Adventure Time Rebellion: Fight for the Throne

Chapter 40: The Hero's Return Effect (2)

"And that's not all," the servant added grimly, his voice more measured now, as if trying to ground himself in logic. "They lost hundreds of soldiers—wiped out in minutes. Entire battalions gone. Their structural damage is immense: housing sectors collapsed, watchtowers shattered, a massive breach in their main wall—completely exposed. And... they lost their elite gum guards. All of them."

He paused, letting the weight of it settle in the room.

The queen's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something ancient stirring behind the veil. "All that," she repeated, her voice low and simmering, "and I wasn't informed. Did one of our allied armies break rank and attack the Candy Kingdom… without my permission?"

Her voice cracked like thunder across the room, even though it had not risen. That was the terrifying part—how much fury could exist behind such controlled tone.

"No, Your Majesty. That's the bizarre part," he answered quickly, sweat dotting his brow now. "According to our spies embedded in the kingdom... it wasn't an army."

He hesitated, unable to believe it himself.

"It was just one man."

The queen didn't respond. For a moment, the flames in the torches around the chamber flickered unnaturally.

"One... man?" she repeated, her words hollowed out by disbelief.

"Yes," he continued, his voice shrinking into itself. "He tore through their defenses like paper. Their reports mention abilities—molten powers, fire constructs, lava-like destruction. Abilities nearly identical to our own."

That last part was too close. Too familiar.

The queen's posture shifted slightly. Not a flinch, but a subtle tightening of the air. The very room seemed to breathe, and its breath was laced with smoke.

"You're saying... someone wielding powers from our bloodline destroyed one of the most fortified kingdoms in Ooo, singlehandedly—and no one even saw it coming?"

The servant nodded once, the motion almost mechanical.

The queen leaned back, eyes still hidden, her voice retreating into cold calculation. "Finn returned. But he didn't do anything to stop it?"

"No, my queen. Reports say he only arrived this morning. The attack was during the night. He wasn't there."

A long silence followed.

"...I see," she whispered.

But what she saw, only she knew.

The servant watched her closely, noting the way her breathing slowed, the temperature of the room shifted, the pulse of raw heat behind the veil dampened—but only slightly. There was something... fragile in the air now. A tension not born of rage, but of emotion.

It was the second time she had gone quiet at the mention of Finn. The first time, she reacted with wrath. But now, she simply sat there—haunted by something deep and buried.

That's when a dangerous thought came to the servant. A thought he had refused to entertain until now. A thought that had gnawed at the edges of his pride for weeks, months even.

"Could it be… that Her Majesty still carries feelings for Mertens?"

It was a simple question.

But its implications stabbed like a blade.

His fists clenched at his sides, trembling not from fear, but from a dangerous mixture of jealousy, betrayal, and confusion. His sharp eyes remained on her silhouette. Even now, even as he braced himself for a blow, he did not disrespect her gaze. But he couldn't keep the question buried.

And perhaps she sensed it.

"…And what if I do?" she asked, her voice sharp as obsidian—but laced with meaning far too complex for any single answer.

It crushed the last of his hopes.

His muscles tensed. The room flushed a deeper crimson as her energy—responding to the shift in her emotions—saturated the space like thick perfume. The flames lining the chamber stretched taller, more violent, curling toward the ceiling like claws.

He couldn't breathe.

Not because of the heat—but because of the realization. The confirmation. The invisible weight of knowing that in all his loyalty, all his efforts, she had never truly looked at him that way.

The queen said nothing more, but her power spoke for her. It choked the air. It drowned the silence. It stabbed his pride.

He dropped his head, swallowing every scream and plea.

"You may go," she said finally—mercifully.

As if a spell had broken, the heat vanished with her words.

The room went still. He didn't speak. He couldn't. He simply rose, bowed stiffly, and walked out.

Behind him, the great black door slammed shut with a booming finality.

He exhaled—only now realizing he had been holding his breath.

The tension that had wrapped around his skin, squeezed his bones, and burned under his collar finally released. But it left something worse behind: shame.

He clenched his jaw until pain shot through it. His fists shook. His nails bit into his palms as the memory of her voice—What if I do?—played over and over again in his skull like a curse.

"Why… why him?" he hissed aloud.

The sound of his voice felt strange—foreign. As if someone else had spoken.

That name—Finn Mertens—felt like poison in his mouth. It tasted of ashes and resentment. Rage boiled up in his chest, glowing just beneath the skin. A faint, crimson aura bled from his body, dancing across his veins, outlining his muscular frame with barely contained fury.

He ran his fingers through his golden hair, digging them in until it hurt. His breath came in heavy, uneven bursts. His thoughts were collapsing in on themselves.

She still thinks of him.

Even after everything. After all this time. After all I've done...

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't right.

His fingers curled. His teeth ground together.

It wasn't until a sudden boom of drums echoed from outside the palace walls that his trance shattered. Then came laughter. Music. Celebration.

What?

He turned, eyes narrowing.

Joyful noise? Here? Now?

The palace perimeter was sacred—strictly regulated. No noise. No crowds. No spontaneous celebration was allowed within the vicinity unless sanctioned by the queen herself.

And today… there was nothing scheduled.

His eye twitched. "What now?" he muttered, jaw tight as he stormed toward the sound, expecting—hoping—to find someone to unleash his rage on.

He needed to vent. He needed blood.

He needed to feel like he mattered.

And maybe—just maybe—s omeone would finally pay for reminding him that he wasn't Finn Mertens.