I Have 10,000 SSS Rank Villains In My System Space Chapter 492: Blasphemy?

Three days later

In the very heart of Varn, the capital of the Denvaar Kingdom, a sea of people had gathered before the royal square.

The crowd stretched from the palace gates to the broad stone roads beyond, spilling into side streets, balconies, rooftops, and even the upper windows of noble mansions. Farmers stood beside merchants, priests beside soldiers, craftsmen and all kinds of people. Some had traveled through the night from nearby towns. Others had come from the outer districts of the capital itself. Not every citizen of the kingdom could be present, of course, but it almost felt as though the whole kingdom had sent at least one pair of eyes to witness this day. The air was heavy with whispers, confusion, fear, curiosity, and the strange excitement that came when history was about to change before common eyes.

Two days earlier, the announcement had spread through the kingdom like fire through dry fields. Queen Grace would step down from the throne. A new king would be crowned. That alone would have shaken the kingdom. But the name attached to that announcement had shaken it far more. The man to be crowned was not of the royal bloodline. He was not a known prince.. Since there was none in first place not even a farr away cousin of the royal house, not a great lord’s son who had married into legitimacy. Actually not even of there own kingdom

He was an outsider.. Razeal Vilious. To many people, the name had meant nothing three days ago. To others, it had already become something whispered with fear, wonder, curiosity and disbelief. Yeah they still haven’t known about razeal true real identity.. Thanks to him suddenly giving himself a last name.. Out of nowhere just by himself.

Normally, such a thing would never have been accepted. A throne was not an empty chair that any strong man could sit upon. A king needed blood some claim or some law, tradition, recognition. The people understood that, even the commoners do. They might not know the fine language of noble law, but they understood enough.

A crown had weight. A crown needed a reason. Without that reason, there was only conquest, rebellion, or chaos. A foreign lord taking the throne would mean the kingdom had been defeated. A great house forcing its candidate onto the throne would mean civil war. A rebel leader seizing the palace would mean blood in the streets, heads on spikes, taxes raised, families punished, and years of unrest. That was how kingdoms changed hands. No way peacefully.

Yet this time, no banners had risen against the palace. No great house had marched in protest. No noble army had surrounded the capital. Queen Grace herself had announced the transfer of the throne, and with her stood the five great lords of Denvaar. They had declared, before witnesses and sealed proclamation, that the ancient right of salvation would be invoked. As it was an old tradition.. A law born from the age when Denvaar had almost been destroyed and saved by its first true king. The one who saved the kingdom from destruction earned the right to rule it, or to name the one who would as it had done before.. As Queens Recognised royal bloodline as the proof.

Most had thought it was a nonsense as not really that knowledgeable but again now following that law they all had been dragged into daylight and placed before the people.

And the strange thing was... the people could not fully reject it.

Because the kingdom had been saved.

That part was no longer rumor.

At first, many had refused to believe it. They heard that a force from one of the Ten Pillar Families of the Empire had marched upon Denvaar. That alone was enough to make grown men go quiet. The Ten Pillar Families were not ordinary noble houses. To common folk, they sounded less like families and more like mountains with names. People did not stand against them. Kingdoms bowed, bargained, or died. It was hundreds of thousands of years old history family afterall.. Even there own kingdom hasn’t existed for that long.

Yet the proclamation claimed that this Razeal Vilious had stood against that force and broken it. Some evensaid he destroyed an army. Others said he killed the head of the Rock Pillar in a single sword strike. A full Supreme.....

*_*

A being most people could not even imagine seeing in their lifetime, let alone killed.

That had been difficult enough to believe.

Then came the second rumor.

Thats.. The dead had returned.

At first, people laughed nervously when they heard it. Not because it was funny, but because the mind refused to accept such a thing. Men did not return from death. Women did not rise after blood had left their bodies. Children crushed beneath stone do never open their eyes again.

That belonged to temples, myths, and old songs sung by priests during festivals. Yet refugees from Silver City swore it was true. Soldiers swore it was true. Merchants swore it was true. Mothers who had carried dead sons now brought those sons home alive. Wives who had wrapped husbands in bloodied cloth now walked beside them. Too many witnesses spoke the same madness for it to remain only madness.

So the people came.

Some came because they were loyal to Queen Grace and wished to see her final act as ruler. Some came because they feared what would happen if they stayed away. Some came because a new king meant new taxes, new laws, new punishments, and new wars, and wise men watched such things closely. Some came because they were curious. Some came because they were afraid. And many came because they believed they were about to see a man touched by the gods.

The priests had not helped calm that belief. In the streets outside the square, men in white robes argued with men in gray. Some called Razeal a prophet.

Yupp people were calling Razeal

prophet. A messenger sent by God to perform a miracle.

Some called him a vessel. Some called it full bullshit but definitely many many more cautious, called him only an instrument sent in a time of need.

The common faithful did not care for such careful words. To them, the truth was simple. The kingdom had been dying, and this man had come. Their sons had been dead, and this man had raised them. Their walls had been broken, and this man had stood above the ruin and spoken like a king. What else was a miracle supposed to look like?

Still, not everyone believed.

There were still many people in the crowd who did not believe much in gods, miracles, prophets, or holy signs. They had lived too long under taxes, hunger, bad harvests, and lords who remembered common folk only when coin or soldiers were needed. To such men and women, gods were distant things painted on churches ceilings, and kings were names stamped on decrees that made bread more expensive. They did not care who sat on the throne, not truly. A king in silk or a queen in gold did not change the mud on their boots or the hunger in their homes. Their lives had always depended on their own hands, their own backs, and whether winter was kind enough not to kill their children.

Still, even those people had come today. Some came because their wives dragged them. Some because their mothers insisted that a man who could raise the dead was worth seeing at least once. Some because everyone else was going, and in a kingdom, not appearing when history happened could be more dangerous than appearing. They stood in the crowd with folded arms and doubtful eyes, muttering that miracles were tricks until proven otherwise, while beside them old women whispered prayers and children climbed onto shoulders to see the young man who was said to have broken an army and brought the dead home.

The great plaza of Varn had been prepared before dawn. At its center rose a broad platform of white marble, polished until it shone beneath the morning light. It had not been built for this day, but for older kings long dead, men whose names still lived in stone though their bones were dust beneath the royal crypts. Soldiers lined the paths leading toward it. Some wore the colors of the old royal house, others bore the banners of the five great houses, and among them stood the strange black-armored soldiers Razeal had brought with him, silent as statues and colder than iron. Their presence alone made many in the crowd speak softer. In the middle of the platform stood the throne of Denvaar, high-backed, dark, heavy, and carved with the lions and mountain flowers of the old royal line. Upon that throne sat Razeal Vilious, and that sight alone unsettled many who managed to see him clearly. He did not look like the old kings carved into palace walls. He did not look like a seasoned warlord or a lord grown fat on victory. He looked young. Too young. Seventeen or eighteen at most to the eyes of those below, with long white-ash hair falling around a calm face and crimson eyes that did not wander nervously despite the thousands gathered before him.

For some, his youth made the rumors harder to believe. For others, it made them easier. Gods, after all, rarely sent ordinary men in ordinary shapes, or so the priests liked to say.

The five great lords stood on either side of the platform, each in formal robes of their house colors, faces solemn and unreadable. Lord Draven looked as though he had not slept in three nights. Lord Kharvek stood stiffly with his hand near his sword, more out of habit than threat. Lady Veyra watched the crowd as much as the ceremony, reading fear, doubt, curiosity, and faith in the faces below. The other lords kept their eyes lowered, careful not to show too much thought where so many could see.

Queen Grace stood beside the throne, dressed not in the full splendor of a reigning queen but in a simpler white and silver gown, her crown resting before her on a purple cushion held in both hands. It was an old custom. The crown must be offered, blessed, raised, and placed. The lands must see the passing of authority with its own eyes. A throne taken in darkness was always doubted. A throne given before the people became harder to challenge.

Then the crowd parted near the eastern stair, and the Archbishop came forward.

He walked slowly, as men of the Church often did when they wanted the world to remember their importance. His robes were white and gold, heavy with embroidery, and a chain of sacred symbols hung from his neck. Behind him came two lesser priests carrying incense, and behind them three temple knights in polished armor. The murmurs in the crowd shifted at once. Many bowed their heads. Some made signs over their hearts. Even men who doubted gods still made room for their servants. The Church was not merely faith. It was law, tradition, legitimacy, marriage, burial, blessing, curse, charity, records, oaths, and fear. A king could rule bodies. The Church claimed souls. Wise rulers remembered that.

The Archbishop climbed the marble steps and reached the platform. He gave Grace a formal nod, then turned toward Razeal and inclined his head with the dignity of a man offering respect without lowering himself too far. Grace stepped forward and extended the purple cushion. The crown rested upon it, gold worked with silver, set with pale stones that caught the light. The Archbishop reached out and gently lifted it with both hands, preparing to speak the ancient words that had crowned kings for generations.

Razeal seeing that frowned.

It was a small expression, but Grace saw it. So did the Archbishop.

Razeal looked from the crown to the man holding it, then back toward Grace. "What are you doing?"

The question was not loud, but it carried across the platform clearly enough for every lord to hear. The Archbishop’s hands paused in the air. Grace blinked, confused for a moment, not understanding what he meant.

Razeal’s gaze remained on her. "Why is someone from the Church here? And why is he holding the crown?"

A faint disturbance moved through those closest to the platform. Lord Draven’s face tightened. Lady Veyra’s eyes sharpened at once. Grace drew in a slow breath, suddenly realizing that Razeal truly did not know or perhaps worse, did not care. Well she hope its not later because she was having a bad feeling right now.

"This is how the ceremony is performed," Grace said carefully, keeping her voice calm enough that it would not feed the crowd’s unease also trying to make Razeal understand as not something bad happen. "The crown is placed under the witness of the Church. The Archbishop blesses the ascension, and the people see that the new king rules not only by law, but under divine sanction aswell. This is really really important.. It has always been the tradition of Denvaar. It is also part of royal law. The crown is accepted by men, but witnessed before God."

The Archbishop’s expression had grown cold, though he still held his tongue. His pride was wounded, that much was clear. To question his place here, in front of lords and people, was no small insult.

Still, he seemed willing to forgive it for the moment. Perhaps this new king was ignorant. Perhaps he lacked proper royal education. Perhaps he had been raised outside the customs of court. A young ruler could be corrected. A foolish remark could be buried.

Then Razeal suddenly spoke again.

"No."

The word was quiet, but it cut cleanly.

"I refuse to be crowned by a god or anyone who beleives in one."

The platform suddenly went cold still.

Razeal looked at Grace, not the Archbishop. "A god has no authority above me. Nor will it have over any land I’ll rule."

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

Grace’s face went pale. The crown cushion trembled slightly in her hands. The five great lords stiffened as though a blade had been drawn in the middle of the ceremony. Even the soldiers below seemed to sense something had gone wrong. The crowd did not hear every word clearly, but those near the platform did, and whispers began to spread outward like spilled ink.

The Archbishop slowly straightened his back. The gold chain upon his chest shifted softly. His eyes, moments ago merely offended, turned sharp and cold.

"What did you say?" His voice was low, yet it carried a chill that silenced the nearest priests. He for second thought he heard something wrong

Razeal though did not even look at him. His eyes remained on Grace. "You were queen. You held the crown. You have the right to place it on my head. No god does. Crown me." He said straight as what he wants.

Grace stood frozen. Horror moved through her slowly, then all at once. These were not careless words. These were words that could break a reign before it began. Kings could quarrel with lords. Kings could punish merchants, tax cities, anger houses, and survive. But the Church was woven into the lives of the people. Their marriages were blessed by priests. Their dead were buried by priests. Their harvests were prayed over by priests. Their children learned letters from temple scribes in many towns. From birth to death it is connected to god.. and without involvement of god nothing is taken legitimate. To reject the Church in front of the realm was not merely discourtesy. To say no god stood above him, no god had power over his land those were words men were burned for in lesser courts. And if the Church declared him unlawful, half the kingdom might fear serving him. Not because they loved priests, but because no farmer wished to be told his soul was damned for obeying the wrong king.

Before Grace could find words, the Archbishop lowered the crown back onto the purple cushion with careful hands. The care made the act more frightening, not less. Then he turned toward Razeal and pointed one long finger at him.

"This is not ignorance," the Archbishop said, his voice rising now, no longer meant only for those on the platform. "This is not a stumble of youth, nor a mistake of courtly manners. This is open defiance of the Divine Order."

The crowd who could hear his loud voice began to quiet, sensing the loud thunder in his tone.

"You sit upon a throne not yet yours," he continued, each word sharper than the last, "beneath a crown not yet placed, before a people who have not yet sworn, and before God whose witness you now reject. Hear me well, Razeal Vilious. No man crowns himself above heaven. No king rules by his own breath alone. The crown is not a trinket to be seized by strength, nor a sword to be claimed because blood was spilled. It is a burden held under law, under oath, and under the gaze of the All-Father."

The Archbishop turned slightly toward the crowd, his robe sweeping across the marble.

"This man has refused the blessing of the Church. He has denied the authority of God over crown and kingdom. He has declared that no divine law shall stand above him in the lands he rules."

The whispers became louder now, rolling through the crowd.

The Archbishop lifted his hand higher.

"By the sacred law of Denvaar and the holy covenants upon which this kingdom was built, such a man cannot be crowned under God. Such a man cannot receive the lawful obedience of the faithful. Such a man cannot sit upon the throne without leading this realm into sin."

Grace’s hands tightened around the cushion. Lady Veyra’s jaw clenched. Lord Kharvek looked toward Razeal, then toward the crowd, already measuring how fast this could become a disaster.

The Archbishop’s voice boomed across the square.

"I declare before all gathered here.. if this man persists in this blasphemy, he forfeits all claim to lawful coronation under the Church. Any oath sworn to him shall be stained. Any banner raised for him shall be raised in rebellion against heaven. Any lord who bends the knee to him shall answer not only to men, but to God." His words struck the square like stones thrown into still water.

The first ripples were whispers, then gasps, then frightened voices rising from every side just totally confused what happened so suddenly. But the Archbishop was not finished. His pride had already been wounded, yes, but this was no longer only pride.

A king who rejected the Church before the people was not merely insulting a man in robes. He was tearing at the roots of law, marriage, burial, inheritance, and faith itself. The Archbishop lifted his hand higher, his face flushed with righteous fury.

"If he does not repent before God and the realm, I shall, under divine teaching and sacred law, impose excommunication upon him and interdict upon this kingdom. I will close every church in Denvaar. No child shall be baptized beneath its roofs. No marriage shall be blessed before the altar. No dead shall receive holy burial. No bell shall toll for your souls. No priest shall speak the prayers of passage. Let every man and woman here understand what it means to follow a king who spits upon heaven." By the time he finished, the crowd had begun to panic properly even if not really knowing what exactly happened.. not yet, but fear moved through them in visible waves. Mothers clutched children. Old men cursed under their breath. Priests among the crowd cried out for order. Some commoners stared at Razeal in horror, others at the Archbishop, unable to understand how a coronation had become a threat against the entire kingdom in the span of a few breaths. These people had come to witness history. They had not come to lose their marriages, their dead, their temples, and perhaps their hope of heaven.

Queen Grace stood frozen with the crown still resting upon the purple cushio