All the techniques of Nine Hells Gate rely on physical combat to strike down opponents, and the Ninth Gate is no exception.

From its movements, "Night Armor" looks like nothing more than an ordinary flying kick.

Yet the destructive power contained within it completely transcends anyone's comprehension.

Even Claudia, who had meticulously compiled the ancient texts of *Nine Hells Gate*, was witnessing for the very first time someone unleash the true "Night Armor."

Before her eyes, the blazing red lion charged toward the Primordial Nightmare with an unstoppable force.

Blood-red steam engulfed its path, like a shortcut straight into hell.

Everyone watched the final blow through their Recording Stones.

At this very moment, the weight Leon bore was no longer just the expectations of the Lionheart Association, but the hope of every single soul in the Empire.

He had to win—he must win!

Intense energy coursed through Leon’s entire body, surging through his limbs, his meridians, his bones—grinding pain echoed everywhere.

Especially in his heart.

Without Roswitha's Heart-Guarding Dragon Scale, Leon might have already collapsed.

The moment before unleashing "Night Armor," the silver dragon scale on his chest flared with its brightest light.

The soft glow shone upon Leon’s determined face, almost as if its original owner were standing beside him, lending him strength.

Power radiated outward in waves, the shockwaves lifting the bangs on Leon’s forehead. As clarity returned to his eyes, a fleeting expression of gratitude and gentleness crossed his lethal gaze.

“Thank you, Roswitha.”

The crimson lion pierced the nightmare, and in that instant, the wails of countless anguished souls echoed throughout the Empire.

Centered upon the Upper District, the shockwaves of the explosion rippled outward in all directions.

Firelight illuminated the night as though the sun had risen prematurely.

From afar, Constantine narrowed his eyes, staring at the shattered battlefield.

“So this is the power of the Ninth Gate…”

Hearing this, Claudia seemed reminded of something. She turned toward Constantine and, with a serious face, offered him a reminder:

“Didn’t he mention that this move was originally reserved for you?”

Constantine: ?

“Then I suggest you reconsider your relationship with him moving forward.” The elegant woman revealed her own mischievous streak, dark humor concealed within her instructions.

Constantine snorted coldly, whipping his sleeves. “A self-damaging combat technique? Hardly worth fearing.”

Stubbornness seemed to be a trademark of the Dragon Kings and Queens.

Claudia responded with a knowing yet silent smile.

“Leon!”

After the Night Armor concluded, Roswitha spread her dragon wings and flew to the battlefield.

Claudia also transformed into her dragon form, carrying Rebecca, Martin, and Nacho as they flew to the site.

And again, Constantine was once again left standing there, awkward and isolated in the gusty winds.

“…I hate the Empire,” he muttered bitterly.

Thus, Constantine resumed his sprint down the road.

…

Rushing into the war-torn Upper District, Roswitha and Claudia flapped their gigantic wings, dispersing the smoke and ash smothering the area.

“There!” Rebecca pointed toward a lone figure.

The group quickly ran forward.

Leon stood there, upright and steady, the red steam gradually dissipating from his body. The blood vessels on his face were returning to normal.

In front of him lay the separation of the Primordial Nightmare into three distinct forms—the three-man blade.

At this point, the trio was utterly spent, slumped weakly on the ground, completely incapable of movement.

Ginny slowly opened his eyes, barely making out the person before him.

“Leon… you really are unbelievably strong…”

Leon said nothing, only waiting silently.

Ginny clutched his chest, struggling to stagger to his feet as he swayed unsteadily.

“So the Empire… it’s over, right? We don’t have to be enemies anymore… would you please let the three of us go? Please…”

Leon’s expression remained emotionless, tilting his head slightly as he murmured, “Let you… go?”

Ginny nodded ceaselessly, genuine sincerity etched onto his soot-covered face.

“Yes! We were forced into this by circumstances beyond our control, tightly bound by the Empire's grasp. Now that the Empire is finished, we’re finally free.”

Beside him, Gitte—the second of the siblings—also shakily got to his feet, chiming in,

“Leon… our opposing sides at the time might have justified our conflict, but now that Kant has fallen, there’s no need for you to drive us into a corner, is there?”

Leon’s tone was as indifferent as ever, slowly repeating back their rationale.

“Drive you into a corner…”

“You—you’re the hero in everyone’s eyes. And now that we’re completely powerless to fight back, wouldn’t killing us tarnish your reputation in their eyes?”

“Exactly, Leon. This is for your own good. Letting us go today would surely earn the gratitude of my brothers and me someday!”

Their words continued as they threw themselves into pleading for their lives.

Yet to their side, the one-armed Gimme stealthily drew a dagger from behind his waist. Slowly, he edged closer to Leon.

Ginny and Gitte instantly caught on, coordinating with a fervent display of further begging, using their words to keep Leon’s focus locked on them.

When Gimme finally came within striking range, he leapt forward, driving the knife toward Leon’s carotid artery!

But alas—

A swift, nimble shadow darted in, pinning Gimme to the ground and locking his head tightly beneath his captor's grip in an instant.

Nacho restrained him effortlessly, sneering coldly. “If you wanna sneak attack, at least learn to be subtle about it.”

Their cover blown, the other two no longer hid their aggression. They roared as they drew concealed daggers, lunging for Leon with a last-ditch desperation.

Gitte, however, was tackled mid-dash by Martin, who disarmed him with a fluid motion.

Ginny continued his charge, howling at Leon:

“Casmode! You’re going down! Today you’ll die for us brothers—”

Bang!

The crack of a sniper rifle shattered the air, a precise bullet tearing through Ginny’s hand.

The dagger he held clattered to the ground.

“My…my hand!!!”

Ginny collapsed, clutching his bloodied right hand as he wailed in agony.

Leon strolled toward him leisurely, staring down with cold disdain.

That gaze held nothing but contempt for the feeble.

“You just said you were unwilling pawns, or that your position on the battlefield forced you to oppose me.”

“And you wished to invoke the Empire’s collapse as a reason for me to spare your lives.”

“That’s nonsensical, Ginny.”

“Because my desire to kill you is unrelated to the Empire, or to opposing sides.”

“I want you dead because you harmed my master.”

“In other words…”

His eyes carried not even a flicker of warmth; they radiated instead with pure, unadulterated bloodlust.

“This is personal.”

With that said, Leon calmly raised his right hand. Three streaks of lightning marked their place over the hearts of the three-man blade.

“Leon! Leon, please, I beg you—spare us—Leon! Even as a ghost, I won’t forgive you!! I’ll kill you—”

Snap—

A crisp finger snap activated the bolts of lightning, each detonating the hearts of the trio simultaneously.

“If you’ve got anything to say, save it for your next life.”

“Captain!”

Rebecca, carrying her sniper rifle, raced over, yelling, “Over there!”

Leon followed her pointing to spot a lumbering, overweight figure clawing his way out of the ruins, attempting to make a quiet escape.

“Your turn,” Leon said plainly.

Rebecca giggled knowingly. “Roger that!”

She raised her rifle, took aim, and opened fire.

The bullet streaked through the air in a perfect line, piercing Kant’s knee with unerring accuracy.

The portly man stumbled, collapsing in a heap.

“Oho, why didn’t you just blow the so-called emperor away in one shot?” Nacho asked, walking up.

Rebecca holstered her weapon with a small smile, replying, “The Captain has his own plans.”

Leon approached the embarrassed wreck of Kant slowly.

Kant, lacking the cunning of the three-man blade, instantly dropped to his knees in a desperate kowtow.

“I’m sorry, Leon! I—I shouldn’t have treated you that way before. You’re not a traitor to the Empire; you—you’re its hero—”

“Spare me your flattery, old fool.”

“I…I beg of you…please don’t kill me. Please.”

“I’m not going to kill you.”

At those words, Kant sighed in relief.

But the next second, his ears picked up the distant sound of approaching footsteps—a cacophony growing louder by the moment.

Kant looked past Leon’s shoulders and noticed the incoming masses—they were citizens of the Empire.

“Your crimes should be judged by the people,” Leon said curtly.

With that, he turned and left. Kant extended a trembling hand toward him, but before he could utter another word, he was surrounded by the surging crowd of men, women, and children.

“Traitor king! Scum of the Empire! I’ll kick you to death!”

“Strip him naked and parade him through the streets!”

“Throw him in the ocean to feed the sharks!”

“...”

The revolution had definitively concluded.

Dragging his weary body along, Leon limped toward the edge of the battlefield.

Many citizens and members of the Lionheart Association approached him with smiles, eager to celebrate. Yet he politely declined them all.

Exhaustion weighed on him like a mountain; all he wanted now was to lie down and sleep.

But first, he needed to see someone.

After trudging some distance, she finally came into view—the silvery figure amid the chaos.

Leon squeezed his aching legs, set his jaw, and looked up with a fatigued yet triumphant smile.

“I did it, Roswitha,” he said softly.

The queen, lifting the hem of her gown, threaded her way through the crowd and the ruins. Moving past the debris, she ran straight into her lover’s arms.

Before the eyes of thousands, they embraced.

Amid a tide of thunderous applause, they kissed.