Volume 4:The Leroy Advent Cour finale, Silhouette of the moon
Two days had bled into the past since the chaotic retreat of the devil and monster stampede. The stench of ozone and scorched earth still faintly lingered in the southern air, but here, in the heart of Lurtra, life flowed with a renewed, if slightly terrified, vigor. Leornars had returned to the gilded capital, accompanied by Rachael Suvallina and Marrielle Suvallina, for a formal meeting with King Julius—the finalization of a crucial geopolitical maneuver: the financial agreement for the unification of the independent town of Vurnam into the Kingdom of Lurtra.
The council of Vurnam and its mayor had already paid the ultimate price for their treachery. Leornars, upon discovering their hand in leaking information about the former Lord's death to the Witch of Greed, had given the swift, ruthless order. Avryl and Rachael had ensured the execution was carried out with chilling precision. The conspirators had been administered the insidious, organ-decaying poisons concocted by Salene and Ayesha, a silent, agonizing end befitting their betrayal. The peace agreement, now formally ratified, confirmed Rachael Suvallina's new, permanent post as the undisputed Lord of the unified City of Vurnam.
Leornars and Marrielle now sat in a high-backed, crimson-velvet anteroom adjoining the King's private study, listening as King Julius, a man whose face was still etched with the weariness of inherited war, outlined the recent, failed skirmish with the Kingdom of Durmount.
"The assault was ill-conceived, my Lord Leornars," King Julius explained, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. He gestured toward a map sprawled across a heavy oak table, his ringed finger tracing the border near the Valerian Peaks. "Durmount's mages were virtually nonexistent on the field, a shocking lack of magical defense. Their knights... they are strong, well-armored, yes, but they were no match for the Demi-Human Knights of Lurtra. Their formations shattered upon contact. We lost merely two score men; they lost hundreds. It was a failure of leadership and logistics, frankly, a sign of their rapid decline."
A slow, knowing smile played on Leornars' lips. He wore the simple, utilitarian black garments he'd traveled in, now slightly torn and dusted from the road. "Just as I predicted," Leornars said, his voice flat, devoid of surprise, yet holding a chilling undertone of finality. He rose from his chair, a figure of lean, restless power, and walked toward the tall, arched window that overlooked the sprawling, symmetrical gardens of the royal estate.
He looked down, not at the manicured hedges or the bubbling fountains, but at a specific, expansive wing of the palace. "Down there," he murmured, his red eyes distant, "that's the Banquet Hall. That's where the old regime held its lavish feasts while the people starved. That's where everything began, my initial gambit for true unification across this continent. I did eliminate the entire royal family of this kingdom, every corrupt vestige of the old line, and installed you, Julius, as a necessary transitional ruler. It brings back memories of necessary bloodshed."
With a sudden, decisive motion, he seized the torn collar of his travel shirt, ripping the fabric down the front with a sound like tearing silk, exposing the corded muscle of his chest. He didn't pause. He walked with an unhurried, proprietary stride out of the anteroom and into the King's private chambers—a chamber that once belonged to the King he had personally executed—to retrieve his own, perfectly tailored attire. He returned moments later, no longer the weary traveler, but the polished, lethal sovereign: immaculate in a crisp white tuxedo, a stark red silk tie knotted perfectly at his throat, and black dress shoes that gleamed like obsidian.
Marrielle Suvallina stared, her usually composed features contorted in shock. "He can just... do that? Walk into the King's private space and change without a word of permission? He treats the King of Lurtra's palace like his own private dressing room!"
Leornars turned back to King Julius, the contrast between the King's troubled features and his own icy calm stark. He leaned against the doorframe, his posture radiating effortless command.
"My nation, Avangard, is already stable, Julius," Leornars began, his voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous velvet. "I'll send a delegate over to Durmount, not for a 'peace agreement,' but to deliver a surrender ultimatum and probably an annexation document."
King Julius flinched, his jaw tightening. "My Lord Leornars... with respect, Durmount is still a sovereign kingdom. Even a crippled one. You cannot simply demand surrender from King Selamendra and his parliament. They will see it as a declaration of war, a violation of the fragile treaties that remain, and it will draw the attention of the Holy Kingdom—"
Leornars cut him off with a gesture, his red eyes narrowing. "Their sovereignty is an illusion maintained by incompetence, Julius. Their King is a prisoner of his own failures. Their failures in battle and economy are already a declaration of war against regional stability. I am simply formalizing the inevitable. I will not have a diseased kingdom bordering mine. Your role, King Julius, is to secure the Lurtra border and absorb the necessary infrastructure when they collapse. My delegate will present the terms: Immediate, unconditional surrender of the Durmount crown, the dissolution of their military, and the submission of their national treasury to a joint Avangard-Lurtra reconstruction fund."
"This guy... This guy has the audacity to ask a King to surrender in his own nation, without even stepping onto their soil first?" Marrielle thought, her mind reeling from the sheer, breathtaking arrogance of the man. She had seen him kill, seen him command, but this display of geopolitical confidence was on another level entirely. He wasn't asking; he was announcing an execution date for a kingdom.
At that moment, Rachael entered, having finalized the last protocols with the King's advisor. She gave Leornars a look that was part admiration, part weary apprehension. "Vurnam is now officially a town of Lurtra," she announced, her voice crisp. "All documents are signed and sealed, Your Majesty."
Leornars merely gave a curt nod, already moving toward the door. The business was done.
"So you are just leaving?" Marrielle asked, leaping to her feet, unable to contain her astonishment.
Leornars paused in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the corridor light. He looked over his shoulder, his red eyes cold and dismissive. "Yes, I am," he stated simply. "I have a kingdom to govern. I am a king, after all. And my kingdom awaits its next command."
While Leornars began his journey back, the Kingdom of Durmount continued its spiral.
King Selamendra was not merely confined; he was a gilded, humiliated prisoner in his own grand, suffocating chambers. His isolation was enforced by the very nobles who now sought to dismantle his authority, a power vacuum they hoped to fill. The charges against him were numerous, the final straw being the catastrophic loss of the battle against Lurtra.
The official, publicly cited crimes were:
* Assault on a Royal Servant: A chambermaid had been physically, verbally and sexually abused by the King in a fit of drunken rage after his advisors brought him bad news. The public outcry, amplified by anti-royalist whispers, was swift and damaging to his image as a just ruler.
* Treasonous Exile of the Queen: His wife, Queen Amelina, a beloved figure known for her charitable work and diplomatic grace, was secretly and falsely accused of plotting against the crown and summarily exiled to a remote, desolate fortress in the northern mountains. This act fractured the morale of the royal court and gave the dissenting nobles a powerful rallying cry—the need to "restore the just Queen."
* Economic Fiasco and National Impoverishment: Selamendra's worst crime, in the eyes of the nobles, was his financial mismanagement. He had emptied the national coffers on vanity projects—a massive, under-construction third palace and ludicrously expensive, jewel-encrusted armor for his personal guard—while simultaneously levying crippling taxes on the peasantry and merchants. This led to widespread hunger, a collapse of the local trade guilds, and a near-zero foreign investment. The Durmount economy was in ruins, and the treasury was bare, making it impossible to fund a viable defense force.
* Military Incompetence and Loss of Sovereignty: The final, undeniable proof of his failure was the catastrophic, humiliating defeat by Lurtra. His refusal to heed strategic advice, his placement of incompetent cronies in command, and his belief that raw numbers could overcome Lurtra's demi-human tactical superiority cost the kingdom hundreds of lives and all international credibility.
From a shadowed balcony across the courtyard, Princess Selrose watched the guards posted outside her father's chambers, a cool, calculating grin stretching across her face.
"Three weeks," she whispered, the sound barely audible over the distant clang of the smithies. "Three weeks of orchestrated failure, and the rot is finally ready to be cut out."
She was wearing a simple, unadorned gray dress, her usual vibrant royal silks discarded—a symbol of the austerity she knew the kingdom would soon demand.
"I guess King Leornars has done his share of the agreement perfectly," she mused, clutching a small, tarnished silver locket. "His mind is a terrifying machine. By manipulating the trade routes, planting specific rumors about my father's incompetence, and ensuring the Lurtra defeat was as humiliating as possible, he has permanently broken my father, not just physically, but politically and psychologically. And the Queen is gone, a potential rallying point eliminated. My brother, Prince Kael, is an idiot, a pliable fool whose only interest is wine and women, so controlling him until the time is right will be trivially easy."
She straightened, her posture shifting from a calculating girl to a determined monarch. "The next phase is mine. I will go with Leornars's final, brutal plan. I will ensure Kael, my 'heroic' brother, leads the inevitable defense against the next external threat—perhaps the Holy Kingdom, perhaps Avangard itself—and have him die in battle, a glorious martyrdom that unites the nobles temporarily. Then, I will take the throne and execute my father publicly for treason and crimes against the people."
Selrose looked out over the grim, struggling capital. "Someone has to fix this kingdom. It's rotten to the core. A lot of evil, power-hungry nobles, greedy traders, and a corrupt bureaucracy are choking the life out of the true Durmount people. I will work with Leornars—the man who will be my silent protector and strategic partner—and end this chaos at its root. I must protect my people, even if it means eradicating my blood family to the last toxic branch."
She closed her eyes, a brief, silent prayer passing her lips. "Thank you, Lord Leornars. Your reign of necessary destruction will pave the way for a real future."
Meanwhile, the King of Avangard, having concluded his business in Lurtra, did not waste a moment on travel. He simply stepped off the threshold of Lurtra's capital and into the arcane currents of pure teleportation energy.
Leornars materialized a few kilometers outside the outer perimeter of his capital, Avangard. He had deliberately chosen the spot to allow himself a moment to observe his creation, his burgeoning empire, before claiming his throne.
He began his walk toward the massive, mile-high city gates. The atmosphere was immediately and jarringly different from the fearful oppression of Durmount or the ancient, fragile order of Lurtra.
The first thing that struck him was the sound: not the silence of fear, but the vibrant, organic thrum of a thriving economy. The air was filled with the lowing of livestock, the high-pitched calls of vendors hawking exotic spices, the ringing of hammers from the forge district, and a constant, low-level murmur of thousands of conversations in a dozen different tongues.
As he neared the colossal gate, he saw knights in the signature black and red armor of Avangard—but these were not men he recognized. They were demi human warriors, the new guards who were appointed by Stacian , yet they were not engaged in patrolling. They were tilling the crops in the massive, newly-irrigated fields outside the city walls. armoured undeads, disciplined and tireless, worked the soil alongside human and demi-human farmers, their movements efficient, their presence a bizarre yet calming assurance of tireless, perpetual labor. A small, cold smile touched Leornars's face. Undead labor: one more burden lifted from the living population.
He removed his white coat, the silk a bright slash against the black of his shirt, and casually slung it over his shoulder, the red tie loosened.
He walked through the gates and into the bustling marketplace. It was a carnival of races and a symphony of commerce. Elves with skin like polished jade bartered for iron ingots from burly, bearded Dwarves. Kitsune merchants, their tails swishing, negotiated with stern-faced Human textile traders. Demi-Humans—from various feline and canine tribes—ran stalls selling cured meats and rare potions. The sheer diversity spoke to the true success of his rule: peace through absolute, enforced, and beneficial order. No race held supremacy; all served the State, and all thrived under it.
The city itself was a marvel of brutal, modernist architecture grafted onto older foundations. The wide avenues were paved with dark volcanic stone, reflecting the red and black banners that snapped crisply from every lamppost. The buildings were angular, rising sharply into the sky, constructed from a deep, almost purple-black granite that seemed to absorb the light, giving the city a formidable, almost menacing beauty.
The scent was a heady mix of freshly baked bread, ozone from localized teleportation circles, and the metallic tang of Avangard's superior steel.
Leornars walked, a figure of striking contrast against the dark backdrop his immaculate white hair catching the afternoon sun, his presence drawing swift, respectful nods from the populace, who instantly recognized the man who had brought them stability.
He passed into the main square, a vast open space designed for military parades and grand pronouncements, and headed toward the monolithic Lotus Citadel—the royal castle.
At the base of the towering, obsidian walls, right outside the massive main gates, a welcoming party was already assembled, lined up with the perfect, unwavering stillness of practiced subordinates.
He saw:
* Zaryter: His loyal surbodinate , cold and utterly focused, a scythe-like intelligence in his dragonian frame.
* Zhyelena: The Mistress of Spies and Infiltration, her face an unreadable mask of elegant danger.
* Avryl: His Commander of the Guard, a figure of quiet, absolute loyalty.
* Ayesha and Salene: The twin poisoners, two halves of a beautiful, terrifying whole, standing side-by-side.
* Bellian: The Master of Infrastructure, standing with the solid, dependable air of a man who makes the trains run on time, and who oversees the legions of undead workers.
* Zhyier: The Master of Magical Defense and Research, his eyes already calculating the next magical barrier Leornars would demand.
* Ascian: His massive, seven-foot-tall Inferno Wolf, its coal-black fur radiating a faint heat, standing with the quiet dignity of a royal hound.
* Shullah: The young girl he'd taken under his wing, now laughing softly as she tossed a worn leather ball to Ascian, who fielded it with a gentle, massive maw.
* Kurumi Yamauchi: The reincarnator from a world and a business entrepreneur, her stance relaxed companion.
When they saw him, the perfect line of powerful individuals executed an instant, synchronized motion. Every one of them—mage, soldier, assassin, and beast—dropped to a knee in perfect union, their heads bowed low.
"Welcome home, Lord Leornars!" The chorus of voices was sharp, unified, and utterly devoted.
As the sound died away, the massive, iron-reinforced castle door groaned open on well-oiled hinges, revealing a final, exquisite figure. Stacian stepped out, the sunlight haloing her. She wore a simple, elegant white sundress and a jaunty blue sunhat, a conscious choice to contrast the somber colors of the kingdom. Her majestic black wings and wicked red horns were fully visible, and her beautiful blue eyes and shimmering blue hair gleamed. She performed a gentle, perfect curtsy, a picture of feminine grace overlaying pure demonic power.
"Welcome, Lord Leornars," she said, her voice soft but resonating with genuine warmth.
Leornars paused only for a moment to acknowledge their devotion with a subtle tilt of his chin before striding past them and into the citadel.
The interior was designed to convey overwhelming power. The vaulted ceilings were impossibly high, the walls were lined with murals depicting the founding of Avangard not as an ascension, but as a revelation of true order. The floor was a mosaic of polished black marble, reflecting his towering figure as he walked.
His gaze was drawn immediately to the center of the vast throne room. There, on a raised dais, sat his throne. It was not a gilded relic of history, but a modernist statement: a towering, angular construction of deep, blood-red wood with severe, sculptural silver and black armrests wrought in the shape of predatory claws. He saw a crimson crown on the throne,took it and wore it.
Above the throne, fixed to the granite wall, was the Avangard Kingdom crest: a Crescent Moon emblazoned on a Shield, with a snarling Dragon positioned between the two. The symbol of eternal vigilance and overwhelming power.
Leornars walked to the throne and finally, after days of travel and politicking, sat. He settled in, his posture radiating unassailable authority, and placed one foot over the other with deliberate precision. His white hair and intense red eyes seemed to draw all the available light. His gaze, sharp and commanding, fixed upon the vast, open space of the horizon visible through the panoramic window behind the throne.
One by one, his subordinates entered the room, moving with silent, military precision, and took their assigned places, lined up according to rank and purpose.
Stacian stood immediately to his right hand, radiating her potent, controlled energy. Beside her were Zaryter, Ayesha, Salene, and the young Shullah, who stood with an air of newfound seriousness, her small hand resting near Ascian's massive head.
Kurumi stood a little back, in the middle, a place that signified her unique status not as a subordinate, but as a trusted companion and business partner.
To his left side stood Avryl, followed by Zhyelena, Bellian, and Zhyier. Ascian, the inferno wolf, took his place by the foot of the throne, a terrifying statue of coiled power.
Leornars looked at the perfectly arranged tableau of his inner circle, his gaze lingering on each of them for a moment the most powerful, loyal, and ruthless minds on the continent.
He broke the silence, his voice echoing slightly in the vast chamber, calm yet imbued with the crushing weight of inevitable destiny.
"The time for diplomacy ends. The age of petty kings is over. Time for Conquest."
He paused, letting the finality of the words settle on his court.
"Up next, we destroy the Kingdom of Durmount. It is a dead nation; we will simply attend the burial and claim the estate. Durmount will be annexed, restructured, and its resources utilized to fuel our next movements."
He leaned forward slightly, his red eyes burning with vision.
"Following that, we deal with the remaining, more complex threats: the decadent, corrupt aristocracy of the Kingdom of Seraphim and the suffocating hypocrisy of the Holy Kingdom. This is a new age, a true Era of Order. The era of old, crumbling monarchy, of corrupt bureaucrats, and of false, self-proclaimed heroes ends permanently. We will forge a single, iron-willed empire from the ashes of their failure."
Meanwhile, several miles outside the vibrant, fortified walls of Avangard, a lone figure stood on a windswept ridge overlooking the entire capital.
Kylie had finally arrived.
He stood with his hands clenched, his knuckles white, his travel cloak whipping around him in the relentless wind. His eyes, usually filled with a desperate light of heroism, were now shadowed by pure, focused hatred. The tales he had heard, the destruction Leornars had wrought in his conquest for 'order,' the sheer, demonic power of the Black Citadel—it only fueled the burning conviction that this man was the ultimate evil.
He drew a long, ragged breath, pulling his sword from its sheath. The steel shimmered in the failing light, a beacon of defiant justice against the creeping blackness of Avangard.
"You built your kingdom of monsters and shadows, Leornars," Kylie spat into the wind, his voice a raw whisper of a vow. "But I am the light that burns down the darkness. I will eliminate you."