As the patriarch walked forward, two imposing men followed closely behind him. Their presence alone was enough to send chills down anyone's spine. They were not just bodyguards—they were warriors of unmatched strength, standing as silent sentinels behind the leader of the Mo Clan.
Behind them, a grand cart rolled in, bearing the Mo Sect's flag. The banner soared high in the sky, fluttering in the wind like a proud testament to the clan's strength. Yet, what followed the cart painted a different picture.
A long procession of additional carts trailed behind, carrying weapons, supplies, and, most grimly, the injured and the fallen. The cheers that had erupted at the patriarch's return slowly died down as people took in the scene before them.
Soldiers limped forward, some missing a leg, an arm, or even an eye. Their faces were battle-worn, their bodies bearing the heavy scars of war. Among them were those who remained unscathed, fortunate enough to have survived the battlefield without injury. But the sight of the dead—pale, lifeless bodies stacked within the carts—was an undeniable reminder of war's true cost.
Families who had been eagerly awaiting the return of their loved ones searched desperately through the crowd, hoping to find familiar faces. Some were fortunate, breaking into relieved smiles as they embraced their kin. Others were not as lucky. Cries of anguish pierced the air as wives, mothers, and children collapsed to their knees, grieving over the lifeless bodies of their loved ones. The weight of reality sank into everyone's hearts. The festive atmosphere had vanished, replaced by silence and sorrow.
Jin Mo observed the scene with a heavy heart. He had seen this before—had lived through it, had fought wars where victory came at the price of his comrades' lives. He knew that no matter how grand the triumph, war always left its scars. Memories of his past life flashed before him: the battles, the betrayals, the faces of those who had fought beside him, only to turn their swords against him in the end. His fists clenched at the thought.
Then, the deep and commanding voice of the patriarch rang out, shattering the heavy silence.
"We have lost those dear to us… BUT WE HAVE WON THE WAR!" Kian Mo's voice carried through the air, shaking the hearts of everyone present.
The weight of his words settled upon the sect members. The loss was undeniable, but so was the victory. Their sacrifices had not been in vain.
"Guards! Take the injured to the infirmary and see that the fallen are laid to rest with honour."
At his command, the guards swiftly moved forward, lifting the bodies of the deceased with solemn respect. Families clung to their loved ones one last time before the bodies were carefully taken away toward the cemetery.
Everyone gathered at the burial site, where the fallen would be given their final rites. The patriarch himself stepped forward, bowing deeply before the fallen warriors.
"Your sacrifice will never be forgotten," he declared. "You fought bravely, and because of you, our people live on. The Mo Clan thanks you for your service."
As the families wept, Kian Mo turned to his attendants.
"Make sure the families of the fallen are compensated. Their loved ones died protecting us—they shall not be left to suffer alone."
A murmur of approval spread through the crowd. Though their hearts still ached, there was some comfort in knowing their sacrifices were recognised.
Jin Mo stood quietly, watching his father. This man was more than just a warrior—he was a leader, a king in his own right. And in that moment, Jin Mo realised just how much more he had to grow before he could stand at such a height.
The flames of determination ignited within him. He would become stronger—not just for himself, but for those who had fallen, and for those who still lived.