“Alert everyone! The Marshal is about to arrive in a few minutes. I expect all of you to give him a warm welcome,” the General shouted, his voice echoing across the courtyard.
The troop of soldiers stood in rigid lines, their faces pale and glistening with sweat. The news of the Marshal’s arrival had sent waves of anxiety through the ranks.
One soldier whispered under his breath to the man beside him, “The Field Marshal… he’s the youngest ever to reach that rank—just 27. I heard from a friend in England that he’s cruel… merciless… ruthless. They say he enjoys watching people squirm.”
The others exchanged uneasy glances, nodding in agreement. Fear hung thick in the air, the kind that creeps into your bones and refuses to leave.
Suddenly, the sharp blast of a trumpet silenced the murmurs. The grand gates of the Presidential Palace creaked open, and a gleaming Rolls-Royce rolled in, its polished surface reflecting the fading sunlight.
The soldiers stood straighter, their boots clicking together as they saluted in unison. A young man stepped out of the car. He was tall and sharp-featured, his uniform pristine, his piercing eyes scanning the crowd like a predator surveying its prey.
The General strode forward, saluting him with precision. “Welcome, Sir. Your schedule has been handed over to your secretary. The troop will meet you in the morning,” the General said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air.
“You’re dismissed,” the Marshal replied curtly, his voice low and cold. He didn’t wait for a response and headed toward his quarters.
Once inside, he moved to the window and gazed out at the vast landscape of Hodu. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the land in fiery hues, but the beauty of it all seemed lost on him.
The days that followed were nothing short of chaos.
Five generals were dismissed for corruption. Two others were sent to harsh, drought-stricken provinces as punishment. Soldiers endured grueling training sessions that ignored their limits.
New laws were announced, igniting fury across the region. Civil liberties—freedom of speech, press, and assembly—were suspended. Rebels, political leaders, and tribes were stripped of their rights. Tribespeople were banned from hunting and accessing natural resources. Anyone suspected of disloyalty could be arrested without trial.
Fear gripped the land like an iron fist. People whispered of rebellion, but none dared speak too loudly.
Meanwhile, the man behind this wave of terror sat leisurely on his balcony, sipping tea as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Beside him stood his secretary, Alex, reading from a neatly organized schedule.
“…A meeting with the merchant organization at noon, followed by a conference with the governors of five provinces in the evening,” Alex reported, his voice steady. “Lastly, the local zamindars and nawabs have invited you to Sama Forest for a hunting expedition. They wish to bid you farewell before your departure.”
Dylan set his teacup down and leaned back in his chair. “Tell them I’ll be there,” he said, his tone as casual as if he were accepting an invitation to a garden party.
Alex bowed slightly and exited, leaving Dylan alone once again.
The Marshal’s gaze drifted toward the distant forests, their dark silhouettes merging with the night sky. Sama Forest... it seemed like a simple hunting trip. But Dylan had a sense for trouble, and the silence of the trees whispered that something was waiting.
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