The Silent March to Blackthorn [Part-2]
All three bowed together, their thanks heartfelt, their spirits set ablaze. "We will be worthy, my lord," Ronan promised.
Leon’s smile widened, eyes flashing with challenge. "I have no doubt. Make yourselves worthy—and like these, more will become one with you."
As Leon’s eyes scanned the crowd, he saw the eyes of other soldiers observing the exchange with a combination of longing and resolve. They clutched their own weapons, rough and worn, wishing for the kind of power Leon just bestowed. A slow, knowing smile crept onto Leon’s face. "You all will have your chance," he said, voice calm but firm. "The rule is simple: prove yourselves worthy. I’ve given these men their weapons—but the door isn’t closed for the rest of you."
The soldiers answered in a fierce, one voice. "Yes, my lord!" Their eyes lit up with hope and determination.
Leon nodded, warmth spreading through him. He had employed the tactic of greed to give—power not given freely, but earned—compelling them to rise, to become strong, to become effective. That’s where real strength grew.
Now, let’s go," Leon said, heading toward the door, moving out slowly, deliberately. With each step, every step it seemed, he demanded attention; the space about him grew charged with quiet deference. His women trailed behind him—not in flashy display but with furtive allegiance, their gazes following in quiet support.
Leon approached the entrance of the safe house. The crowd behind him compressed tighter, their breathing mixing with anticipation. Leon gestured toward the massive door ahead with a sharp gesture.
Then lightly came the tremor of the ground as the safe house groaned—a deep, low sound like the awakening of some ancient beast. The stone slab that sealed the entrance began to shift, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface until with a thunderous crack it started to slide open.
Leon moved in front, unruffled and unbending, his very presence slicing through the churning crowd closing in behind him. As soon as they stepped over the threshold; the atmosphere thickened—heavy with implied bargains and the burden of the unknown to come. Outside, the familiar faces waited, their mutters little more than a gentle breeze past the leaves. Leon inclined his head towards them with silent recognition, his wives following wordlessly like ghosts, unknowing yet watchful eyes.
The safehouse trembled beneath a low, sonorous crack as a colossal slab of stone came down, closing the entrance behind them. The rain-soaked world outside gave way to the sun pouring down in molten gold, and the muddy soil was alight with color. The grass, specked in shivering silver and rich green, sparkled in the light. Birds sang their goodbye, threading music through the clean, perfumed air above. The onlookers sucked in a unified breath, the storm’s aftereffect baptizing them, releasing tension with the peace.
Leon breathed deep, slow, the stormy air, cool and sweet, filling his chest. This was a beginning — raw, alive, and promising. He faced Black and the rest, his voice firm but husky. "Now, the last gift for the road."
With a wave of his hand, Leon brought up his arm. From the very air itself, a sweeping motion called forth a vision from the distance: seventy-seven carriages, clean and sturdy, rode in as if on magic call. Each was pulled by a pair of snowy white horses, their fur shining like highly polished ivory in the bright morning sun.
Gasps rippled through the crowd, eyes wide in disbelief. "Seventy-seven carriages, just like that?" one whispered. Another murmured, "How does the lord do this without effort? He must be blessed." Someone else chuckled, "He’s always full of surprises." and other said, "But, lord how carried that much carriages and horse in single storage ring" said in confusion.
Black’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, jaws slack with shock. Exorbitance inundated him — and at the end of his fingers lay an enormous ring, shining expensive relic of the empire. Whispers were starting to go the rounds; speculation ran wild. "Maybe the lord bought that ring in the empire," one said. "Like the communication crystals, it must be priceless." The talk drifted to Rias’s father — rumors and questions weaving into the morning air.
Leon overheard the gossip with a slow smile, gentle and knowing. "Miracle, my love," he breathed softly under his breath, nearly tender. His smile was full of secrets, a quiet miracle in itself. The crowd’s pinched eyes flashed with curiosity, knowing that there was more that he wasn’t saying.
Having been ordered, he ran back to the others, cutting through the noise. "Enough talk. This single carriage can hold fifteen, maybe twenty, comfortably. Use it for your journey. Travel like those who move between cities at war — cautious, but determined.
Black and the others nodded in agreement, their expressions setting into determination. Armored soldiers produced simple brown attire, plain but strong, sufficient to cover and shield. The others—travelers and common folk—were dressed alike, blending into the landscape without being conspicuous. Even Leon’s wives donned these plain garments, abandoning their normal grace for utility.
When all had been transformed, Leon’s aide gave the signal. They climbed into the carriages one by one, the tension heavy in the air. There were bows of respect, and then people started to shift towards their seats, the quiet creak of wood and the soft clip-clop of horses’ hooves cutting through the silence.
Leon’s gaze swept across the crowd one final time—everyone still paralyzed with shock, trapped under the burden of what had been. His gaze lingered behind Rias and the others, standing tall but tense, watching the scene unfold like silent sentinels. The black-hooded guards moved with precise, almost ritualistic steps, helping people settle onto the waiting carriages. There was a quiet rhythm to it, as if every motion was part of a silent choreography—hands steady on reins, feet finding footing in muddy ground, cloaks brushing softly as they shifted.
When the last person had stepped aboard, the air grew heavy with a bittersweet tension. Turning to his wife, Leon’s voice was low but insistent. "Now, your turn." They glanced at each other, hers of hesitation but resolve. She nodded; flickering, unspoken fears and hopes behind her eyes before stepping forward. Soft, Leon’s smile; yet the promise behind it was weighty. He went to Rias first, laying a soft kiss to her forehead and breathing softly, "Go, dear. Do not worry about me." Her almost undetectable nod was strengthened by steel behind its delicacy.
One by one, he repeated the gesture—Aria, Cynthia, Syra, Kyra, Mia, Tsubaki, Lira, and the five maids. Each received his kiss, a silent benediction, before stepping into their own carriages. "Now go," he urged quietly. They nodded, some with reluctant eyes, and moved like shadows toward the central carriage. The wheels creaked as they boarded, the world shifting beneath them.
Leon’s pace quickened as he approached three men standing off to the side—Black, Ronan, and Johny. His voice dropped to a serious tone. "Take care of them. Johny, make sure they go where the war hasn’t reached—somewhere people won’t notice." The three exchanged glances, nodding with quiet confidence. "Don’t worry, we’ll handle it just like you said. No one will know who’s traveling in those carriages."
Leon’s face hardened, the burden of loss bearing down. "I understand. But don’t do anything foolish. I can’t risk losing anyone else—not now." The smiles of the men were solid, unbroken. "We know. We’re with you, Lord.
"Good," Leon said, stepping back. "Now go. I’ll join you once my cultivation is complete." They bowed deeply, then raised their heads with resolve. "Take care, Lord." And Ronan said, " Best of luck, Lord." With that, they turned and moved to another carriage where soldiers in plain robes waited silently. The reins were taken up, and the carriages began to roll forward.
Leon watched them climb into their carriages, the wheels creaking as each began to move, blurring the edges of the world around him. Even in his invisible form, his eyes remained sharp and calculating, but a slow, heavy sigh escaped him when they all vanished completely from his sight. With a final, lingering look, he turned inward—toward the safehouse that awaited him, a cold refuge where solitude would swallow him whole.
Within, the thick stone slab creaked as it came down, blocking the doorway with icy finality. The room darkened, quiet wrapping around every inch like a stifling blanket. "Now," he whispered to himself, "let’s begin the integration of the Blood Orb, the Velvet Tyrant’s body, and my new soul artifact.
His steps echoed quietly as he walked further within, the air heavy with potency and purpose. The door closed hard behind him—no light, no noise from without could penetrate this refuge. The path inward had opened, and with it, the gradual, purposeful closing of himself off to the world.
This was not a fight of muscle anymore. It was a war of the interior.