Silence. The evening breeze seemed to stop blowing, halted by a single name just spoken.
"…Clive Zenith."
Barto's face froze. The old man, just pulled back from the gates of death, now looked as if he had seen a ghost. He took a step back, his trembling hand half-raised, as though forming an invisible shield.
"Zenith?" he whispered, his voice hoarse with disbelief. "You mean… the Zenith family of Rose Valley? The missing child? No way…"
"But it's the truth, Mister Barto," Clive replied, his voice steady, though his dark eyes locked onto Barto's, refusing to let him look away.
"But… why? How?" Barto shook his head, trying to process the impossible. "That boy… his wanted posters are everywhere! The entire Nine Districts are hunting for you! The Leiva family offered… they offered two hundred million Ravelinz for your head—dead or alive!" His voice now carried genuine fear. Not fear of Clive, but fear of the storm surrounding that name.
Clive offered a faint smile—not one of joy, but of cold understanding. "I know. Enough money to make good men question their morals."
"This isn't about morals anymore, kid! It's about survival! Going back to Rose Valley is the same as handing your neck to the executioner!" Barto exclaimed, his tone rising in worry.
"Maybe," Clive replied. "But I'd rather face the executioner in my own home than live forever in the shadow of a foreign land." He stared sharply at Barto. "The question is no longer who I am, Mister Barto. The question is, now that you know who I am—what will you do?"
Barto fell silent. He looked down at his own hands, as if still feeling the lingering warmth of the Green Tension that had saved his life. Then he looked back at the young man before him. The same face from the wanted posters, yet with eyes that were different. Not the eyes of a scared child, but of a warrior who had seen hell and returned. A life debt repaid by one who walks among death. To Barto, the choice was clear.
"I… I owe you my life, kid," Barto finally said, his voice regaining strength. "That debt will be paid. You can stay on my wagon. I'll get you to Arion Station. After that… may the gods protect you."
"Thank you, Mister Barto," Clive replied sincerely. "For your kindness."
"That's enough talk. Let's move before night gets any darker!"
After calling his other two men to handle the rest of the wagons, they set off. Barto took the reins of the lead wagon, with Clive seated beside him. Slowly, they departed from Ondula and entered the dark belly of Makaoka Forest.
For the first few hours, only the creaking of wooden wheels and the soft snorts of horses filled the air. The silence between them was heavy, filled with questions unasked.
"Ten years is a long time," Barto finally broke the silence. "A lot has changed."
"I want to hear everything," Clive said.
Barto sighed deeply. He reached into a leather pouch at his side and pulled out a wrapped bundle. Inside were a few old, yellowing newspapers, crumpled and worn. "I keep some of the big news. Sometimes, knowing what's going on out there makes you feel like you still belong to the world."
He handed one page to Clive. It was a three-month-old edition of the Rose Valley Chronicle. On the front page was an image of the once-magnificent Zenith Tower, now dull and neglected. At its peak, the golden 'Z' logo, once shining, was now cracked.
As Clive's fingers touched the image, a jolt of memory struck him.
Flashback—
He was thirteen. The marble floor of Grand Luxor was cold against his cheek. The metallic scent of blood and dust filled his nose. He saw his father, Jonathan, coughing blood, looking at him with fading eyes. "Sierra… get him… out!"
He felt his mother's trembling hand pushing his back. "Remember this day, Clive! Be strong!" A swirling sapphire portal raged before him, pulling him in like a black hole. He screamed, but his voice was swallowed by the roar of the portal. The last thing he saw was his mother collapsing beside his father's body—and the victorious grins of Gustav and Lucas Leiva.
Flashback Ends—
Clive gasped, his hand unconsciously crumpling the newspaper.
"They didn't even care for the building," he muttered, his voice low and dangerous.
"Worse than that, kid," Barto said quietly. "Look at the headline."
Clive forced his eyes to focus. "ZENITH LEGACY ON THE BRINK OF LIQUIDATION, LEIVA INDUSTRIES FILES ACQUISITION BID."
"Liquidation?"
"Yes. Ever since your family… fell, the Leiva family systematically dismantled everything you built. They cancelled contracts, pressured investors, bought up your company's debts. Zenith Corp is now just a hollow shell ready to be devoured. They didn't just kill your family, kid. They're erasing your name from history."
Clive said nothing. He stared into the darkness of the forest, but what he saw was his father's proud face as he inaugurated that tower. This news felt like a cold dagger stabbing into an old wound. This was no longer just about blood. This was about legacy. The anger he had trained to suppress now boiled like magma beneath a calm surface.
"Gustav, the arrogant," Clive muttered. "And Lucas, the cunning. Arrogance is the crack in any armor. I'll use that."
Barto glanced at him, sensing the cold shift in the young man's aura. He decided it best to stay silent.
Suddenly, Barto pulled the reins, bringing the wagon to a stop. The horses whinnied softly.
"You hear that?" Barto whispered.
Clive sharpened his senses. Indeed, among the crickets and the breeze, another sound crept in—hoofbeats. Fast. Irregular. Coming from multiple directions. Getting closer.
From the rear wagon, a panicked voice shouted, "Mister Barto! Someone's out there!"
Then they appeared. From the trees on both sides, a dozen riders burst forth, surrounding the three wagons. They wore cheap leather armor, wielding rusted swords and bows. Their faces hidden in shadow, only their greedy eyes shone under the moonlight.
A burly man with a scar across his cheek stepped forward, laughing coarsely. "Well, well, what do we have here? Three wagons full of fresh vegetables. Unload everything, and maybe we'll let you live to see sunrise!"
Barto's men drew their short swords with trembling hands. "Don't count on it, bandits!"
Clive remained seated, his eyes calmly observing each raider with terrifying composure. This was no longer a drill. This was his first real battle. His first test.
"Don't be stupid, old man!" the scarred leader barked at Barto. "Your life or these rotten vegetables—your choice!"
Clive slowly stood atop the wagon, his gaze fixed on the leader.
"I believe," Clive said, his voice calm yet cutting through the still forest, "it's you who must choose."