Timeless Assassin - Chapter 843
Chapter 843: It’s Over
(A couple days later, Skyshard City, A common citizen’s POV )
By the time a few days had passed, the rumor had already begun to spread, whispered from market stalls to shuttle queues, drifting through blacksmith forges and drifting across café counters, as snippets of “Soron… alive…” slipped through the streets exactly as the Elders intended, yet the reaction that followed was nothing like the uprising the council had envisioned.
Most citizens simply smiled at the rumor, feeling happy that their Lord might finally be back before brushing it aside like dust on their sleeves, continuing with their morning chores as though nothing meaningful had been said at all, as if Lord Soron’s return—something once sacred enough to mobilize armies—had suddenly become irrelevant compared to the life they had now inside this Stilled World.
And when someone finally dared to tug at a neighbor’s sleeve and mutter something along the lines of, “Maybe this means the Shadow Dragon should step down…” the reaction was immediate and sharp.
“Are you crazy, man?”
A butcher snapped as he slammed his cleaver onto the chopping block, startling a line of waiting customers.
“Why would any sane person want Lord Shadow Dragon replaced? What hasn’t he done for us?”
He asked, as a woman in the queue nodded vigorously, pulling her son closer to her side.
“Yeah, behave! Lord Skyshard is the reason we’re thriving in the Stilled World. Without him we would all be dead by now! Dead!
Where is your gratitude?”
She asked, as even the elderly, who once lived on Ixtal, simply sighed and waved away the rumor with tired amusement.
“Kids these days… always believing nonsense. If Lord Soron was truly back, Lord Skyshard would be the first one to tell us.
There’s no infighting within the Cult.
The Righteous are the enemy.”
He said, as unlike what the elders wanted, nobody demanded for Leo to step down.
However, as if that was not bad enough, the even worse part was that no one mentioned the Elders at all.
Not once. Not directly. Not even by accident.
Instead, every irritated remark, every defensive comment, every annoyed dismissal was directed at a vague “someone stirring trouble” or “idiots spreading discord,” as the implication behind their voices was unmistakable, that whoever wanted Leo gone was a fool.
Street by street, stall by stall, workshop by workshop, the reaction across the Stilled World was the same.
Dismissive. Annoyed. Protective of Leo. Utterly uninterested in replacing him with anyone else, not even Soron himself.
In fact, more than a few commoners puffed their chests and declared boldly:
“If Lord Soron really returned, then HE should come here to the Stilled World and resume control of the Cult, not the other way around.”
“Exactly! Who do people think built our fleets, our economy, our safety?
Lord Skyshard did!
Our lives here are much better than out in the normal universe and it’s all because of him!”
They said, as some laughed, some cursed, some rolled their eyes, but none supported the idea of the Elders returning—none even believed they should have a say.
As in the end, the Elders’ grand spark of rebellion… Their carefully laid rumor network… Their secret plan to stir the masses…
All fell flat in a matter of days, drowned beneath the blind loyalty and gratitude the people held toward Leo, who had kept them alive, safe, prosperous, and armed while the universe outside tried to annihilate them again and again.
As by the third day, the sentiment across Skyshard City was so uniform, so ironclad, that anyone still trying to push the rumor found themselves mocked in alleys and stared at with suspicion in public squares.
The coup had failed before it even began.
The commoners had spoken. And they had chosen their Shadow Dragon.
Which left the Elders in an extremely awkward position.
“Black magic!”
The Eighth Elder yelled, as he pulled at his own hair in sheer disbelief, pacing back and forth inside the hidden warehouse where the council had reconvened, his voice echoing off the metal walls as though the room itself mocked his frustration.
“It’s like he has cast black magic over the entire population… not a single one of them questioned him, not a single one demanded the council return, not even a whisper of resistance— nothing!”
He cried, as the Fifth Elder slumped helplessly into his chair, burying his face in both hands, his shoulders shaking with a bitterness that soured into something close to despair, for twenty-five years of humiliation had already stretched them thin, but this final rejection from the people felt like the world spitting directly in their faces.
Across the table, the First Elder’s jaw flexed repeatedly as he ground his teeth hard enough that the veins across his temple bulged, his eyes dark with the realization he had spent decades refusing to accept.
“It’s over…”
He muttered quietly, as though saying the words physically hurt him.
“The people… they don’t want us anymore.”
A heavy silence fell.
Not the tense silence of plotting. Not the sharp silence of anger. But the hollow, resigned silence of men who had finally understood that history had already moved past them.
The Fourth Elder exhaled slowly and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling as though searching for answers in old memories that no longer meant anything.
“They don’t even remember what the old order was like,” he murmured bitterly.
“To them… Leo Skyshard is the Cult. Not us. Not the council. Not the Elders.”
The Sixth Elder shook his head, defeated.
“Even Lord Soron’s name wasn’t enough… imagine that. The greatest Sect Master in our history returns, and the people still choose the Shadow Dragon without hesitation.”
“And why wouldn’t they?”
The Tenth Elder added in a low voice, his fingers slowly tracing the rim of his cup as though trying to steady himself.
“He is the one who saved them.
He is the one who fed them.
He is the one who built the ships, raised the walls, armed the cities…
We didn’t do any of that.
They owe him everything.”
A painful truth, spoken aloud at last, hung in the air between them.
Leo had not taken the Cult by force.
He had taken it by loyalty.
By results.
By undeniable, overwhelming merit.
Which was why he had now become impossible to overthrow.