CHAPTER 455: STORM OF KINGS AND STEEL

Storm of Kings and Steel

Nova’s voice escalated alongside Leon, gentle but slicing through tension like a sword. Even, unbreakable. "Darling, you get the old man," she told him, her green eyes blazing with quiet fury. "We’ll take care of the rest.

Each word, every step, hummed with lethal intent. The courtyard was not a battlefield, it was a tempest pent, waiting to unleash itself, and at its very center Natasha stood, still, unchanging, horribly alive with energy.

Leon smiled weakly. "As you wish."

The instant the words escaped his lips, the courtyard was a whirlwind of activity. Nova danced like a living sword—green steel screaming through the smoke, a flash of light that sliced with impossible beauty. Her blows were calculated, each one finding meat or armor before the enemy could grasp the space she’d just vacated. Men fell as if by unseen strings; the ring of steel on bone and steel on armor filled the air.

At the flanks, Captain Black and Johny poured across together, an experienced team who read the other’s breath. They channeled attackers aside from the center, bashing shields and replying to thrusts in savage economy. Beside them the surviving guards crashed into a savage, metallic chorusing—shouts and curses, and the soggy thud of flesh hitting dirt.

Within a shuddering circle of water, Natasha became something quite different—something less than a woman and more a tempest embodied. Her pace dissolved; every blow came like a sentence, rattling the cobblestones and making teeth ache. Rage flowed out of her in unrelenting, deadly tides; the barrier held firm, glimmering as it soaked up futile attempts.". The chief maid shrieked repeatedly, battering the shining wall with frantic, futile blows that only generated water-spray and anguish into the room.

Leon’s eyes returned to Sir Aden. The veteran knight stood rooted like an old tree, sword held high—its blade singing a low, impossible blue. That light bound the metal like a promise. Aden’s words were low and brutal, each syllable a drawn blade. "Boy," he said, the words stitched with rage, "I don’t care whose side you’re on or for what purpose you fight. I can’t fight her—but you, I’ll kill.

There was no entreaty in Aden’s voice, merely the cold mathematics of one who had nothing with which to bargain but blood and pride. The courtyard around them grew indistinct at the edges—smoke and fire and the jagged outlines of men who had been called guardians. For one moment, all came down to the two men facing one another: the veteran whose existence had been etched by duty, and the young man who stood composed within a storm he’d chosen.

Leon’s smirk grew. "You can try."

Aden’s eyes blazed with unchecked rage, the universe contracting to the form before him. Each heartbeat cried out for retribution, each muscle of his body quivering with hard, unbridled fury. His fingers clamped hard around the sword until metal dug deep into his palms, knuckles turning white as if the sword itself were a vessel for the tempest raging within.

He charged again, quicker this time, a moving blur of desperation and pride. Every blow packed all of his insults, all of his losses, and still Leon danced like water—unhindered, uncatchable. The black-haired one leaned, shifted, and each strike fell short by the smallest chance, showering sparks and shards as steel whispered past metal. One strike even brushed past his hair, the lightest of stings a reminder of Aden’s burning speed and power.

Their fight clashed like thunder in the courtyard, resounding off the broken stone and shattered walls. Aden bellowed, using the noise to drive him on, a wild edge slicing into every motion. His next blow came from above, hammering down in a crushing arc. But Leon got in the way—not with a sword, but with a naked fist, the two tearing through the air like an explosion.

"[Voidbreaker Martial Art]—First Form." The words escaped Leon’s lips practically nonchalantly, but the power that accompanied them was far from average. The courtyard itself shuddered. Tiles cracked outward in spiderweb fissures, fire roared back in savage gusts, and Aden stumbled, his armor creaking with the unbridled physical strength. He fought to regain balance; teeth clenched as surprise and fury raged within him.

Leon’s eyes shone softly golden in the cloud of smoke swirling around him, his form untroubled in the midst of turmoil. "I warned you," He murmured, a quiet menace in his voice, "you should’ve left."

Aden’s growl rumbled out like a caged beast snarling, low and vibrational, thickenings the very air around them. Each word bore the weight of incredulity, anger, and the sort of raw emotion that caused hearts to thump. "Not until I know who you are!" he bit out, the shiver in his voice revealing anger and a deep, uneasy fear.

Leon’s lips bent into a smile that was far from reassuring—dark, sharp, and consciously unnerving. He did not blink, did not hesitate, standing as if the turmoil surrounding him were merely a soft breeze. "You would like to know?" His voice fell into a cold cadence, silky but cutting, each syllable woven with the silent threat of a hunter measuring his kill. "Then learn this name, Sir Knight.

With a conscious movement, he lifted his fist. Purple runes blazed down his arm, nipping at his skin like burning fire, each one throbbing with wild, untrained power. The glow danced and shone, casting light that moved restlessly across his sharp face. "I am Leon—future King of Vellore." The statement floated there, heavy and irrefutable, a promise that held both glory and ruin.

Aden’s fury burst forth, vast and untrammelled, a wave of force and feeling, as if the air itself had ignited. All of him howled to hit, to smash, to demonstrate that nothing, nothing at all—not even a man exuding such awful calm—could get between him and what he wanted. The courtyard was a battlefield of wills, untrained power confronting untrained fury, and in the breathing space between heartbeats, the tension threatened to snap everything into nothingness.