Supreme Spouse System.

If You Leave, We Are Truly Lost

"Why?" Black asked softly.

The word drifted into the tense hall like a ghost—so quiet, so thin, it could've passed for a breath swallowed by the wind. But somehow, it sliced through the room sharper than any blade, stopping even the thoughts people hadn't dared to speak aloud.

Leon turned, slow and uncertain, his face caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief. Black, who rarely strayed from duty or broke composure, had spoken out—not in defiance, but with a tremble in his voice that carried raw emotion.

"Why are you abandoning us?"

That single question thundered louder than any war cry.

Black stepped forward, his boots striking the marble like a soldier still clinging to something unspoken. His fists were clenched at his sides, eyes locked on Leon—not with anger, but with a wounded loyalty. "Do you think we're… a burden now?"

For the briefest second, Leon's golden eyes shimmered. The confident smile that often graced his face tightened, faltered, and then softened—not out of pride, but something far deeper. Something heavier.

He stood alone at the center of the grand hall, the air around him thick with memory and command. The weight of too many years leading, fighting, surviving—it pressed into his bones, heavy as the stone beneath his feet. The silence was total. Not the comfortable kind, but the kind that fills every corner like a breath held too long.

They were all watching him.

Soldiers stood in their worn armor, still and waiting. Maids clutched trays with fingers that shook. Servants stared with eyes full of desperate hope. Old warriors—men who had once bled beside him—stood stiff-backed, weathered hands curled at their sides. Even the youngest guards, too new to war to understand what they were seeing, held their breath like it would help them stand taller.

And behind him… his wives.

The women who knew every silence he carried. Who had held him through sleepless nights and broken mornings. Who had seen him—every version of him—without ever flinching. They didn't speak either. Not yet.

Leon's gaze drifted across the room, slow and heavy, like he was memorizing every face. He stopped on each one, letting them feel it. These weren't just followers. These were people who had chosen him again and again—not for titles, not for rewards, but because in him they saw something rare. They saw belief. They saw the man who had led them through fire and storm. The man they still saw as their last hope.

And he saw them too.

Their eyes. Their silent cries. The weight of their hearts.

And Leon's heart… it sighed.

Only then did he exhale, a breath slow and burdened. When he spoke, his voice didn't rise—it fell, deep and steady, as though drawn from the pit of everything he carried.

"…Silver City is gone."

The words didn't echo. They sank. Heavy. Irrevocable. Like a sword laid gently on a wound that could never heal.

Leon's gaze didn't hold the edge of a commander or the pride of a duke. Instead, it held something human. He looked at them not as a ruler on a high throne—but as a man, standing among those who had given him their trust.

"So then, tell me…" His voice, though calm and low, carried a weight that struck deeper than any scream. "What land do I govern now?" The words fell like stones, and the silence afterward grew thick, heavy, oppressive. Then came the second blow—soft but brutal. "And if I have no land to protect, how am I a lord?"

He let out a bitter chuckle, more pain than humor. "I still have gold, and my strength. I have my wives. But… even that's not enough to feed all of you. To shelter your children. Not when our city has become a ruin. Not now. Not while we are surrounded by war and watched by greedy eyes."

Not a single voice rose in answer. The room just... stood still, breathless, as if the truth had cracked something open and let all the air slip out. Faces were frozen, not in defiance but in shock—staggered by the weight of it, unsure what to feel, what to say. The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was thick. Stifling. Held together by disbelief.

And then—through that breathless quiet—came the sound of movement. Just one pair of boots, slow and steady, echoing hard against the marble floor. Ronan stepped forward. Alone. The click of each step filled the hollow chamber like a drumbeat. He didn't stop until he stood just a few paces ahead, still and squared, his head lifting.

"Then we rebuild it," he said. Not a hint of hesitation. Just that voice—low, grounded, solid as iron—cutting clean through the silence, steady enough to hold the weight of all of them. "If Silver City lies in ruins, we will lay a stronger foundation again for our city. A glorious one. Not for glory's sake… but for our children, our families, our lives."

He turned to the gathered crowd, hand rising as if to lift their hearts with his gesture. "That's not just my will," he continued. "It's the wish of everyone present here, Lord."

Black's voice followed next, low but filled with conviction. "We've fought under your banner, not because you had power—but because we believed in your heart."

The silence began to crack—soft murmurs of agreement rising like embers finding breath.

"Yes, Lord Leon."

"We won't abandon you."

"We trust you!"

"Yes! Lord Ronan is right!"

"Don't leave us, my Lord!"

"We'll help—we'll build with our own hands, our land again!"

"We followed you once—we'll follow you again!"

The crowd wasn't quiet anymore. Voices started rising—dozens of them—layered over each other, clashing with urgency. Some cracked with desperation. Others trembled. But all of them carried that same raw edge of something real. Sincerity. What began as scattered pleas turned into a tide, crashing through the hall. They weren't just speaking. They were clinging to him. Like they were scared he'd vanish if they didn't.

Leon didn't move. He stood there, rigid, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He tried to hold the line—stay composed—but their voices... their belief in him tore through the armor he still had left. His chest felt too full. His hands didn't know where to go. He dropped his gaze, voice barely above a whisper.

"You don't understand…" he said quietly, like the words burned going out. "I cannot—should not—drag you all into another war just to chase the idea of rebuilding."

His voice was calm, maybe too calm, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away. The way his mouth barely moved. The weight behind his eyes.

"Because this time, it's not just about rebuilding. Silver City is now part of a battlefield. To raise it from ashes would take endless resources, constant strategy, protection on all fronts—every moment of every day."

His eyes lifted slowly, locking onto the crowd once more.

"The capital doesn't want to share resources. Not with a city already turned to ash. Their own borders—the southern and eastern fronts—are bleeding. To them, aiding us would be wasting resources. Resources they'll use in war, while forcing us to fight in a cruel battle we didn't ask for."

A pause settled, and his next words came with solemn finality. "So, I chose to separate. I go… to seek help elsewhere. Another city. Another chance."

The silence that followed this time was different. Not stunned—but tense, tight, as if waiting to break.

And then Black stepped forward again, this time not as a soldier—but as a man who refused to be left behind.

"So what?" he said, louder now, his voice stronger. "If the capital doesn't help us… then we defend ourselves!"

His passion ignited the room as he continued. "We already did once—when the invaders came. And if that's not enough, I'll train more people. We'll grow. We'll become stronger, just like you taught us."

Leon looked down, eyes on the cold marble beneath his feet. Conflict twisted within him. How am I supposed to explain this? he thought bitterly. That I plan to conquer—not defend. That I have a path of blood and fire waiting ahead of me. That I need to move fast, strike first, take land before others do. And the more people I take with me, the slower I become. The more vulnerable. The more exposed. If they come with me… I can't protect them from what I intend to unleash.

And yet… that same loyalty he feared for—it clung to him.

Their stubbornness, their belief, their refusal to abandon him—it warmed something inside him. It made it hurt more.

"I'm not sure you understand," he murmured, voice losing the steel it once held. "Why don't you see?" His whisper was low, almost fragile. "If you come with me… I don't think it will be good for you."

Suddenly, from among the crowd, a voice rang out.

"If we don't go with you… that's what would truly be bad for us."

The room fell silent; breath caught in the air as all eyes turned. An old man stepped forward slowly, his steps shaky but determined, eyes shimmering not from age—but from emotion too long buried. "I've never known a better lord than you," he said, voice cracking with the weight of truth. "If we lose you now… we lose the last hope we ever had."

Then, without hesitation, he lowered himself to one knee. Right there. Before the Duke. Before everyone.

Leon's eyes widened in disbelief. "Elder, please… don't…"

But the old man remained unmoved, rooted by something deeper than loyalty. A conviction that no command could shake.

Then… a small figure shifted beside him. A child. Quietly dropping to their knees, saying nothing, not even a whisper. Just presence—soft, still, immediate.

Moments later, a young soldier stepped forward. He didn't speak either. Just lifted a clenched fist to his chest and lowered himself down beside the child, wordless and firm.

A woman followed, careful in her movements, her baby nestled against her shoulder. She eased down in silence, one hand keeping the infant close, the other steadying herself as she knelt.

Then came another.

And another.

Until it couldn't be held back anymore.

Until the tide broke.

All at once, the great hall moved as one—like breath released after being held too long. They came forward in a quiet wave, every one of them lowering themselves with the same reverence. Maids in plain, faded dresses. Guards with chipped armor and tired eyes. Servants whose hands bore the years of hard work. Townsfolk in dust-covered boots and threadbare cloaks.

Even Chloe. Even Lilyn.

The two of them had stood just behind Leon, respectful and still. But now, without a word, they stepped forward. Their heads dipped low as they knelt, the same as the rest—unspoken loyalty written in their silence.

Then came the sound of boots striking the floor in unison.

Black, Ronan, and Johny knelt as one—fists across their hearts, eyes closed, their posture speaking of unwavering devotion.