Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 295: The Inferno Duel [Part-4]

The Inferno Duel [Part-4]

Silver City groaned beneath the weight of fire and chaos.

The western districts were on fire.

Not just burning—on fire. Like someone had thrown the whole damn place into the mouth of a god who wanted blood.

Smoke was rising in thick, choking columns. It clawed at the sky like it wanted to strangle the stars—rip them right out of the night.

This street—whatever it used to be—it was gone. Dead. Stripped to its bones. Cracked cobblestones. Storefronts smashed in, crushed under layers of ash.

Flames were jumping from rooftop to rooftop, wild and starving. Like they could smell something still breathing, and they weren’t done yet. They tore through timber, chewed at stone like it was soft. Like even that wasn’t enough.

The air was heavy. Thick. Smoke clung to the inside of your throat, made you taste blood. Burned wood, scorched stone—everything reeked of it. It was in your skin, your breath, your fucking bones.

And right there—caught between the blackened skeleton of a bakery and what was left of an old smithy— Three men stood Quiet. Like statues chiseled into the center of a storm.

One of them wore a robe the color of dead earth—dry and brittle. The hem was torn, edges burned, but it still clung tight to a lean, sharp-cut frame. He held himself tense, like even his bones didn’t know how to relax anymore. His twin daggers caught the firelight in quick, dangerous flashes—like the glint of animal fangs in the dark. He moved low, close to the ground, barely a sound underfoot. A coiled snake, waiting. Ready to strike.

To his right stood Leon Moonwalker.

Bare-chested. Ash clung to his skin in thick streaks, cuts drawn red across muscle pulled tight. The Duke of Silver City. He stood like time could wait for him—slow, deliberate breaths, like the whole world moved to his rhythm. Even the fire around him seemed to breathe with him. Black trousers hung loose on his hips, wild hair streaked with soot. His body was marked with burns, old ones, like stories scorched into skin. And his eyes—those golden eyes—burned hotter than the flames. Calm. Steady. Alive. At his side rested a dark blade, black as a starless sky. It didn’t move, didn’t speak—but the silence around it felt sharp. Aware. Like it was listening. Waiting. There was power under Leon’s skin—contained, but humming low. He didn’t just look like he’d survived the fire. He looked like he’d been born from it. And everything near him... seemed to lean, just slightly, toward his presence. Leon Moonwalker.

Beside him, the third man lifted his sword again.

He was wrapped in black armor—scratched up, dented, half coming apart, but still standing. Still fighting. The greatsword in his hands looked just as battered—chipped and brutal, but heavy with something deeper. Something old. It gave off this low vibration, like the quiet growl of some ancient beast that hadn’t woken yet. His face was stone. Eyes forward. Jaw locked tight. Every breath he took, every shift in his stance, said the same thing: kill.

And across from them, four figures waited in long robes. The wind pulled at their cloaks, making them ripple like smoke caught on a breeze. Shadows cloaked their faces—except for three.

The one on the far left moved first. He pulled his hood back, slow and sure. A deep scar split across his temple. His eyes were black—flat, dead, cold. A crooked grin crawled onto his lips.

Then the one on the far right followed. His hood dropped past his shoulders, revealing a mess of dark tattoos snaking up his throat. They curled around his jaw like vines, crawling like something under his skin was alive. Breathing.

The third, standing between them, stayed hooded. But the weight of him—his presence—pressed down on the air like iron. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Just being there screamed who was in command.

And behind them, barely visible beyond the firelight’s reach, stood another. Veiled. Silent. Watching. Maybe the true leader. Or maybe something worse.

Leon’s eyes locked on the veiled figure. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. And then—over the roar of fire—his voice rang out. Cold. Clear. Final.

”Black, take the one on the left. Ronan, the right. I’ll handle these two.”

No pause. No doubt.

Black rolled his shoulders, his voice low and rough. ”Understood, my Lord.”

Ronan’s grip tightened around his blades. He stepped forward with a faint smirk. ”Try not to finish before us, Lord.”

The enemy answered with sneers. One of them chuckled darkly, as if he’d already won.

”So predictable... kill them.”

The words hit like a switch.

In a blink, both sides exploded into motion.

Steel screamed as blades collided. Bodies lunged forward, clashing with violent rhythm. Sparks flew. Smoke cracked apart under pressure—spells detonating mid-air, magic whipping like lightning from hands, from swords, from fury. Fire met fire. Blood prepared to fall.

That night, Silver City became a war zone made of flame and shadow.

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Black vs the Scarred Man (Left Side)

Black lunged forward—fast, heavy, like a wave crashing full force. He slammed straight into the man, driving him back hard. The guy in the dark cloak staggered, boots dragging over broken stone. Their blades met with a sharp, violent clang. Sparks flared—silver, orange—flashing through the smoke as metal screamed and strained under the hit. Black pressed harder, blade thrumming with water-infused power. Blue streaks lit his forearm, pulsing like veins of lightning. He stomped his heel into the broken street—

”[Terra Burst!]”

—and from the ground, a jagged spike of stone burst up beneath the enemy’s feet, aiming to skewer him on instinct.

The cloaked man reacted fast, leaping back with practiced reflex—but Black was already moving.

As the fire mage landed, Black’s blade came again. The cloaked figure snarled, his eyes flaring with rage. Flames burst from his sword, licking across the air like a serpent set loose.

”[Blazing Crescent!]” he roared.

A burning arc tore forward, slicing the air, warping it with scorching heat.

Black didn’t blink.

His palm slammed down into the ground.

”[Stone Bulwark!]”

A thick wall of jagged earth shot upward, slamming into the path of the flames. Steam burst out where they met—violent, loud, blinding. The air hissed and shuddered.

Black didn’t wait. He burst through the cloud; fist wrapped in whirling water and solid stone.

”[Crushing Torrent Fist!]”

The punch came down like a tidal hammer, aimed straight for the skull.

But the fire-user twisted—just barely—ducking beneath the blow with animal instinct. He spun, sword blazing, and slashed sideways. The flaming blade cut across Black’s upper arm.

A flash of heat. A crackling hiss.

”Tch...”

The scent of burned flesh filled the space between them.

The man grinned, wild and cruel. ”Too slow.”

Black didn’t speak.

His golden eyes narrowed—sharp, hard, cold.

Then his foot slammed down again, deeper this time.

”[Mudbind Chains!]”

From below, thick tendrils of wet, heavy earth erupted upward, wrapping around the fire mage’s ankle in a blink. The man cursed, slashing at the muck, trying to break free.

But Black was already there. No spell now. Just raw power.

He raised his arm—stone-armored, thick and cracked like a living statue.

”You talk too much.”

He stepped forward and drove his fist into the man’s chest.

A single, devastating blow.

Something cracked—bone or worse. Air rushed from the man’s lungs in a harsh gasp. His body dropped, eyes wide, mouth bloodied, twitching on the ground.

Black stood over him. Breathing heavy. Burned arm still bleeding.

”...One down.”

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Ronan vs the Masked Earth Mage (Right Side)

Meanwhile, to the right—

Ronan faced his target. A masked man lunged forward, jagged longsword raised, his body cloaked in a shifting layer of earth magic that crawled over his skin like living armor. Their blades clashed with a shriek of steel—Ronan’s daggers gleamed once in the firelight, then vanished.

[Wind Mirror Dash].

He vanished.

In a blink, he reappeared behind the mage, sweeping in a wide arc. Ducking low, he carved a line across the enemy’s thigh.

The mage grunted in pain.

Stone surged beneath Ronan, rising fast to trap him—but he was already gone again. The air shimmered.

He moved like wind itself. Light. Unpredictable. Deadly.

His twin blades blurred, silver arcs cutting through the smoke in a dance of death.

The earth mage stayed grounded—solid in stance, solid in magic. He held a heavy broadsword, and with it came that slow, deliberate, crushing aura of stone. Unmoving. Relentless.

”[Stone Javelin!]” the man bellowed.

A sharpened spike launched forward, tearing through the battlefield.

Ronan twisted aside at the last second, letting it miss by inches, his dagger responding in kind—

”[Whispering Wind Slice!]”

A shimmering blade of wind lashed forward, cutting across the enemy’s chest. Fabric split. Blood spilled.

The mage grunted and dropped to one knee, slamming his palm to the earth.

”[Stone Skin!]”

A hard shimmer coated his body—his flesh turning to armor.

He rushed forward, no fear in his steps.

Ronan braced. Crossed blades blocked the impact, but the sheer weight behind it knocked him back, boots scraping the stone. Blood trickled from his mouth.

”You’re heavy,” he muttered, wiping it away. ”Let’s lighten you up.”

The masked man raised his broadsword again, ready to bring it down like a guillotine.

But Ronan was already gone.

He disappeared—then reappeared mid-air, just behind, suspended in a gust of wind.

”[Boomerang Wind Blade!]”

A howl tore through the air. His dagger shone bright blue, wrapped in wind like a spirit blade.

One clean slash.

Time stopped.

The mage stood frozen.

Then—

His body split in two. A perfect, quiet divide.

Ronan landed soft. The wind died down around him like a breath being let go.

He exhaled.

Wiped the blade.

”...Two down.”