Chapter 67: The Silent Rain
Year 0003, IV-VII Month: The Imperium
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Awful Weather
Another week had passed in oppressive silence, the village's daily work slowed to a crawl by the relentless heat that pressed down upon them like a suffocating blanket. The very air seemed to shimmer with malevolent intensity, forcing the villagers to adapt their routines in ways they had never imagined. Their training regimes had been reversed, now conducted during the cooler hours of dawn and dusk when the sun's tyrannical glare offered some mercy.
The garden fields required constant attention, each plant demanding water like a desperate supplicant. The villagers took turns hauling buckets from the well, their clothes clinging to their bodies with perspiration as they fought to keep their crops from withering under the summer's merciless assault. Every green shoot represented hope for the future, and they would not let the heat claim what they had worked so hard to cultivate.
The matter of their captive weighed heavily on everyone's minds like a storm cloud that refused to break. The villagers continued their shifts guarding Sandeval, though none knew what ultimate fate awaited him. They couldn't simply pass a death sentence—such finality required certainty, and certainty was a luxury they didn't possess. Though he had been an accomplice to terrible deeds, Sandeval appeared genuinely remorseful, accepting responsibility for his past actions with a humility that complicated their judgment.
But forgiveness was not a gift to be given lightly, especially not by their newest villagers who bore invisible scars from experiences they could barely speak of. The weight of indirect suffering hung in the air between them all, unspoken but ever-present, like the oppressive heat that made every breath feel labored.
Today, the sky wore a different expression entirely. The bright, glaring malevolence of the sun had vanished, replaced by an ominous canopy of gray clouds that seemed to press down upon the earth with their own heavy burden. The air remained hot and humid, but now it carried the electric tension of impending change.
It had been far too long since rain had blessed their parched land. Every living thing beneath those brooding skies yearned for water—the crops in their carefully tended fields and the people themselves who felt the drought in their very bones.
The first drops of rain began to fall like tears from heaven itself, as if some celestial valve had finally burst under unbearable pressure. The water poured down with sudden intensity, transforming from gentle drops to a torrential downpour that seemed to carry all the pent-up anguish of the sky. It was as though the heavens had been holding back their grief for far too long, and now they wept with the force of a broken dam releasing years of accumulated sorrow.
The earth received this deluge like a lover embracing their long-lost beloved, drinking deeply and desperately. The dry soil darkened instantly, releasing that distinctive petrichor—the sweet, earthy scent of rain meeting thirsty ground. The villagers retreated indoors, gathering at windows to watch nature's dramatic performance unfold before them.
Inside their homes, Theresa worked alongside Adarna and Hiraya, the two newest additions to their community. Together, they prepared a hearty soup that would warm both body and spirit on this unexpectedly cool day. The kitchen filled with aromatic steam that contrasted sharply with the gray world visible through rain-streaked windows. For these moments, at least, the simple act of cooking together provided a refuge from the heavier concerns that plagued their thoughts.
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The Weight of our Decision
Meanwhile, deep in the forest several kilometers away, Christopher, Betty, and Erik maintained their vigil over their controversial prisoner. The rain drummed against the caverns roof, creating a rhythmic soundtrack to their uncomfortable duty. Sandeval's fate remained suspended in uncertainty, a decision that grew more complex with each passing day.
Jonathan's position had been clear from the beginning—swift justice delivered without hesitation. But August, despite his youth, had presented arguments that carried unexpected wisdom and gave even Jonathan pause to reconsider.
"I understand your frustrations, Uncle," August had said, his childish voice carrying a gravity that seemed to belong to someone far older. "But we barely know this man. We haven't walked in his shoes or witnessed the life he's lived. If I'm wrong about him—if he proves to be the monster you believe him to be—then I will personally execute him myself. But if any single hostile action is directed toward anyone or anything that might harm our peace here..." The boy's tone had carried a glint of something dark, something that made Jonathan realize that August understood the weight of leadership in ways that perhaps even Jonathan himself was still learning.
Jonathan could only nod, though his frustration remained. "I hope you're right, and that his remorse is genuine. But the expressions I see on those girls' faces aren't helping his case. Whether he actively participated in the horrors inflicted upon slaves, or merely enabled them through his involvement... God, whatever terrible things they do to those poor souls." His voice trailed off, unable to voice the full extent of his fears.
The rescued slaves had begun to open up to their liberators, tentatively sharing fragments of their stories and slowly learning to trust again. But Sandeval's presence had disrupted that fragile progress. The girls, though outwardly maintaining their composure, clearly struggled with deeper traumas that his very existence seemed to reawaken. Even Donna, who had maintained a façade of toughness throughout their ordeal, was beginning to show cracks in her emotional armor.
Andy had chosen a different path through his trauma. Though he too had suffered during their captivity, he seemed less broken than the others. Yet he had grown increasingly introspective, wrestling with thoughts and questions that only he could answer. The rain seemed to mirror his contemplative mood, each drop carrying its own weight of unspoken reflection.
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The Silent Raindrops
In a distant land, separated by hundreds of miles and worlds of experience, a man stood before an expansive window watching those same silent raindrops trace their paths down the glass. Smoke curled upward from the cigarette pressed between his lips, dissipating into the refined air of what was clearly an office space designed to impress and intimidate. An expensive cabinet crafted from the finest wood and glass dominated one wall, its centerpiece an ornate clock whose steady ticking provided the only sound in the otherwise silent room.
This man commanded the infamous Corvus Underworld Group with an iron fist wrapped in a velvet glove of respectability.
Several days prior, a report had reached his hands—news that one of their slave runs had been ambushed months ago in the outskirts of one of the famed forests. They had lost their entire inventory of human merchandise, goods destined for a wealthy buyer in the Central North of the continent. The financial loss was significant, but the blow to their reputation was potentially catastrophic.
He had read the letter's contents without visible reaction, his face a mask of controlled neutrality that revealed nothing of the calculations occurring behind his cold eyes. Only when he was certain of his response did he finally break his silence.
The large hall filled with armed men snapped to attention as their leader's voice cut through the silence. A servant approached with careful, measured steps, knowing that the wrong word or gesture could prove fatal.
"This Sandeval," the leader began, his voice carrying the quiet menace of a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. "Do we know his current location? Does he have a family?"
The servant flinched almost imperceptibly, recognizing the deadly implications behind such questions. "No, Boss. He kept everything minimal during his thirty years of service. He barely spent the money we paid him, and what he earned seems to be hidden somewhere only he knows. We've already searched his previous lodging—he owned nothing permanent. Everything was rental or consumable."
The leader sipped his wine with deliberate slowness, each moment of silence stretching like a taut wire ready to snap. "Then where was his last known location?"
"Sir, this report came from one of our outposts in the Central Continent. Branch manager Rommel sent it from the village of Kirka, where he's currently serving as temporary lord."
Several minutes passed in contemplative silence before the leader spoke again. "Send a message to Rommel. Tell him to prepare for a visit. And summon the hounds—tell them I have work for them."
The servant bowed deeply and departed, leaving the leader alone with his thoughts and his wine. Though his expression remained impassive, beneath that controlled exterior, rage simmered like molten metal waiting to be forged into instruments of vengeance.
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The Devil's Instrument
Days passed before two of Corvus's most specialized operatives arrived at the mansion. These were the Bloodhounds—men and women trained in the art of human tracking, individuals who never failed to locate their quarry. Unlike other members of the organization, they possessed specialized authority to make field decisions about how to handle any situation they encountered.
What made the Bloodhounds truly terrifying was their ability to blend seamlessly into normal society. They didn't live among the criminal organization but maintained ordinary lives as shopkeepers, farmers, artisans, and other common professions. They might be neighbors you knew personally, people you interacted with daily and trusted implicitly. Only when summoned did they shed their mundane personas and revert to their true nature—psychopathic predators with an insatiable thirst for blood and violence.
The two who now knelt before their master appeared to be nothing more than a frail old man and a maternal woman who might have three children waiting at home. But when they activated their true selves, they became something far more sinister—the devil's own instruments of retribution.
"You summoned us, Boss," the elderly man spoke, his voice carrying none of the weakness his appearance suggested. "Who requires our attention?"
"I want you to track down a man named Cornick Sandeval. I want him brought to my office as quickly as possible. He's a former employee of ours—recently retired, of course." The slight emphasis on 'former' and the barely perceptible malice in the leader's tone made both operatives understand the true nature of their mission.
They recognized their master's mood, having witnessed his reactions to catastrophic failures before. This Sandeval must have transgressed gravely to provoke such barely contained fury.
"By your will!" they responded in unison, accepting their payment and the detailed information about their target.
As quickly as they had transformed into instruments of death, they now reverted to their civilian personas. The old man resumed his shuffling gait and bent posture, while the woman once again became a mother who might have been shopping at the market. Life continued normally in the city that housed the Zargos Mercantile headquarters, where the wealthy and charitable philanthropist Mr. Bo Banal—known to the criminal underworld as the leader of Corvus—maintained his respectable facade.
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Silence in the Rain
The rain continued its relentless assault for days, as if the world itself had been submerged in an ocean of misery. The villagers had settled into the rhythm of the storm, expecting nothing more than the continuation of their soggy routine.
But somewhere in that deceptive silence, a hundred kilometers away, the Bloodhounds had arrived in the Central Continent. They moved with purpose through the rain-soaked landscape, their mission clear and their methods proven. Soon they would visit the branch manager and begin their systematic hunt for Cornick Sandeval, wherever he might be hiding.
The dreadful silence that accompanied the rain now carried an ominous weight, as if the very air trembled with approaching doom. Storm clouds gathered not just in the sky but in the threads of fate that connected distant places and disparate lives.
What choice would the villagers ultimately make when these forces of retribution arrived at their doorstep? Would they stand against the invaders who came seeking for their former employee? Or would they choose to protect not only Sandeval but also the former slaves whose freedom had been purchased with so much blood and sacrifice?
In the gentle patter of raindrops against windows and rooftops, destiny whispered its approaching footsteps, and the silence between each drop seemed to echo with the weight of decisions yet to be made.