Chapter 1287. You’ll Have Your Turn, Leonidas. Tonight Does Not Belong to You

Chapter 1287: 1287. You’ll Have Your Turn, Leonidas. Tonight Does Not Belong to You

From beneath the twisted heap of marble steps and splintered oak, a single hand emerged. It didn’t claw for purchase or reach for a weapon; it moved with the terrifying precision of a conductor’s baton.

Rex’s fingers splayed against the debris, and even through the blood pooling beneath his shattered ribs, his movements remained eerily controlled.

Grrrrrrrrrnd.

A low, subsonic rumble vibrated through the floorboards. From the stone tiles surrounding the terrified women, grey earth began to surge upward.

This wasn’t a chaotic eruption; it was Earthen Authority in its purest form. A seamless ring of solid granite spiraled up from the floor, growing from ankle high to waist high, then surging past their shoulders.

In less than two seconds, Lily, Diana, Elizabeth, and Valentina were encased in a protective, waist-thick cylindrical vault of stone.

Rex’s breathing was a wet, rattling sound in the silence that followed. Inside his mind, he was compartmentalizing the agony.

’Regeneration at sixty percent efficiency.’

’Ribcage stabilized but fractured.’

’Nerve damage in left shoulder: manageable.’

’Now, shield the collateral damage.’ He hadn’t built the wall to save his own skin he had built it so that Helena’s next uncontrolled outburst wouldn’t accidentally incinerate her own daughters.

Helena stared at the stone barrier, her chest heaving, her eyes wide and bloodshot. The sight of it didn’t bring her relief; it brought a fresh, volcanic surge of hatred that made her vision swim.

To her, it wasn’t an act of protection. It was the ultimate humiliation.

"You still dare to care about them?!" she screamed, her voice cracking with the strain of her magical exhaustion. "After you tore their lives apart?!"

"After you defiled everything we stand for!?"

"You don’t get to play protector, Rex! You don’t get to be the savior after playing the devil!!!"

"Because I care," Rex’s voice drifted from the wreckage.

It was hoarse, shredded by smoke and blood, but it carried a terrifying, almost gentle calm that cut through her rage like a blade. "That’s why I’m not killing you yet, Helena..."

"Because if I wanted you dead, you would have been ash three minutes ago."

He coughed, a spray of crimson painting the broken marble beside him. "But I want you to understand."

"I want you to see what happens when you try to fight the inevitable."

"I’ll show you inevitable!!!" Helena roared, gathering the last dregs of her mana for one final, suicidal spell. "I’ll burn this entire city to the ground before I let you—"

BOOM!

The words died in her throat as the massive front doors of the mansion didn’t just open; they exploded inward. The iron-reinforced oak was torn from its hinges with a sound like a cannon shot, fragments of wood whistling through the air like deadly projectiles.

The doors slammed against the interior walls with bone-jarring force.

Through the gaping hole where the entrance had been, a new sound flooded the hall: the rhythmic, metallic clatter of armored boots, the distinctive scrape of claws on stone, and the disciplined shouts of soldiers.

The magical signature of the Starlight household had been like a beacon in the night. The spells Helena had unleashed the lightning and the fire, the earthquakes had been felt across half the district, rattling windows and sending tremors through the streets.

And the new government, the regime Rex had helped destabilize and reforge in his own image, had been waiting. Their orders were absolute: protect the Master at all costs.

The shadows of the approaching patrol spilled across the blood-stained floor, their weapons gleaming in the firelight, their eyes fixed on the ruined hall.

Cassandra was the first to breach the threshold, her presence cutting through the smoke like a guillotine blade. Her sword was already drawn, singing as it left its scabbard, the steel wreathed in a vicious, pulsing crimson aura that cast hellish shadows across the debris.

Her eyes, sharp and merciless, swept the carnage before locking onto Rex’s bloodied form. Her jaw set like forged iron; the sight of him broken even temporarily ignited a cold, murderous fury in her gaze.

Clang shink!

Close behind her, Gorvasha shouldered through the splintered doorway, her massive frame nearly filling the gap. Her great axe, a slab of blackened iron, rested on her shoulder, the ancient wooden haft creaking ominously under her grip.

Her tusks were bared in a primal snarl, saliva dripping from her fangs as she assessed the threat. From the jagged shadows of a collapsed marble pillar, Lilith emerged like a wraith, her hand pressed against her mouth, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and terror at the devastation.

Then came the flood.

The Underlayer poured into the hall a nightmare parade of demons with chitinous armor, orcs with scarred flesh, and monstrosities with too many limbs.

They moved with the terrifying synchronization of a hunting pack, filling every available space, sealing every exit with a bristling ring of spears and drawn blades.

The hall was no longer a home; it was an arena. And Helena was caught at its center.

Dozens of weapons—serrated daggers, enchanted halberds, and curved demon blades—all swiveled toward her. A hundred more followed, circling the broken hall in a tightening vortex of steel.

The air grew heavy with the stench of sulfur and blood. Every creature in that room, from the smallest imp to the largest demon lord, shared a single, unspoken impulse: to tear the throat out of the woman who had dared to wound their master.

Leonidas moved before the first blade could twitch. Until this moment, his sword had remained partially sheathed, a silent threat.

Now, he drew it in one fluid, lethal motion, the blade singing a silver note that cut through the chaos. His aura erupted a ferocious, controlled pressure wave that made the nearest demons stagger backward, their inhuman eyes narrowing in recognition of true power.

He planted himself in front of Helena, his stance wide, his sword held low in a perfect guard.

"Behind me, Helena," Leonidas rumbled, his voice a deep, resonant growl that demanded obedience even in the face of death.

"Leonidas," Rex called out.

His voice was quiet. He didn’t shout.

He didn’t even bother to turn his head to face the warrior. From beneath the rubble of the staircase, his hand emerged pale against the crimson blood, and he made a small, deliberate downward gesture with two fingers, as if dismissing a servant.

Cr, cr, crack.

The air itself seemed to solidify. Gravity Manipulation descended upon Leonidas not as a blow, but as an absolute law of nature.

It wasn’t a violent crush that shattered bones or burst organs; Rex had calibrated the spell with the terrifying precision of a surgeon. It was a sudden, inexorable increase in the fundamental weight of the world.

The pressure settled onto Leonidas’s shoulders, spine, and legs like an invisible mountain had been dropped onto him.

Grrrrrrrk.

Leonidas’s knees buckled against his will. The tip of his silver sword scraped across the marble floor with a screeching protest.

"Nrrggghhh...!"