The Grand Hall remained silent.
No one dared speak.
No one dared interrupt.
The only sound within the vast chamber was the slow, uneven breathing of an old father whose world had just been shattered.
Lord Cris Varien remained seated upon the chief's throne.
His eyes were fixed upon nothing.
Yet I knew exactly what he was seeing.
Not the hall.
Not the elders.
Not me.
He was watching memories.
A little boy running through the streets of the Varien Tribe.
A stubborn teenager who never listened.
A young man who challenged everyone to spar.
A son who smiled even after being punished.
A son who had walked through these very doors twenty years ago...
...and never returned.
The silence stretched on.
Even the elders lowered their heads.
None of them possessed the courage to speak.
What words could comfort a father who had just learned his eldest son was dead?
There were none.
Several long minutes passed.
Then...
Lord Cris slowly closed his eyes.
A deep breath escaped his lips.
When he opened them again...
The grief was still there.
But something else had appeared.
Rage.
Cold.
Absolute.
Terrifying.
The pressure of a peak cultivator exploded throughout the hall.
BOOM!
The floor trembled.
Several younger warriors staggered backward.
Even the elders instinctively lowered their heads beneath the overwhelming aura.
The old chief slowly rose to his feet.
Although age had bent his hair white...
His back remained perfectly straight.
His eyes no longer belonged to a grieving father.
They belonged to the man who had ruled the Varien Tribe for decades.
His voice echoed throughout the Grand Hall.
"Find them."
No one moved.
Every elder stood frozen.
Lord Cris repeated himself.
This time...
Each word carried enough killing intent to chill every heart present.
"Find them."
His gaze swept across every elder.
"I don't care where they hide."
"If they flee into the mountains..."
"We will climb every peak."
"If they disappear into the forests..."
"We will search every tree."
"If they bury themselves beneath the earth..."
"We will dig them out with our bare hands."
His fists slowly tightened.
The stone armrest beside him cracked beneath the pressure.
"I want every piece of information concerning the Raka Bandits."
"Every ally."
"Every hideout."
"Every merchant who traded with them."
"Every tribe that ever sheltered them."
"I want..."
His voice shook.
"...every single one."
Silence.
No elder questioned the order.
Because everyone understood.
This was no longer the decision of a chief.
This was vengeance.
The vengeance of a father.
Lord Cris slowly looked toward the Head of Intelligence.
"You have seven days."
"If I receive nothing..."
"...don't bother returning."
The elder immediately knelt.
"As you command!"
Then the old chief turned toward the military commander.
"Prepare the warriors."
The commander bowed deeply.
"How many shall we send?"
Lord Cris answered without hesitation.
"All of them."
The hall fell silent once again.
Every elder looked up in shock.
All of them?
That had never happened before.
Even during wars against rival large tribes...
The Varien Tribe had never mobilized its entire military.
Yet today...
Not one person objected.
Lord Cris's voice became quieter.
Far more dangerous.
"I am not sending soldiers."
"I am sending executioners."
The commander slowly lowered his head.
"It shall be done."
Only then did Lord Cris's aura gradually subside.
His shoulders suddenly seemed heavier.
His eyes lost some of their sharpness.
The chief disappeared.
Once again...
Only an old father remained.
He looked toward me.
"Vicky."
I immediately stood.
"Yes, Lord Cris."
His expression softened.
"You've fulfilled the promise you made to my son."
The words nearly broke me.
"You've carried those children across half the region."
"You've fought."
"You've run."
"You've mourned."
"You've done enough."
His tired eyes met mine.
"Rest."
I remained silent.
He continued.
"For two days."
"After that..."
His gaze drifted toward the eastern horizon.
"We leave for Vera."
His voice became quieter still.
"My son..."
"...has waited long enough."
A painful smile appeared upon his aged face.
"And Devika as well."
The hall remained silent.
No one failed to understand what he meant.
He wasn't marching to rescue them.
He was marching...
To bring them home.
Then...
His gaze returned to me.
"The letters."
I slowly nodded.
For a moment...
My hand refused to move.
Those letters had rested beside my heart ever since leaving Vera.
Varinder had entrusted them to me personally.
Handing them over felt...
Like saying goodbye all over again.
Slowly...
I reached into my storage pouch.
Four letters remained inside.
Two still belonged to children too young to understand them.
The other two...
Had already reached their destination.
I carefully removed them.
One bore the words:
To My Father
The second read:
To My Younger Brother
My hands trembled as I stepped forward.
Lord Cris accepted the first letter with both hands.
His younger son silently accepted the second.
Neither spoke.
Neither moved.
Both simply stared at the handwriting.
Varinder's handwriting.
For several long moments...
It was as though the owner of that handwriting still lived.
As though opening the letter would destroy that final illusion forever.
No one urged them.
No one dared interrupt.
Eventually...
Lord Cris slowly unfolded the paper.
His fingers shook.
Not from age.
From fear.
He looked at the first line.
Then...
Very quietly...
He began to read.
Father,
If you're reading this...
Then it seems I've finally lost my fight against fate.
Lord Cris stopped.
His breathing caught.
The hall remained completely silent.
Slowly...
He continued.
To be honest...
I always hoped this letter would never be opened.
I spent twenty years trying to prove an Oracle wrong.
Turns out...
Fate is every bit as stubborn as you are.
A weak laugh escaped somewhere inside the hall.
It lasted only a heartbeat.
Then silence returned.
Lord Cris's fingers tightened around the letter.
He swallowed.
Then continued reading.
The first thing I want to say...
...is something I should have said twenty years ago.
I'm sorry.