Chapter 164: Heziah's Resolve!
Ms. Caldwell's corpse lay inches away from Tessa's frail form, her breathing shallow, her skin pale. The atmosphere inside the truck was dense, a silence so profound that it felt alive.
Bandel Blue leaned forward, his imposing figure casting shadows in the dim moonlight filtering through the cracked windows. His voice, low and deliberate, resonated in Tessa's ears alone, as though bypassing the physical plane.
"Tessa," he began, his tone uncharacteristically solemn. "Your mother... she's dead. I am many things-a god, thief, even destroyer-but I am no healer. If there is anything you can do, now is the time. Otherwise, she is gone for good."
Tessa's fingers twitched, her eyelids fluttering faintly. Nyala and Nymff exchanged glances, their sharp eyes catching the subtle movements. They edged closer, their breaths held, sensing something extraordinary was about to unfold.
The moon, now at its zenith, bathed the truck in a silvery glow as the clock struck 10 p.m. A concentrated beam of light pierced through the window, illuminating Ms. Caldwell's lifeless body.
The light didn't merely settle-it began to move, swirling around her form like an ethereal current. The air grew tense. Everyone present instinctively knew that Tessa was orchestrating this miraculous phenomenon, though her body remained limp. Ecdy watched, his initial hypothesis solidifying in his mind.
Tessa ended the war, he thought wrongly, with pride, his belief unshaken. The moonlight intensified, enveloping Ms. Caldwell entirely. Her wounds began to close with an almost surgical precision.
Torn flesh knit itself back together, gashes mended seamlessly, and her fractured skull reassembled like a puzzle. The once-cracked ribs fused, and her ligaments stretched and strengthened anew. Even her battered spine realigned, the muscles around it regenerating rapidly.
The gruesome injuries that once marred her body were now mere memories.The crescendo of healing reached its climax as a faint but unmistakable sound filled the truck-the rhythmic thump of a beating heart.
Ms. Caldwell's chest rose slightly, signaling life's return. Her color slowly came back, her breathing steadying. Those witnessing the scene, from Nyala to the newly conscious Abdel, stood in awe.
Exhausted beyond measure, Tessa succumbed fully to unconsciousness. Her body, now weightless, began to levitate above the floor of the interior of the sleek truck. Crackling arcs of energy danced around her, illuminating her like a living storm.
The raw Kaelrian Moon energy she had unleashed left her vulnerable, yet her power still radiated faintly, a testament to her divine lineage. Ecdy, ever the pragmatist, stepped forward, concern lacing his voice. "She used all her energy to save Ms. Caldwell. Will she be alright?"
As everyone watched quietly, Ecdy's question brought about a fork of distraction, the tension in the truck shifted. The unspoken truth was evident in their collective silence: Bandel Blue had saved the camp, not Tessa. It was Bandel's god-like intervention that had brought the battle to an end. Tessa's role, monumental as it was, had been singular--reviving her mother.
Lhize, Lhaze, and a handful of other green Rhemonics, newly revived, entered the truck just in time to witness the aftermath. Their eyes widened at the sight of Tessa floating, her body crackling with residual energy.
Nyala finally broke the silence, her voice steady yet filled with awe. "She will recover. She just needs time." Bandel Blue, standing apart, observed the scene without a word, his face
unreadable. Yet his piercing gaze spoke volumes. The battle was over, but the war-and Tessa's role in it-was far from finished.
Acrid Country—Ocean Roar City—Reek Manor Extension
Six Months Later...
The sprawling halls of Reek Manor resonated with an oppressive silence, broken only by the occasional distant clang of iron on stone. Rhemon sat upon his towering obsidian throne, its intricate carvings seeming to pulse with a sinister life of their own.
His crimson robe pooled around him as he flipped through a stack of reports with cold precision. Each page detailed the activities of his vast network of operatives, yet the most critical mission—the capture of the green Rhemonic—remained unresolved.
Six months had passed since he dispatched Nitche and 4,600 agents of varying ranks. None had returned. Not Nitche, a Level 3 agent renowned for his tactical prowess, nor even the lesser-ranked operatives. Rhemon's face, typically impassive, now bore the faintest hint of irritation.
The silence of failure was deafening, more so than any enemy war cry. He rose, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the chamber. His pacing echoed in the cavernous room, each step deliberate, a predator calculating its next move. Outside the gilded double doors, two Level 3 guards stood at attention, their spears glinting under the low light of flickering torches.
Without breaking stride, Rhemon barked his command. "Summon Heziah Eric. And bring me Selar."
"Yes, Lord Rhemon," came the immediate response. One of the guards departed, leaving his companion behind, eyes ever vigilant.
Minutes later, the doors creaked open. In stepped Heziah Eric, his lean frame taut with barely concealed tension. Beside him walked Selar, the stoic leader of the Level 3 agents under Ashley Duve. Both men bowed deeply, their voices in unison: "Lord Rhemon."
Rhemon's piercing gaze settled on Heziah, his eyes narrowing. "Heziah," he began, his voice like a blade scraping against stone, "how is it that you stand before me? Why did you return, and what did you hope to gain? Did you think to strike me down?"
The air grew heavy with unspoken threats. Rhemon's eyes remained locked on Heziah's face, searching for the slightest betrayal—a flicker of fear, a tremor of guilt. But Heziah, to his credit, met his master's gaze without faltering.
"With all due respect, Lord Rhemon," Heziah began, his voice steady but laced with defiance, "I despise you and everything you stand for. If I had the power to kill you, I would. But I am no fool. Any such attempt would only hasten my death."
Selar bristled, his hand tightening on his weapon, but Heziah pressed on, his tone now more calculated. "I returned because I have no other choice. The country is in ruins. Food is scarce, and desperation has gripped the land. I need work, coin—survival. Whether I hate you or not is irrelevant. What matters is that I can be useful."
The room fell into a tense silence. Rhemon's lips curled into the faintest of smirks, though his eyes remained cold, calculating. Heziah's words were a carefully woven tapestry of truth and deceit, designed to confound even the sharpest of minds.
But before Rhemon could respond, Selar exploded in rage. His hand shot out, delivering a stinging slap across Heziah's face. "You insolent worm! How dare you speak to Lord Rhemon in such a manner?"
Heziah staggered but quickly steadied himself, a defiant smile spreading across his face like a crack in stone. He turned to face Selar, the crimson imprint on his cheek a badge of his unyielding spirit. "You think a slap will break me?" he said, his voice low but charged with raw defiance.
"I've walked through hell and clawed my way back. I've stood at death's door and returned. This?"—he gestured to his reddened cheek—"this is nothing." His words dripped with contempt as he spat at the ground, his eyes blazing with unshakable resolve.