost their edge, becoming harmless.

But the voice came again, smooth and slicing.

[By the way, host... when are you going to head towards Vellore?]

Leon’s eyes completely opened this time, eyes catching the light as the sun descended lower towards the horizon. He didn’t move, just tracked the lazy drift of clouds above.

"One or two days," he stated calmly. "After I talk to everyone, then I’ll leave."

[Hmm... If you say so.]

The hum in his head remained a fraction of a second longer before it faded, but there was something cunning in its timbre, like the system understood more than it actually did.

(Then I have an idea. Why don’t you finally master the Crimson Lotus Sword Art? You’ll need it in the future.)

Leon exhaled a soft sigh, filling his ribcage as if inhaling the burden of the world. The air crept slow into his lungs and exhaled even more slowly, heavy with the exhaustion of too many fights. His lids drooping half-mast, he muttered, "I was thinking the same... but you know I already don’t have the sword suit for that art."

(And then? Why not buy it from me? You’ve saved up quite the balance of blank points, thanks to your wife’s hunting spree. Don’t play stubborn.)

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tore a blade of grass between his fingers, slipped it past his lips, and chewed absently. The taste was bitter, faintly earthy, yet somehow grounding. As it pressed against his tongue, his thoughts wandered. Memories rose—sharp, uninvited.

The trip to Blackthrone flashed before him. His wives, soldiers, and faithful followers had guided infinite hunts through forests dense with beasts and monsters. Sweat and blood had been their constant companions. While Leon devoted himself to cultivation, forcing his body and soul beyond their limits, they were the ones chopping through snapping jaws and claws. Each stroke of their blades had inadvertently transferred strength into him. He had never explained it to them—each murder having given him blank points via the system. They just assumed it was training, their own method of honing themselves. Their labor, however, had enriched his reserves in secret, nourishing him more than they could ever imagine.

The memory mollified him. The corner of his lip curled up slightly. "I know. I remember."

A ripple shimmered before his eyes, a faint glimmer slicing into the air. An interface unfolded—cold and bright—numbers etched in stark clarity.

[Blank Points: 25,000]

Leon gave a low whistle, amusement touching his voice. "Not bad. Enough for plenty of toys."

(So what’s stopping you? Buy the art.)

He took another deep breath, exhaling with the resolve of one who had made up his mind. "Didn’t you say once," Leon spoke matter-of-factly, "that if I waited long enough, the system could very well create a mission that has a sword art of even higher tier? Then why squander points now, purchasing one of low tier, when there is possibility to get something better?"

And then there was nothing. The quiet hung, tense, until finally the voice came back—tainted.

(...That’s true. But still—)

"Exactly." Leon smiled more broadly as he closed his eyes once again, letting the sky extend forever overhead. "Then I’ll wait. If nothing arrives, I’ll purchase. Until then... there’s no hurry."

The response that followed held the ring of a sneer, tempered by a sigh.

(As you wish... host.)

Leon smiled beneath his breath, the warmth a low sound. "You know... don’t call me ’host’ anymore."

Another silence. A question hung in the air.

(And what am I to call you, then?)

Leon opened one eye, looking up at the clouding skies as if they were alone in the truth. "Your voice—it’s too strong, too sharp. Like a proud man’s voice. When you talk like that, I don’t feel like some experiment stuck inside your system. So... call me something else. Buddy, brother, anything but ’host.’"

Silence crept back, deeper than before, almost contemplative. And then—

(.Fine. I’ll call you ’bro.’)

A harsh, unbridled laugh erupted from the chest of Leon, bringing with it the type of laughter that only he could produce. "Better. Much better."

The subsequent smirk was sharp, the type that belonged to a man too used to the insanity of trading barbs with a voice that no one else heard. It clung to the edges of his mouth, half-wild, half-roguish.

He leaned back on his neck, his eyes following the sky where clouds lazily floated as though they had nowhere to go. The sun was bleeding its gold to amber, setting lower with each beat of his heart, casting the air in soft, fading light. There was silence around him, thick and peaceful, sinking his body further into tranquility.

And then it occurred.

His chest constricted as his body locked, stuck mid-breath. The mood shifted—quiet, but inarguable. A ripple, a disruption, the type that only he could sense. Something, someone, was coming. His smile stretched wider, biting until it dared to break into something animal-like.

Recognition hit him like a bolt of lightning. That presence—familiar, irreplaceable—moved in, closer and faster with every second.

Leon stood up from behind the boulder, stretching with careful languor, shoulders uncoiling backward until the joints cracked in relief. Dust hung lightly on his boots as he shoved off, thudding down softly that sent minuscule grains sliding around him. His golden eyes narrowed, fixed on the black line of forest ahead.

The forest breathed with movement. Every step, every surge of power threading among the trunks, was apparent to him. His lips twisted once more, a smile not of peace but of expectation, aglow with the rush of recognition.

The shadows among the trees grew thinner. Branches parted. And then—a form stepped from the trees.

Leon’s eyes narrowed, golden eyes glinting. His voice escaped, husky with amusement, conviction, and something more profound.

"Finally."