Reincarnate as the Villainess's Husband - Chapter 89

Chapter 89: Last meal
The night had fallen. Neonidas’s army loomed around the capital like a colossal shadow. The fear etched into the hearts of his enemies gradually eroded their resolve. The soldiers inside stood on high alert, but their eyelids grew heavy. The days-long siege had drained them both mentally and physically.

A faint smile appeared on Neonidas’s lips as he watched the trembling sentries atop the walls. Patience was the greatest weapon. Ignoring his own fatigue, he strolled through the camp. Every movement he made imposed an invisible authority over his soldiers. His mere presence inspired confidence in his men and despair in his enemies.

Inside the commander’s tent, the air was tense. Kael, Allea, and the other officers awaited Neonidas’s arrival. They were hunched over a map, discussing the latest developments within the city.

Kael lifted his head and spoke.

“My lord, we have new reports from inside. Some of the nobles have fled. The chaos in the city is growing. The soldiers are crumbling, their morale is shattered. A few of the wall guards tried to escape, but their commanders stopped them.”

Neonidas nodded without a change in expression. Just as expected… The division within the city was accelerating. All he had to do was wait a little longer to claim his victory.

Allea, arms crossed, observed him in silence before finally speaking.

“We should begin the attack tonight.”

Neonidas turned to her, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Why?”

Allea touched the map on the table, pointing at the city walls.

“The city is in panic right now. But if you wait too long, panic will turn into desperation. Desperation is different from hopelessness. A man who loses hope moves with fear. But a man who is truly desperate has nothing left to lose. The people of this city are ready to bow in fear. But if we delay too much, desperation will replace fear, and they will fight back.”

Neonidas weighed her words. Allea’s analytical skills were impeccable. She wasn’t just a princess—she was a cold, calculating strategist. After a moment, he smiled.

“So we must strike while they still have a sliver of hope?”

Allea nodded. “Exactly.”

Neonidas turned to his commanders.

“Spread the word. We move at midnight.”

The camp erupted into action. Within hours, preparations were in full swing—catapults were loaded with fire stones, ladders were readied, soldiers took their positions. Everything was going according to plan.

At midnight, the capital’s walls trembled with a deafening roar. Catapults hurled huge flaming stones at the walls for a few practice shots, fiery arrows pierced the darkness. As the citizens screamed and fled, Neonidas soldiers pressed their ladders against the walls.

Powerful mages shaped staircases from the earth itself, stretching toward the ramparts. With no strong counterattack from the enemy’s mages, the imperial army slowly advanced up the walls.

Neonidas stood at the rear with Allea, watching it all unfold.

The night had become the harbinger of war. The sky was veiled in clouds, and not even the moonlight could hide the glint of swords and spears. The capital’s once-proud stone walls now trembled under the shadow of destruction. Chaos reigned in the streets, and fear spread like a plague.

And then the gates of hell opened.

When Neonidas’s catapults launched their fiery payloads, the stones shone like stars in the darkness. But they were not symbols of hope—they were harbingers of death. The fireballs rained down on the city, shattering walls and buildings alike. Rooftops ignited, towers collapsed, smoke and screams intertwined.

Atop the walls, the kingdom’s soldiers desperately tried to hold the line. But many of them trembled. The mere thought of Neonidas had already defeated them before the battle even began. The war cries rising from below drove daggers into their hearts.

And then Neonidas’s army surged forward.

Soldiers stormed the walls, massive ladders pressed against the stone, warriors climbing with unshakable resolve. The city’s mages cast feeble spells, only to have them blocked by prepared shields. In response, imperial mages retaliated with fire and lightning, striking down defenders in an instant.

But the true terror was Neonidas himself.

Leaving his men behind, he dove straight into battle alone. His hands shimmered with light, transforming into gleaming swords. As soon as he reached the base of the wall, he used short-range light teleportation to leap into the enemy ranks.

Before the soldiers could even register his presence, he slit the throat of the first guard. Blood sprayed, and the others recoiled in fear. But Neonidas showed no hesitation. He swung his light-forged blades with deadly precision, slicing through steel and bone alike.

His movements were the pinnacle of combat mastery. Every leap brought death, every turn signaled another soldier’s demise. The glowing arcs of his blades painted him as a god—a ruthless, unstoppable god of death.

And he was not alone.

Just as the western flank of the walls reached its breaking point, Allea joined the fray, her crimson hair flowing in the wind.

When she raised her hands, the air atop the walls grew blistering. The stones themselves began to heat, glowing red. And then… the fire erupted.

With a single gesture, Allea summoned a towering column of flames engulfing the enemy’s position. The screams of the burning soldiers fused with the night air. Some were reduced to ash in an instant, while the survivors scrambled to escape—only to find there was nowhere to run.

At that moment, the battle was over.

As Neonidas struck down his last opponent, he heard the chaos rising from within the city. The soldiers were no longer fighting. They were merely begging to live.

A section of the walls had crumbled, and the gates had been opened from within. Neonidas’s army flooded the streets with victorious cries. The citizens fell to their knees—some weeping, others fleeing in terror.

And as Neonidas deactivated his glowing blades and gazed down from the walls, he couldn’t help but smile.

The fall of the capital would be remembered as one of the greatest conquests in recent years.

From now on, a single question would echo in the minds of many:

Was the supposedly mighty Hindonpon Kingdom truly strong, or was it merely a fragile bubble waiting to burst? Or was it Neonidas’s genius that had made its fall seem so effortless?

——

The city had been seized, and control was quickly established, but the inner walls had yet to fall. Within the capital of the Hindonpon Kingdom, Addura, the royal palace, stood at the very heart of the city, surrounded by walls even stronger than the outer ones. This area housed not only the palace but also royal farmlands and numerous other estates.

It had been built to be self-sufficient. Moreover, they likely had enough food and supplies stocked to last for years. But now, it was all over. There was no power left to aid Hindonpon, the capital had fallen, and there were barely any soldiers left to fight.

Most likely, with a single attack from the empire, these inner walls would be breached and the palace would be taken. King Haruth knew this very well—his only option was surrender.

Thus, white flags were raised immediately. The face of war—or rather, the harsh reality—was far from a fairy tale. King Haruth knew all too well what had happened to the nobles and their families in the cities Neonidas had previously conquered. Some had become his personal slaves, while others were taken as concubines.

And so, despite being nearly fifty years old, King Haruth wept for hours, weakly sobbing under his blankets. Then he summoned his entire family for one last meal. His daughters, his wife, and even his three-year-old child were all specifically ordered to attend.

The entire family wore grim expressions—they knew exactly what awaited them.

This “last” meal was not just the last they would eat in the palace, but the last they would ever eat in their lives. There was likely poison in the food.

Yet their sorrow stemmed from different reasons. Those at the table mourned the loss of their power and wealth, while King Haruth grieved to condemn his family to such a wretched fate.

The women at the table—at least those above a certain age—knew that if they survived, their best-case scenario would be becoming Neonidas’ bedwarmers, or worse, concubines of powerless, ordinary nobles. Yet they had already accepted their fate. At the very least, if they became concubines of someone as strong and handsome as Neonidas, their lives wouldn’t change too drastically.

The men at the table, however, faced an even worse fate. Their titles would be stripped, and at best, they might become mere knights. But more likely, most of them would be sold into slavery.

As King Haruth entered the dining hall with heavy steps, an eerie silence filled the room. The long table was adorned with golden plates and silver cutlery. The candlelight from the candelabras cast a dim glow, but it was too weak to illuminate the despair in the air.

Haruth’s wife, Queen Lysandra, sat upright, her eyes filled with unshed tears. Beside her sat their two eldest daughters—the firstborn, twenty-year-old Elenora, and her younger sister, Celeste, who was eighteen. Both were dressed in elegant gowns, but they wore no jewelry. Once the dazzling stars of the capital’s grand balls, they now sat as prisoners, awaiting their fate.

At the table was also Haruth’s only son, sixteen-year-old Prince Darius. He was young but silent, his fists clenched, his face pale. At the far end of the table sat their youngest daughter, three-year-old Alliaria, held by a servant. Even at her age, she could sense the suffocating atmosphere.

Haruth’s other close and distant relatives took their places at the back. King Haruth took a deep breath and sat down. He clasped his hands and stared at the table. For a moment, he seemed unsure of what to say. Then, slowly lifting his head, he met the eyes of his family.

“As you all know… our end has come,” he began. His voice did not tremble, but a deep helplessness resonated within it. “We have lost the capital. Our army has been destroyed. Our palace wasn’t even besieged… because Neonidas didn’t consider it necessary. We have fallen so low that we have no choice but to surrender.”

No one spoke. Lysandra closed her eyes. The princesses lowered their heads. Darius gritted his teeth.

Haruth took another deep breath. “We have two choices,” he said, looking each of them in the eye. “Either we preserve our honor and end our lives on our own terms… or we submit to fate and rely on Neonidas’ mercy to survive.”

At his words, Lysandra lifted her head, her brows furrowed, but she remained silent. Instead, Elenora spoke.

“Neonidas’ mercy?” she repeated, her voice laced with bitter sarcasm. “Do you really think he won’t make us his slaves? Or worse?”

Haruth averted his gaze for a moment before straightening again. “Yes,” he admitted. “But at least you would be alive. Neonidas values powerful people. As someone of royal blood, he may find some worth in you. If you submit to him, perhaps…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, as if he himself did not believe his own words.

Celeste sighed. “But we are women,” she said. “He might spare us, but what about Prince Darius? Why would Neonidas allow a dethroned prince to live?”

Darius looked at his father. He spoke for the first time. “So, I’m already a dead man, aren’t I?” His voice was cold, but an underlying rage simmered beneath it. “I am your son. A prince. If I am to live my life as a slave, then I do not want that life.”

Haruth swallowed. “If you submit to Neonidas… perhaps…”

“Perhaps?” Darius let out a harsh laugh. “Do you not know how ruthless Neonidas is towards men? The best we can hope for is to live in his shadow, as nameless figures.”

At that moment, Lysandra turned to her husband. “And what about you, Haruth?”

The king hesitated. Then he let out a long, heavy sigh. “I… will eat my last meal.”