From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman-Chapter 110: Doorwake

The pulse came again.

Once. Deep. Barely audible. But this time, the air itself shifted.

Mira stepped back. Tomas’s hand went to his knife.

Leon remained still.

Another beat. This one faster. Then another. And another.

The obsidian beneath them lit faintly—not glowing, but threading with red veins that pulsed in rhythm. The spirals on the floor grew clearer. More precise. And then they began to move. Not the stone—just the light. Tracing patterns faster than the eye could follow.

"We should leave," Tomas muttered.

Leon didn’t move. His eyes remained locked on the centre groove. "No. We wait."

Mira looked at him, uncertain. "For what?"

"For whatever remembers."

The pulse stopped.

Silence.

Then something groaned beneath the platform. Metal against stone. The entire structure shifted slightly, not enough to collapse—but enough to reveal a seam around the platform’s edge. It wasn’t just a floor. It was a lid.

Tomas backed away. Mira held her wardstone higher.

And Leon stepped forward.

The moment his boot touched the groove in the centre, the obsidian cracked.

A single line.

Clean.

Deliberate.

From the split, a hiss escaped. A sound.

A whisper.

Thousands of them.

Mira flinched. Tomas raised his knife.

Leon stood firm.

The floor opened slowly.

The circle of obsidian split into curved segments, sliding outward like petals. Beneath them, a narrow shaft descended into firelight. Not flame. Something orange and deep, flickering like heat in a forge.

Steps spiraled down.

Leon went first.

The air thickened. Every breath felt like drinking from still water. Their footsteps echoed differently here—longer, warped. The shaft walls were metal, but curved with organic symmetry. Like veins in an old tree.

At the bottom was a chamber.

Smaller.

No statues. No mirrors.

Just a single slab.

And upon it—

A body.

Not decayed. Preserved. A man, tall, built like a warrior but draped in robes that shimmered with embedded sigils. His eyes were closed. Hands crossed over his chest. Skin pale as ash.

And above him, suspended by chains of glass—

A crown, Not regal.

But a cage.

Leon stepped closer.

Tomas hissed. "That’s not a tomb. That’s a prison."

Mira’s voice was low. "Or a warning."

Leon stared at the face of the man on the slab. Something in him shifted.

Recognition.

Not of memory.

Of blood.

This wasn’t the end of a path.

It was the beginning of one.

He reached out.

The crown trembled.

And the pulse returned.

Not from the obsidian.

From the man.

The light dimmed with each pulse now. Not fading—receding, as if pulled inward. As if the chamber itself inhaled. The chains that held the glass-like crown above the man’s body rattled with faint tension, stretched to their limits by something unseen. Mira gripped Leon’s shoulder.

"Don’t," she said.

But Leon’s hand was already rising.

Not to touch the crown.

To touch the man’s face.

The moment his fingers met the cold, dry skin, every sigil on the man’s robe lit in succession, a rolling wave of golden script bursting like wildfire across the surface. The crown screamed.

No sound left it—but Mira fell to her knees. Blood trickled from Tomas’s ear.

Leon stood in silence.

And then the man opened his eyes.

Pale. Hollow. Not blind, but sightless. He did not breathe. He did not move. But his mouth opened.

"...Who wears the wound?"

Leon blinked. "What?"

The man’s eyes shifted—barely, a fraction. Enough to stare directly into Leon’s.

"Who wears the wound of kings?"

Leon felt something inside him—cold, iron, and familiar—stir. The memory of fire in the trial. The shadow that had followed him since the first gate. He stepped back.

"I don’t know," he answered.

The man’s fingers curled slightly on the slab. Not rising—tensing. Preparing.

"You carry it," he whispered. "Not yours. Not yet. But chosen."

Tomas growled. "Leon, we need to leave."

But the chamber didn’t let them.

The walls—once metal—shifted. Roots emerged from seams that hadn’t been there before, writhing gently, as if tasting the air. The sigils on the man’s robe changed colour—from gold to red, from red to black.

Mira backed toward the stair. "This place is waking up."

Leon turned to follow—then froze.

The crown was no longer above the body.

It hovered beside him.

Spinning slowly.

Its cage-like bands unfurled, just slightly—offering itself.

Leon didn’t reach.

It didn’t matter.

It moved to him.

Tomas stepped between them. "You’re not putting that on."

But the crown didn’t want his head.

It stopped at Leon’s chest.

Then plunged into him.

No sound. No blood.

Just impact.

Leon staggered. Fell to one knee. His eyes snapped wide.

He saw—

Flashes. Fire. A sword that burned without flame. A city with no sky. A throne carved from bone and chained to a mountain’s heart. The watchers kneeling. The roots rising.

And himself.

Sitting on that throne.

Alone.

Mira screamed his name.

Leon gasped—and the vision vanished.

The crown was gone.

No wound. No mark. But something had changed.

Tomas helped him up. "What happened?"

Leon looked at his hands.

Shaking.

And smiled.

"I get it now."

Because the man on the slab—

Was his ancestor.

And the throne?

It was never meant to be empty.

The man on the slab exhaled.

It wasn’t a breath—there was no movement of lungs, no rise of the chest. But something left him. A thread of smoke, no thicker than a hair, grey and shimmering, rising from his mouth. It spiralled upward, hovered between them, then drifted toward Leon.

He didn’t move.

It passed into his chest like mist through cloth.

Mira stepped back, wardstone trembling in her grip. "Leon—"

"I’m fine." His voice was lower. Not weaker—deeper. As if something else spoke with him.

Tomas gritted his teeth. "No, you’re not."

But Leon didn’t answer. His gaze was locked on the body.

The man’s eyes were open still. But dimmer now. Fading. Like the final ember of a long-burning fire. One hand twitched. Then stopped.

And with it—everything in the chamber grew still.

No roots moved.

No breath stirred.

Just silence.

Until Leon spoke.

"He gave me his memory."

Mira’s voice was wary. "What kind of memory?"

Leon looked around the chamber. "Of building this place. Of forging the seals. Of what was buried beneath it before the mountain even had a name."

Tomas’s grip tightened on his knife. "What was it?"

Leon turned slowly. His expression had changed. Older. Sharper. As if he carried a century behind his eyes.

"It wasn’t a what. It was a when."

Mira blinked. "What does that mean?"

Leon raised a hand.

And the sigils on the walls flared to life.

Not the gentle flicker of before—this was structured. A language. Entire sentences carved in fire across the chamber, spiralling from the slab outward, forming a map.

A timeline.

Leon walked along it, reading.

"He was the first. Not by birth, but by burden. They called him the Woundbearer. The one who held memory—not of the past, but of endings. He saw the end of kingship, of realms, of gods. And to stop it from repeating, he wrote it into the stone. Into blood."

Mira followed, gaze scanning the glowing walls. "But why the crown?"

"It wasn’t a symbol of rule," Leon said. "It was a lock. A seal. He caged his power. His knowledge. Himself. So no one would bear it until it was needed."

Tomas scoffed. "And what makes you the one who needs it?"

Leon turned back to him.

The air shifted. Just slightly.

Tomas went quiet.

Leon’s voice was calm. Too calm.

"Because I’ve already seen the end once. And this time, I’m not going to let it happen."

Behind them, the slab groaned.

The body turned to ash.

Gently. Completely. No flame. No smoke. Just grey dust folding in on itself until nothing remained.

The crown did not return.

The room dimmed.

And for the first time since stepping into the mountain—

Leon looked afraid.

He whispered, "The mountain wasn’t guarding the door. It was the door."

Mira took a breath. "Then what’s coming through it?"

Leon stared at the stairs.

And said, "Us."

Chapter 110: The Door That Remembers

...

Leon stared at the stairs.

And said, "Us."

Tomas’s brows furrowed. "Us?"

Leon didn’t blink. "When the crown entered me, it didn’t give me orders. It didn’t demand loyalty or power. It gave me a message. A place. A time. And a name."

Mira’s hand still gripped her wardstone, knuckles white. "Whose name?"

Leon turned. "A ruler who refused the wound. Who locked himself behind ten thousand walls. His bloodline split the world."

Tomas raised an eyebrow. "And we’re supposed to... what? Fight him?"

Leon shook his head. "We’re supposed to find the others who carry the mark. The ones chosen before me. Before this crown ever reached me."

Mira blinked. "Others?"

Leon stepped to the far edge of the chamber, where the wall bore seven arcs drawn in light. One had gone dim. The others pulsed faintly.

"Seven fragments," Leon said. "Seven keys. All hidden, all buried in different corners of the world."

Tomas frowned. "Keys to what?"

Leon faced them both. "To seal it. The end. The same end he saw—the one that’s trying to wake again."

A low hum echoed from the shaft above.

Mira turned. "We’re not alone."

Leon’s eyes narrowed. "Then it’s already started."

A faint clicking sounded on the steps. Not stone. Not boots. Claws.

Mira raised her wardstone high. "Something’s climbing down."

Leon looked up. "Then we climb out."

"No time," Tomas muttered, pulling a second blade from his belt.

The clicking grew louder.

Leon stepped between them and the stair. "Then we end it here."

"No," Mira said, suddenly looking behind them. "There’s another way."

She pointed. Behind the slab, the stone wall shimmered. Light danced across it, showing a faint outline—another passage.

Leon ran to it, pressed his palm against the shimmer. The stone didn’t move. But his wardstone flared. Recognizing something.

The wall faded.

A tunnel, narrow and winding, lay beyond.

Leon turned. "Go."

Tomas didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Mira’s arm and led her through.

Leon followed last.

Behind them, claws scraped stone.

Then came the first snarl.

Not a beast.

A voice.

Calling his name.

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