Supreme Spouse System. Chapter 501: The Ghost Who Shouldn’t Exist

The Ghost Who Shouldn’t Exist

The man struggled to remain standing, his breath ragged, eyes sunken deep into a face carved by exhaustion and fear. Mud clung to his armor like dried blood, and the faint stench of death followed him into the tent.

"My... liege," he rasped, each word scraping out like gravel. "The flank... it’s gone. We held as long as we could, but they—"

King Garay’s voice sliced through the air before he could finish.

"Why are you here, mander of the Fourth Division?"

The silence that followed was suffocating. The fire crackled in the corner, the sound sharp as breaking bones. Even the wind seemed to die at the edge of the tent.

The mander froze, his lips parting—then closing again. He swallowed hard. His throat worked, but no words came out.

Garay didn’t move. He sat still in the glow of the lantern, his expression unreadable, eyes dark and gleaming beneath heavy brows. Yet the quiet rage inside him pulsed like heat under armor.

Seven days of blood. Seven days of loss. His armies crumbling, his capital silent, his name sinking into mud. And now this—one more broken man bringing one more failure.

Garay exhaled through his nose, slow and dangerous. "Speak," he said softly. "Before I lose the last of my patience."

The mander’s voice trembled. "M-my life may be forfeit, my king... but I bring word you must hear."

Garay’s gaze flicked toward him—cold, unblinking. "Then say it."

The man hesitated, his whole body shaking. "It’s... it’s the capital, sire. The city..." He took a sharp breath, as if the words themselves cut him. "Vellore has fallen."

The words landed like a blade drawn across steel.

The entire tent seemed to freeze. Even the flame flickered as if caught off guard.

Edric, leaning against the table, straightened slowly. "What did you just say?" he asked, his voice low.

The mander’s eyes darted between them. "The capital is lost. The enemy breached the gates three nights past. The royal banners were burned. I—"

Garay rose so suddenly that the tent’s air seemed to lurch. The chair behind him scraped harshly against the floor. His shadow stretched long across the war map, the flickering lantern painting him like a figure carved from wrath itself.

"Do you realize what you’re saying?" he asked, voice calm—too calm.

The man’s knees trembled. "I saw it with my own eyes. I fled the capital myself."

The veins on Garay’s temples pulsed. His fingers twitched at his side, a silent battle between disbelief and fury.

"The capital... my capital," he muttered. His tone was low, almost disbelieving, then he barked out, "What of Duke Narius? Of the inner guard? Of the generals left to defend it?"

"They fought, sire. But..." The man’s voice faltered. "They couldn’t stand against the intruder."

"Intruder?" Edric repeated sharply. "What intruder?"

The mander’s eyes darted to him, then back to Garay. "It wasn’t a siege. It was... one man. Or something close to it. The soldiers called him a monster. He cut through the defense lines—burned the walls—"

Garay’s hand slammed down on the war table. The sound thundered through the tent. "Enough riddles!" he roared. "Speak clearly!"

The mander flinched. "I don’t know who he was! I swear it!" He took a breath, desperate. "When I escaped, I saw Sir Aden on his knees before him—defeated."

The tent fell utterly still again.

Garay’s eyes widened slightly. "Aden... defeated?"

"Yes, sire." The mander’s voice cracked. "I swear it. The intruder—he said his name. He said—"

Garay’s voice was sharp as glass. "Say it."

The mander’s jaw trembled. "He called himself... Leon Moonwalker."

The name hit like lightning. The tent’s air seemed to tear open.

Edric straightened fully now, his face pale. "What...?" he whispered. "That’s impossible."

Garay stared at the man, unmoving. For a long heartbeat, his face showed nothing—then the corner of his mouth twitched, a soundless laugh that wasn’t laughter.

"Leon Moonwalker?" he repeated slowly, his tone laced with venom. "Are you drunk?"

The mander shook his head frantically. "No, sire. I heard it. I heard the name with my own ears. The soldiers—those who survived—they said he led the fall of Vellore."

Garay’s expression twisted, anger cutting through disbelief. "Leon Moonwalker is dead!" he roared, his voice booming so hard the canvas trembled. "He died a month ago, along with every soul in the Silver City!"

Edric stepped forward, trying to calm him, though his own face had gone grim. "Garay—my king, I was there. We received the reports. The Silver City was annihilated. Leon and his men were buried beneath it. You sent General Dire to confirm it yourself."

"I did," Garay said, his voice a growl. "And Dire brought back nothing but ashes and corpses."

He turned back to the trembling mander, eyes blazing gold in the lamplight. "So tell me," he snarled, "what game are you playing?"

The man dropped to his knees, his hands trembling. "None, sire! I beg you—believe me. I saw it. I saw his face. The golden eyes. The black hair. He called himself King of Nagareth."

That last word hung in the air like poison.

Edric’s breath caught. "Nagareth..."

Garay’s fury faltered for just an instant, replaced by something colder—confusion. "What did you just say?"

The man lifted his eyes weakly. "He said Vellore is no more. That it’s been reborn as Nagareth. He wore no crown, but... the people followed him."

For a long moment, Garay said nothing. His face was still, but his knuckles were white, the veins in his neck drawn tight.

Then he laughed. A hollow, broken sound that didn’t reach his eyes. "Nagareth... Leon Moonwalker... You bring me ghost stories, mander?"

"No, sire," the man whispered. "This ghost burns cities."

The tent fell into dead silence. The only sound was the wind pressing faintly against the canvas, the campfires outside crackling like distant whispers.

Edric stared at Garay. "If this is true..."

Garay’s glare silenced him. He stepped closer to the kneeling man, voice low, edged with the kind of anger that came from something deeper than rage. "Leon Moonwalker is dead," he said again, quieter now, each word weighted and deliberate. "So what the fuck are you saying?"

The mander’s shoulders shook. "I don’t know, sire," he whispered. "But the dead... walk again."