Chapter 91: The Free King's Final Verdict
The Final Chapter of Volume 6
The afternoon sun, usually a welcome guest, seemed to cast a judgmental glare through the tall, arched windows of the manor's master bedroom. Leornars, stood amidst a battlefield of silk and linen—the annual wardrobe dilemma.
"Hmm… a white tuxedo. Too… expected. Predictable. It reeks of 'I am here to be worshipped and polite,' which, frankly, sounds exhausting," Leornars muttered to himself, holding up a pristine, embroidered jacket.
That's the exact reason you should wear it, Leornars. Imagine the utter shock when you commit atrocities while looking like a pastry chef's dream, a resonant, dry voice echoed in the recesses of his mind.
Leornars sighed, knowing that the voice belonged to Althelia, the consciousness residing within his core, forever linked to his Gate Keeper abilities. "Althelia, your sense of dramatic irony is intact, I see. But no. For a clean-up, one must dress comfortably. It's less like a banquet and more like… a very well-catered, high-stakes gardening session."
Gardening? You're preparing to uproot an entire social class. Try 'highly personalized extermination event,' she countered, her mental tone utterly neutral.
Just then, the heavy oak door swung open with a decisive thump. Stacian, strode in. She was already in motion, her pale blue hair shimmering as she tossed a scroll of information onto the nearest chaise lounge.
"Heard a whisper about a royal gala, a mandatory attendance, and I just had to teleport in," Stacian said, her voice laced with amusement. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms, her gaze sweeping over the discarded finery. "So, what's the consensus? Is this another 'Let's impress the foreign dignitaries' farce, or is it a genuine, honest-to-god clean-up?"
Leornars, his silver hair already pulled back, slipped on a pure white, custom-fitted shirt. The contrast with his skin was stark. "The latter. A clean-up. Nothing more. We're simply weeding the garden before the spring planting," he confirmed, his voice flat, contrasting with the lightness of his attire choice.
He bypassed the formal trousers entirely. Instead, he reached for the surprisingly comfortable, deep crimson cargo pants that Kurumi Yamauchi had personally delivered that morning. They were practical, stylishly cut, and, most importantly, allowed for maximum movement. For footwear, he chose simple, black suede slippers—the kind one might wear to lounge around a summer house, not to a state dinner.
Stacian raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Red cargo pants and slippers to a gathering of the highest nobility? My Lord, you are either a fashion revolutionary or you've given up entirely."
"It's a declaration. It says, 'I am here, but I don't care about your rules.' It saves time, and I have no need to dress for those baboons" Leornars stated, catching the light on his signature crimson dragon earring, which he fastened to his left earlobe. He layered it with a thin, black note bracelet and a blade-shaped crescent moon necklace—minimalist symbols of his power and defiance.
He paused, gathering his magnificent silver hair and twisting it into a simple, severe knot at the base of his neck.
Stacian stepped forward, her expression softening slightly. She gently took a heavy, carved golden hair pin shaped like a stylized wolf and carefully drove it into the bun, securing it flawlessly. "There. A touch of structure to frame the chaos. A King must still look the part, even when he's about to dismantle the whole system."
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I must also make an entrance worthy of the 'King's subordinate'."
A short time later, Leornars waited in the foyer. He was observing his reflection—an almost tragically beautiful young man , he sighed.
You look like a walking paradox, Althelia commented. A demi-human in the clothes of a commoner, about to judge the morality of kings. The irony is palpable.
"I have no desire to be a King of paradoxes, Althelia. Only a King who is free to define justice on his own terms," Leornars thought, steeling himself. "If that means being the villain, so be it."
Stacian descended the grand staircase, and Leornars involuntarily stilled. Stacian walked out her naturally blue hair was now loose, cascading down her back like a waterfall. She wore an elegant, pure white sundress, surprisingly simple but cut to perfection, adorned with subtle gold jewelry, a thin black choker, and delicate white heels. She looked less like a warrior and more like an ice fairy attending a summer ball.
"Ready, My Lord?" she asked, a slight smile touching her lips.
"You look… understated. But effective," Leornars replied, stepping toward the waiting, lavishly appointed carriage.
Their first stop was the bustling Yamauchi Clothing Store.
Inside, Kurumi Yamauchi, the heiress of the fashion empire and a vital intelligence contact, was waiting. She was petite and perpetually energetic, her sharp business mind hidden beneath an image of graceful charm.
"Lord Leornars! Stacian! You both look incredible! The crimson cargos, Leornars—a bold choice, truly iconic! And Stacian, the white contrasts so well with your complexion!" Kurumi chirped, immediately sensing the atmosphere.
"Kurumi, did the arrangements go as needed?" Leornars asked, his tone dropping to business.
Kurumi's smile became a knowing, private expression. "Perfectly. The invitations were all delivered, the security roster is exactly as you modified it, and the manor's food storage now contains a very small, very inconspicuous container of a rare, fast-acting paralysis agent, just in case any of the designated 'pests' try a dramatic escape. Think of it as a fashionable insurance policy."
"Excellent work, Kurumi. Your presence there is mandatory, as well. You are part of the new system, remember?" Leornars stated.
Kurumi bowed low. "Of course, bro . I wouldn't miss this spectacle for the world. To witness the true beginning of the new era... and to see my design choices on the battlefield... it's a profound honor."
" Bro?" Leornars thought
The three of them stepped into the carriage, the luxurious interior seeming out of place given their grim objective. The journey was silent, punctuated only by the rhythmic clatter of the horses' hooves.
As the carriage pulled up to the grand, floodlit banquet manor, the sounds of polite, drunken chatter and orchestral music spilled into the night air.
Leornars stepped out first. He didn't stride or swagger. He simply existed.
Before his foot even touched the meticulously paved walkway, he allowed the smallest, most infinitesimal fraction of his true aura to leak out. It wasn't a hostile burst of power—it was a simple, subtle declaration of presence, like the slow, quiet expansion of a black hole.
The atmosphere didn't just quiet; it cracked. The music faltered, the high-pitched laughter died in throats, and the hundreds of noble attendees froze, an invisible, crushing pressure descending upon them. Fear—pure, primal fear—registered on every face. They weren't reacting to an intruder; they were reacting to a force of nature.
"Ah, the classic soft-launch of terror. Nicely done. Efficient," Althelia noted sarcastically.
Leornars, seemingly oblivious, walked toward the entrance, Stacian a perfectly measured step behind and Kurumi following with a determined, wide-eyed gaze. The great doors swung open, and the silence inside deepened to a vacuum.
He walked past rows of frozen faces—Dukes, Countesses, and Barons—none daring to meet his eyes. His gaze wasn't on them; it was on the decadent spread of food arranged on the long table at the center of the hall.
After a few minutes of walking, Leornars stopped. He reached out and carefully selected a perfectly polished red apple. Stacian moved next to him and casually plucked a small cluster of deep purple grapes.
"Grapes?" Leornars asked, a low rumble of amusement in his voice.
"Apple?" Stacian countered, her eyes sparkling.
"Too rustic. Predictable. It says, 'I am Adam, and I'm about to fall from grace.' Fitting, perhaps," he mused, taking a silent bite.
"Grapes are classic. They symbolize abundance, decadence, and the eventual decay of wine. Also fitting, for the company we keep," she replied, popping one into her mouth.
The strained silence in the hall was broken only by the quiet crunch of Leornars's apple.
It was at this moment of calculated vulnerability that one of the attendees decided to make a move—a Duchess Varenna, known for her grasping ambition and remarkably poor judgment.
She walked their way, a practiced, sickly sweet smile plastered on her face, waving one hand high in a gesture of false familiarity.
"Oh, King Leornars! You finally came! We were just saying how much the night needed your presence!" she gushed, attempting to project an image of effortless charm that failed spectacularly under the shadow of his aura.
Both Leornars and Stacian turned their eyes toward her. Their expressions were utterly, profoundly bored.
It was then, in the private, mental space shared by their connected wills, that the three most crucial voices in the room spoke the exact same thought, in perfect, synchronized contempt:
"Ugly bitch."
The Duchess, oblivious to the mental trinity's verdict, continued her approach, her eyes fixed entirely on Leornars, completely ignoring Stacian. She was close enough now for her heavy perfume to reach him.
"Lord Leornars, may I have this dance? It would be the honor of the entire evening," she simpered, extending a gloved hand.
As if reacting to a sudden, irresistible magnetic pull, Stacian stepped smoothly and decisively in front of Leornars, intercepting the Duchess's path. The Duchess's hand froze mid-air, her face shifting from sickly sweet to genuinely shocked and affronted.
"Excuse me, Lady Stacian," the Duchess hissed, her voice laced with venom. "I was addressing the King."
Stacian didn't break her gaze. "And I was accepting, on his behalf, bitch."
Leornars, watching the exchange, felt a familiar weariness settle over him—the same weariness that always came before he had to execute an unpleasant but necessary action.
This is it. The turning point. The last dance of the condemned, Althelia noted quietly.
Leornars gently placed the half-eaten apple on the food table and then placed his hand firmly on the small of Stacian's back, guiding her slightly to the side, away from the sputtering Duchess. He held her gaze, his eyes reflecting the ballroom lights but devoid of warmth.
"Lady Stacian did not lie," he stated, his voice carrying just enough to cut through the heavy silence of the room. "We shall dance."
He took Stacian's hand, leading her onto the cleared floor. The orchestra, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, tentatively resumed a slow, haunting waltz.
As they began to move, their steps perfectly synchronized, the nobles began to chatter in furious, hushed tones, glaring at the sight of the King dancing with his shadowy, low-born aide instead of a suitable Duchess.
Leornars spoke, his voice low enough only for Stacian and the ever-present Althelia to hear. He wasn't speaking to Stacian; he was speaking to his own soul.
"Ever since that day… the day I was broken and then remade, all the fragments of my reason for existence reconnected into one excruciating turning point," Leornars whispered as they turned elegantly beneath the chandeliers. "I realized where I stand: I am not meant to be used by a system, but I am needed to create a new one."
Stacian simply listened, her blue eyes reflecting a deep understanding of his inner turmoil.
"They believe I am kind because they expect it from a King. But I am only kind when it is needed, not because they have earned it or because they can demand it. They are operating on an outdated moral ledger. I owe them nothing."
A sharp edge entered his voice. "I possess no moral code that mandates inaction in the face of injustice or inhumanity. That is not my cloud. My cloud is the lonely, high-altitude storm where the rules of men dissolve."
A beautiful sentiment, Leornars. But remember, the moment you take the final step, you transition from a reformist to a mass executioner. The history books will not be kind, Althelia warned, her tone neither supportive nor condemning—just factual.
"History is written by the survivors, Althelia. If I must be the monster that kills the monsters, then I accept the ink. It is a small price to pay for the future," Leornars retorted internally.
He executed a complicated pivot, momentarily drawing Stacian close. As he did, a wave of subtle, chilling power flowed from him. Outside the manor, invisible to the horrified nobles, a new presence emerged.
Undead Knights—a legion of loyal, silent soldiers with glowing crimson eyes—began to rise from the very soil, surrounding the banquet hall, from the rooftop to the ground. They were the silent executioners, poised and ready.
A small, frightened cry echoed from a secluded corner of the ballroom. Empress Louis, a child barely old enough to understand the gravity of her title, was peering out, her eyes wide with terror.
A shadow detached itself from Leornars's own—Bellian, a high-ranking, ghostly commander of his undead forces. Bellian materialized silently, took the young Empress's hand, and without a word, guided her out the back door and into a secure, protective teleportation circle.
Leornars watched her go, a flicker of something akin to pain crossing his eyes. "A child, no matter the age or title, should not be made to witness death. That debt of trauma is too high, even for my agenda."
An exception for kindness. Your moral compass still spins true, even as you plan the slaughter, Althelia observed.
The waltz came to a seamless end. Leornars and Stacian remained on the floor. He cleared his throat, the sound incredibly loud in the deep silence that followed the music.
"I am here tonight to announce that the Avangard Kingdom has fully and formally embraced the Seraphim Kingdom as its unwavering ally. In trade, in protection, and in peace," Leornars declared, his voice ringing with authority.
Muttering immediately erupted among the nobles, a panicked surge of whispering relief.
"So, why did he gather us? Just for an alliance declaration?" one noble asked, slightly relieved, relaxing his tense posture.
"It must be something useful for our nations. Perhaps a tax cut or a trade agreement," another speculated.
"Could we be quiet," Stacian interjected, her voice suddenly sharp and cold, cutting through the murmuring like a razor wire. The nobles fell silent, shocked by the sheer imperiousness of the King's aide.
Leornars waited for the silence to settle again, his expression unreadable.
"As I was saying, Seraphim and Avangard are now one. That unity brings opportunity, but it does not validate the nobility class for continued existence," Leornars continued, his tone chilling. "That is not the way forward. That is why I personally issued the King's execution and personally erased the existence of Prince Luiphonia."
He paused, letting his final, damning sentence hang in the air.
"I see no need for pests in the world I am creating. And since you are all insects, I will simply kill every single one of you tonight."
A collective, massive gasp filled the hall. Several women shrieked. One Duke choked violently on his wine.
"Who do you think you are?!" a stout Baron finally exploded, pushing past his neighbors, his face purple with rage. "You think just because you have monstrous power, you have the right to judge us? You are wrong!"
Leornars looked at the Baron, not with anger, but with profound pity.
"The cosmic balance between good and evil is proportional. It's a sad and frankly infuriating truth that the world often actively wants the comfortable evil—the corrupt, the familiar, the system—more than it wants true, difficult goodness. And when the evil collapses, the world will blame the one who dared to destroy it."
"Good and evil? What are you even talking about, boy?" the Baron stammered, his bravado wavering.
Leornars spread his arms slightly, a gesture of weary finality.
"My actions are evil only from your skewed point of view. And that is precisely the issue. You cannot see the flaws in your system because your judgment, your morality, and your code of justice are not abided by any normal, decent person. You are broken mirrors of humanity. That is why I am not going to let anyone here live."
Outside, the first wave of Undead Knights breached the manor walls. Weapons scraped against the polished stone floor as they filed in, silent, unstoppable.
"All of you—all of you are guilty. For orchestrated invasion, for drug trading with Luiphonia, for systemic slavery, and for attempted genocide on my nation, both in the past and in recent memory." Leornars's voice was now cold, edged steel.
A different noble, a smug Count known for his legal maneuvering, stepped forward, attempting a final defense. "What proof do you have? Accusations are cheap, King! If you have none, the Skyvault Citadel will judge you a threat to be exterminated! They will hunt you down!"
Leornars smiled—a chilling, hollow expression that did not reach his eyes.
"I will be seen as evil for killing nobles and kings, and I do not regret it. There is no need for a system of law that is one-sided on justice, only protecting the rich while crucifying the weak."
He let his internal pain bleed into his declaration, making his words heavier, more personal.
"I am not letting any other child go through the nightmares I went through. I am not letting anyone else suffer how I suffered. If I cannot be a King who genuinely saves his citizens and defends the weak, then I have no reason to keep living. I would remove my crown and end myself, because I cannot afford to become the evil I am erasing."
He pointed his hand toward the floor, tapping the marble lightly.
"I have the Gate Keeper. I have the ability to erase your souls from the cycle of rebirth and reincarnation. If I am not the judge of this world, then what am I? Who am I? I am not a human like you. I am a demi-human—a being you people persecute and sell off as slaves. I am what your forefathers feared: A Free King."
The nobles were weeping, screaming, and trying to flee, but the Undead Knights had sealed every exit.
"And I will not send my nation into the stone age by declaring a pointless war on all humans, no. I am past that. That is our ancestors' vengeance, not ours, and I am not interested in it at all. This is a new age. An age of revolution. It is time to shed these broken, poisonous systems and fully embrace the terrifying, glorious new beginning."
A dead silence. The only sound was the heavy breathing of the terrified nobles.
"Tell me this," Leornars continued, his voice softening again, becoming heartbreakingly sad. "Why do millions of common people have to die in wars that their leaders began out of pure, petty ego? Why do children have to lose their loved ones in pointless conflicts? What is the moral justification for invading and killing children and families simply to line your own pockets?"
He met the wide, horrified eyes of the Countess who had just been lamenting her ruined silk dress.
"I may be painted as the villain in your story, but I possess a moral code that mandates the defense of the weak! I do this not for show or for glory. I do it because it is my fundamental nature."
Another silence. This time, there was no sound of panic, only acceptance of doom.
"I thought so. You all believe you are innocent because you are nobles, because you possess pure royal blood.' But royalty is meaningless if your morals are fragile, corrupt, and utterly disposable. What is the point of having monsters wearing crowns?"
The nobles looked around frantically, desperate to find the Queen, the symbol of their continued legitimacy.
"Where is the Queen? Where is Empress Louis?!" they screamed.
Leornars sighed dramatically. "The Queen? Oh, I already killed her," he lied easily, testing their reaction.
"You… what?!"
"Yes. She was a pest like you. She betrayed her own father and brother just to secure her own position. She was a threat, a focus of future corruption, and I had to eliminate her." He lied again, deliberately feeding the narrative of the cruel, emotionless tyrant.
He looked at the scene of terror, of despair, and his silver eyes seemed to film over with distaste.
"In truth, I am not interested, even in the slightest, in the pomp, food, or conversation of this banquet. I see it as a monumental waste of my precious time and thoughts."
A small, shaking Duke found the courage to ask the inevitable question. "So… so what are you going to do with us?"
Leornars turned his back on the assembled, cowering nobility. He looked at Stacian, whose expression was already one of grim, absolute resolve.
"Kill them all. The women, the men—everyone who has passed the age of accountability. Take the children—those under the age of twelve—out safely. And then, Stacian," his voice was a thread of iron, "I know you have a skill for it. Erase their memories. They will not remember the night, their titles, or their past trauma. Give them a blank slate."
Stacian gave a low, elegant bow, her white sundress a stark contrast to the darkness of her task. "At your will, Lord Leornars. It will be done efficiently."
Leornars began to walk out, not running, not hurrying.
A loud, spatial glitching sound—the sound of reality being stressed—began to echo from the manor.
Stacian raised her hand, and the atmosphere compressed around the nobles. Her eyes glowed with a terrifying, ancient power.
"Chain Breaker: The Flow of the Past," Stacian intoned, her voice echoing with the authority of a goddess of time.
The nobles did not bleed. They did not scream. They simply began to age—rapidly, horrifically. Their expensive clothes turned to rags, their skin desiccated, their bones crumbling to dust in seconds. They aged into millennia-old corpses, their souls instantly captured by Leornars's waiting undead and wiped clean by the Gate Keeper, removed from the cycle of rebirth.
Meanwhile, the six frightened noble children were gently guided out through a secret service exit by the Undead. They were teleported directly to the doorstep of the noble Captain of the Knights, Kael, a man Leornars deemed worthy of raising them.
Kael looked at the small, bewildered children on his doorstep, his face a mixture of rage and resignation. "Damn that Leornars! To burden me with the remnants of his slaughter!" he swore, but his eyes were kind as he ushered the innocent children inside.
Leornars walked past the gates of the now-silent Seraphim Kingdom boundary. The air felt lighter, yet somehow heavier. He had just executed an entire social class.
As soon as he was safely out of sight, he stopped. He unbuttoned his white shirt, ripping it open slightly. He pulled the golden wolf pin from his hair, and the cascade of beautiful, shimmering silver fell down his back, framing his pale, exhausted face.
A voice, neutral yet concerned, entered his mind.
"Leornars. Are you truly okay with this decision? Was this extreme measure necessary? Was the annihilation of the Seraphim nobility truly the better judgment required for the stability of your kingdom?" Althelia questioned, her tone like cool, distant crystal.
Leornars threw his head back, letting out a raw, wordless cry of agony that never reached his lips. He punched the nearest tree trunk with enough force to crack the wood, his knuckles bleeding instantly.
"I AM THE NECESSARY EVIL, ALTHELIA! THE ONLY THING THAT WILL BRING THIS BROKEN WORLD TOGETHER! NO MORE INJUSTICE! NO MORE CORRUPTION! PEACE AND KINDNESS—THAT IS MY GOAL!" he screamed internally, the force of his conviction shaking his core. "THAT'S RIGHT! I AM THE VILLAIN OF THE STORY THE WORLD WILL PAINT ME AS! AND I HAVE NO REGRETS!"
"You will be seen as a void king," Althelia stated flatly. "Someone with no emotions. You never genuinely smile. You never laugh. They will call you a demon in human skin."
The silver-haired King slowly sank to the ground, leaning against the sturdy trunk of a massive oak tree. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the exertion of his inner turmoil visible on his face.
"Don't you think I want that as well, Althelia?! I want to be happy! I want to laugh until I cry! But I can't," he whispered, the raw confession a knife twisting in his own heart.
He reached up, touching his face, his fingers cold. "I have no real emotions. I mimic other people's expressions because I can't produce my own. I am bound by my newfound, horrifying responsibility to help the weak. It is my nature to defend those who couldn't be defended, because I know that agony too well."
"Oh?" Althelia prompted, sensing the final breakdown.
"I can fight armies, I can fight nations, I can fight literal cosmic monsters… but I cannot fight my grief! The trauma is a wall I cannot tear down! I am not a god, Althelia! I am mortal, and that is the terrible truth! The pain is still there, beneath the powers!"
His eyes fell upon a small, solitary bloom of bright red—a Red Spider Lily—growing at the base of the oak. It was a flower of final goodbyes and lost memories.
He picked it up gently, its velvet petals a shock of color against his pale skin. He looked up at the vast, indifferent night sky, and let the first, genuine tear he had shed in years roll down his cheek.
"Mom… did I do well tonight? Was I a better son? Tell me, I'm curious to know if I did the right thing, or just the powerful one," he whispered to the cosmos.
The grief was a tidal wave, crushing the careful façade of the emotionless King.
"I never got to say how truly grateful I am to you. You were the only one who raised me to know my worth, my reason for existence. Even with you gone, I know you are always by my side. I'm not sad that you are gone, Mom… I'm just so, so glad that you were there for me at all."
He clutched the red spider lily to his chest, the weight of the crown, the kingdom, and the executed weighing heavily on his shoulders. He was the villain, the executioner, the lonely King, and the heartbroken child.
He was The Free King.
The End of Volume 6