CHAPTER 1479: THE KING RETURN

At the mention of the Lucient name, a wave of cheers erupted, echoing through the hall and filling every corner with fervor. Memories surged to the surface as they reminisced about the harrowing days of the Dark Age War.

Those bleak years when despair pressed against their hearts and survival itself seemed a fading dream. When the world was swallowed by eternal darkness and hope flickered like a dying ember, they clung to a single name: Lucient.

One voice recalled the King’s unwavering courage. With only his Archknight and a handful of loyal men, he stood resolute before the black dragon, halting the Beast’s advance to buy precious time for Harland’s citizens to flee the doomed city.

Elsewhere, in foreign lands, leaders and ministers were the first to be escorted away, abandoning their people and soldiers to fend for themselves. But Harland remembered differently, unlike everyone, they could proudly say: Their King did not run.

Another voice rose, recalling how Princess Lorient herself had guarded the people during their flight to L’Markieth. And how, at the most desperate hour, Prince Lucas had arrived at last.

Side by side, the young prince and princess, together with the Archknights and the King’s Men, fought unyieldingly to shield the fleeing citizens until they reached the safety of L’Markieth’s gates.

Since the exhibition was held in Harland, the reverence toward the Lucient family weighed more heavily here than anywhere else, and its fervor swept through the guests from foreign lands as well. Stories blossomed among them, passed from guest to guest, even whispered by the gallery staff.

Awe and longing for King Marcus and Princess Lorient were palpable, so much so that the presence of Alinna, the Saintess heralded as the new hope of the world, slowly faded into the background.

Alinna lingered on the edge of the gathering, her hands clasped tightly before her as the tide of voices swelled around her. Each word of praise for King Marcus and Princess Lorient seemed to push her further into shadow, a reminder that no matter what she had achieved, or what destiny she believed she must fulfill, she could never fill the void they had left.

Their names were spoken with reverence, her own with hesitation, as though hers was a fragile promise compared to their living legend. She lowered her gaze, willing herself to appear calm, though a knot of unease tightened in her chest.

Alexander’s jaw tightened as the reverence for the Lucients swelled, their names passed from one guest to another like sacred relics, each word gilded with admiration. He could not allow it to continue.

Masking his disquiet with an air of nonchalance, he tilted his head ever so slightly, lips curving in a faint, detached smile. Then, in a voice smooth and deliberate as he cut clean through the clamor, he spoke:

"By the way," he said, as though in passing, "I could not help but notice the absence of any representative from Cestine Palace. Are they perhaps... too occupied with weightier matters? Or is there something else that has kept them from joining us?"

The words slipped like a blade into the room, the implication unmistakable. At once, murmurs rippled through the hall. Faces turned, voices dropping to uneasy whispers. Could it be true? they wondered.

Why would the royal palace of Harland be absent from a gathering of such importance? A current of worry stirred, concern not only for King Lucas’s absence, but for what it might mean.

Hugo’s eyes widened theatrically, his brows lifting in feigned surprise. "Oh? Why do you think so, Your Grace?" he asked, his tone light, but edged with subtle challenge.

Before Alexander could press further, the hall was plunged into sudden darkness. Gasps filled the silence. A heartbeat later, light bloomed again, not from chandeliers, but from enchantment.

Across every wall and surface stretched a midnight landscape, a boundless sky awash with blue stars. Constellations shimmered, shifting and alive, and from the glittering illusion burst flocks of luminous birds.

They soared above the guests, wings scattering motes of light like falling petals. The hall rang with awe as wonder swept away whispers of doubt.

Suddenly, the wall before them split open, revealing a stage bathed in warm light. At the podium stood a middle-aged man. The crowd gasped in unison as recognition spread among them.

"Wait—isn’t that Erickson Northwood, Harland’s Minister of Culture and Education?" someone whispered in awe.

"Oh yes, it is," another replied.

"So, there is a representative from the Cestine Palace after all," a third chimed in.

"Yes, but I still want to see King Lucas," someone muttered wistfully.

At the very front, Salvo De Rova and Alexander stood side by side, their presence impossible to overlook. Salvo’s eyes flashed with an inexplicable glint, his posture deceptively relaxed, though his mind churned with possibilities.

The invitation to this exhibition was no mere courtesy, he was certain of that, though its true purpose remained vague. Beside him, Alexander’s expression was composed, yet when their eyes met for the briefest of moments, unspoken meaning passed between them.

Meanwhile, Alinna felt a knot of unease tightening within her. She had thought attending this event would grant her a chance to shape public opinion, to soften Harland’s perception of her, not necessarily to win affection, but at least to earn a measure of acceptance. Yet with each passing moment, her confidence decreased bit by bit.

Erickson Northwood, a man of forty, stood with the calm poise of a scholar. His black hair and sharp gray eyes gave him the appearance of someone still in his early thirties, which indicated he is a powerful, gifted people.

But from the outside, the man looked refined and gentle, he carried the air of a man who had spent a lifetime among books anda laboratory.

Yet those who knew him closely remembered more than his early days as a genius who earned the title of professor at just twenty-four.

More than that, he had once served as the assistant to Reynald Remienstein, one of King Marcus’s revered Archknights, and under Reynald Remienstein’s guidance, he had not only become a great scholar but also a powerful gifted people, that many feared.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Erickson began, his voice smooth and soothing, "welcome to our first exhibition. It has been some time since Harland’s National Art Gallery was rebuilt.

We may yet have many shortcomings, but I hope you will be kind enough to understand," he said humbly, yet the charisma exuded from him was apparent.

"Yet all of this could never exist without the sacrifices of those who came before. The soldiers, the hunters, the creators, the heroes who gave their lives so we might endure. And above all, we must never forget our King, King Lucas."

The screen behind Erickson split open with a sudden hiss, light pouring through the gap. From the glow stepped a man, tall and steady, his presence cutting through the hall like a blade through still air.

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then—

"King Lucas!"

The words tore out of the crowd. Gasps shattered into screams, disbelief collided with joy, and in an instant, the hall dissolved into madness. Hands clapped furiously, echoing like gunfire, while others covered their mouths, eyes wide with tears and trembling awe.

"Oh my God—it’s true! It’s the King! It’s really him!"

"The King is here!"

The cries multiplied, echoing from every corner, until the air itself seemed to quake with their force. The sound swelled into a deafening roar, a storm of devotion and hysteria.

Feet stamped the floor in thunderous rhythm, rattling the ground beneath them; the vaulted ceiling trembled with the clash of a thousand voices raised at once.

Alexander’s breath caught in his chest. His grip unconsciously tightened. He could not believe what he was seeing, nor did he want to.

How could the man who was supposed to be lying helpless, waiting for death, now stand alive and well, and without the faintest trace of illness?

Salvo’s expression fared no better; his face darkened into a grim mask. The truth was undeniable; the plan they had so painstakingly prepared had failed, and failed miserably. He clenched his teeth, then slipped quietly out of the hall.

From the corner of his eye, Zhao Li Xin caught Salvo’s retreat. A cold sneer curled across his handsome face. He should call his allies now; they needed to know their scheme had failed miserably.

The next attack would come with greater madness, more open, more reckless. His gaze shifted back to Lucas, who stood proudly at the podium, bathed in the thunderous cheers of his people.

Meanwhile, Lucas remained calm, untouched by the chaos around him, as though the mortal world could no longer reach him. Draped in the King’s black and deep-purple regalia, he stood like a figure carved from myths and legend itself.

His features, clean and composed, bore neither arrogance nor strain, but the serene confidence of one born to rule. And when his gaze swept the hall, his dark amethyst eyes shimmered like a jewel of rarest cut, captivating and unyielding.

It was not merely beauty, but command; not merely dignity, but the quiet promise of strength. In that moment, Lucas was not just a king by title, but rather the embodiment of sovereignty itself.

Lucas watch the audience, then his eyes stop at Alexander Behren for a moment then he give a polite nod that feel like mockery, Alexander heaved ups in quick movement, he mask his expression by gulped the whole wine on his glass.

Lucas feign ignorant then begin to start his speech "Ladies and gentleman, It’s been quite a while, and I’m happy to meet you again in this new grand exhibition in our national gallery. Thank you for all of you for kindly willing to come from the faraway place, thank you for all your support for Mr. Zhao artworks and for my gallery" he said with solemn, calm and steady voice.

The hall erupted in a low, electric hum. The crowd, already trembling with anticipation, could no longer restrain its excitement. Everyone phones shot up simultaneously like a thousand raised torches, screens glowing as they captured every word, every gesture.

Faces lit with joy, disbelief, and reverence as streams went live, the images of the king scattering across networks in real time, and it spread like a wildfire.

In living rooms, cafés, offices, even on crowded sidewalks—people froze where they stood. Conversations broke off mid-sentence, coffee cups lingered halfway to lips, and footsteps halted mid-stride.

Every gaze fell to the glow of phones, laptops, and TV screens, soon after a collective gasp rippled through the air. Then, like a dam breaking, comments surged by the thousands, timelines drowned in disbelief, and news anchors scrambled to give voice to the chaos

The feed spread faster than satellites could beam, the news become viral in the second and cause many platform broke down because of overload.

Excitement collided with chaos, and for an instant, the entire world seemed to hold its breath, pausing only to witness this single moment.

From the headlines to the hashtags, they all have the same title: The King Has Returned.