From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman-Chapter 46: The Line of the Dead

The circle of light narrowed.

Each step Leon took toward its centre felt heavier than the last—not with weight, but with judgement. The air had changed. Not thick. Not cold. But reverent, as if even breath dared not cross the wrong name.

Ashveil trembled in his hand.

The spectres ringed him now. Half-armoured ghosts, their faces carved from echoes and memory. Some looked like old paintings in House Thorne’s halls. Others, like soldiers long wiped from history.

One leaned on a broken spear. One was missing half a face.

All watched him in silence.

Marien hovered at the edge, held back by an unseen line.

"They only see you," she whispered.

The Vault spoke again.

"Heir, your house has bled. Through betrayal. Through denial. And Through exile. The living cannot bear the weight alone. Speak to the line. Justify your place."

A spectral figure stepped forward—tall, broad, with eyes like Leon’s.

"I died with my blade unbroken," the ghost said. "And yet I was never named. What right have you to stand here while my name lies in dust?"

Leon stood straighter. "Then speak it now. I’ll carry it."

The ghost narrowed his gaze. "Will you also carry the shame of the first division?" ƒгeewёbnovel.com

Another figure emerged. A woman with blackened gauntlets and a sigil scorched over her chestplate.

"I burned the banners," she said. "Not in hate, but to keep our name from being used in war crimes. They buried me without rites. Say, what would you have done different?"

Leon’s jaw clenched. "I would have stood beside you."

"Then why didn’t they?" she asked.

The question hung heavy. More figures appeared. One with an executioner’s hood. Another in monk’s robes. One holding a torn letter with his own blood sealing it.

All bore Thorne blood. All died without honour.

Ashveil pulsed brighter.

Then the line parted.

A child walked forward. No older than seven. No blade. No crest. Just wide eyes and trembling hands.

"They said I wasn’t strong enough," the boy whispered. "But I still kept the name."

Leon dropped to one knee.

Eyes fixed on the little child.

"You were strong enough to carry it further than most."

The Vault roared.

Legacy Integrity Updated: 91%

The air quaked. Spirits faded, not with anger—but with release.

Only one figure remained.

The one who looked just like Leon.

The echo spoke: "One trial remains."

Ashveil’s edge burned with ancestral fire.

And behind the throne, a new door opened—lined with swords embedded hilt-first into the stone.

Where silence waited.

Where the final memory slept.

Where the first Thorne had fallen.

Marien’s breath caught as the door opened.

She had watched in silence through every trial. Seen ghosts accuse and forgive, seen Leon rise beneath the weight no heir should ever bear alone. But now... now something deeper stirred behind her eyes.

A grief too old to name.

And a fear too young to admit.

When Leon passed through the new threshold, she took one step forward—and was stopped. The unseen boundary tightened. Her hand struck an invisible wall that shimmered faintly with the same light as the crest.

"No..." she whispered. "Let me through. That’s still my house too."

But the Vault didn’t move. It only hummed.

She pressed her forehead against the barrier, eyes locked on Leon’s back as he stepped deeper into the dark beyond.

"You stubborn fool," she whispered, voice cracking. "You were never meant to carry it all alone."

And in that moment, her sigil flared.

Not in shadow.

But in the same blue light as the crest above the Eastern Terrace.

The Vault acknowledged her.

But still—only Leon could walk the final path.

And Marien... could only wait, eyes burning.

Waiting to see if her brother would return from the place where the dead still judged.

The Founder’s Duel

The chamber beyond the swords was not empty.

It pulsed with history.

A ring of obsidian enclosed the dueling circle, and above, the ceiling was open to a starlit void that defied the stone’s burial. No stars moved. Time itself had bent.

In the centre stood a single man.

The First Thorne.

His face was sharp, regal, lined with the strain of wars ancient and unrecorded. His armour was blackened by use, not design. And in his grip—an old blade without runes, but so dense with presence that the air around it bent.

Leon approached slowly.

Ashveil burned quietly. Not in defiance. In respect.

The Founder turned.

"You carry my name," he said. "But have you earned it?"

Their blades crossed in the blink of an eye without warning.

No shout. Just movement.

The Founder moved like smoke given edge—fluid, unreadable, eternal. His sword struck with weight that surpassed technique. It was his legacy, made steel.

Leon parried—barely. Each block sent shocks through his arms. Every step was forced. His breath locked.

Ashveil flared once. Then again.

He countered.

One cut. Two. A third that almost reached flesh.

But the Founder didn’t bleed. He laughed.

"You think this is a duel?"

He stepped forward, and the chamber changed.

Suddenly, they stood in a battlefield. Fire raged around them. Ghosts clashed steel in the background.

"You fight for simply a name?" the Founder roared. "I killed for a future!"

He came again, faster. Stronger.

Leon met him. Not as a descendant. But as a man.

Their swords locked.

The Founder whispered, "Then show me what the future looks like."

Leon closed his eyes—then opened them.

And saw every failure.

Every name.

Every shame he carried—not as chains, but as roots.

He struck.

Not to win.

But to end the silence.

Ashveil pierced the Founder’s shoulder.

Not deep. But enough.

The world stilled.

The Founder stared down at the wound. Then back at Leon. And nodded.

Legacy Integrity Updated: 100%

The blade fell from the Founder’s hand.

"You are the legacy of Thorne now."

And he vanished.

Only the stars remained.

And the door reopened.

Waiting for Leon to return.

He stood still a moment longer. The silence after victory wasn’t quiet—it rang like bells only the blood could hear. The stars above shimmered, each one a memory reborn.

Leon turned slowly toward the door. Ashveil dimmed at his side, its fire sated. He passed the embedded blades without flinching. They did not test him now.

When he emerged, Marien hadn’t moved. Her hands were still pressed against the barrier, her face pale with dread.

But the instant she saw him, the wall vanished.

She stumbled forward.

Didn’t speak.

Just hit his chest with both fists, then held on like she’d never let go.

Leon stood there, arms frozen, until at last he lifted one hand and rested it between her shoulders.

"We’re not done," he whispered.

"I know...I know" Her voice shook. "But now, we’re not alone anymore."

Behind them, the Vault pulsed once—then dimmed. Not closed, but quiet. As if satisfied.

Ashveil flickered faintly at Leon’s hip, the ancestral flame now still.

Marien stepped back just enough to look at him. "What did you see in there?"

Leon didn’t answer right away. He looked back toward the door that no longer stood. "The beginning of our house. The burden. And what I have to become if I want to carry both."

She nodded slowly. "Then let’s start becoming it. Together."

He looked at her with her. With a faint smile, He nodded.

They walked from the chamber, the echoes of the past were no longer shouting—just watching.

And waiting.

For what changes the new light of House Thorne will bring.