Chapter 354: A Father's Quiet Relief
That little "firecracker" Steven had thrown? Yeah, it wasn't something only the Emperor's Blades heard.
The deafening blast, the shockwaves that shook the earth as if an earthquake had rolled across the tundra—the sound carried far and wide, loud enough for the entire borderlands to hear.
Thankfully, very few people knew who had caused it. As for the Emperor's Blades who did know, matters concerning Collapsals were secrets they would never dare spread.
But that didn't mean nobody could guess.
When Steven returned to the infected camp, Yelena—who had been coordinating the evacuation—gave him a strange look. So did Patriot, the guerrilla leader, looming like a mountain of ice and steel.
Because honestly, who else could it have been?
Only Steven ever pulled stunts like that. At this point, they were practically used to it.
"…Why are you looking at me like that? Say, if I said the explosion had nothing to do with me, would you believe it?"
Steven rubbed the back of his head awkwardly, nose twitching as he put on an innocent expression. Unfortunately, his shifty eyes betrayed him—lying was clearly not his strong suit.
"I never asked about that explosion," Yelena said at last, sighing with a helpless smile. She shook her head and dropped the matter.
If Steven didn't want to talk, pressing him was pointless. What mattered was that he had come back safe. That, more than anything, was what eased her heart.
Steven seized the chance to change the subject, glancing around at the busy camp. Infected men, women, and children were hastily gathering their belongings, trudging through snow with the help of snow beasts hauling supplies.
"…What's this? Why are you suddenly migrating in the middle of weather like this?"
His brows furrowed. Relocating an entire settlement in the tundra wasn't a simple task.
"Do you even have to ask?" Yelena's smile thinned bitterly as she directed orders to the guerrillas helping the evacuees. "Those were Emperor's Blades. Even if they weren't after us this time, once they finish their mission, they'll turn their attention elsewhere. If we don't move now, we'll be the ones they come to 'settle accounts' with."
Her voice carried weary resignation.
She didn't want this either. But if they stayed put, Ursus's gaze would fall on them soon enough, and then migration would be the least of their worries.
"…Yeah, that is a problem." Steven nodded slowly. "Guess I almost forgot—you're technically an unrecognized group. To Ursus, you're just… a bunch of bandits, right?"
That was the truth. In Ursus, "Infected" was a label cursed by everyone.
The Emperor's Blades had come to deal with an Collapsal, yes—to protect Ursus's citizens. But whether Infected counted as citizens in their eyes? That was another matter entirely.
And once the Collapsal threat was gone, what remained on the snowy plains as the next "problem"? The guerrillas, of course.
Five Emperor's Blades versus Patriot and Yelena… Steven touched his chin, trying to size up the balance of power.
He had seen Patriot and Yelena fight, but not the true might of the Emperor's Blades. Hard to judge.
Still, judging by the guerrillas' choice to retreat, it was clear they didn't plan on testing that fight either.
"…Need a hand?"
Steven finally asked, watching the tired but determined faces of the infected trudging through snow.
Steven leaned casually at Yelena's side, raising an eyebrow and plastering on the face of a helpful young man.
"I'll accept your hand. As long as it's free. If I have to pay, then forget it."
Yelena almost rolled her eyes.
As if she didn't already know what kind of person he was, expecting Steven to help others out of pure kindness was a fantasy. He lived by the principle of "no profit, no action." For strangers, especially infected he didn't know, he wasn't about to lift a finger. For friends, sure, maybe—out of sentiment. But for everyone else? Yeah, good luck.
"So, are you asking for help or not?" Steven tilted his head.
"If I said yes, would you help?"
"No."
His answer came instantly, not a trace of hesitation.
"Then move out of the way. You're slowing me down. Besides, Father has business with you—and that fire dragon over there seems very unhappy about the retreat. She looks like she's looking for trouble with you, too."
Yelena gave him a sidelong glare, but there was no real blame in it. He owed neither the infected nor the guerrillas anything. Expecting his assistance would've been unreasonable.
Steven followed her slender finger's direction. Sure enough, in the distance, Patriot's towering frame stood opposite Talulah. The "fire dragon" was gesturing sharply, clearly in the middle of a heated debate with him.
"…Fire dragon, huh? And what does that make you? A frost rabbit?" Steven smirked, tossing out another jab before strolling off at his usual unhurried pace.
The two of them really did fit the whole "fire and ice" cliché. But to Steven, their relationship looked less like enemies and more like rivals—antagonists who challenged and pushed each other, a strange, begrudging bond forged by conflict.
He mused on that dynamic as he reached Patriot, slipping quietly into the role of observer.
"Evacuating now means many of the infected won't survive the journey," Talulah argued, her voice strained but steady. "They're already weak, starving. If we force them into this storm, the march will kill them."
"Stay," Patriot's voice rumbled cold and absolute, "and all of them will die."
His tone carried no anger, no heat—just the weight of truth. He knew exactly what her words meant. He knew the march would cost lives. But inaction would cost them everything. He had made this kind of choice too many times before, until the pain of it had dulled into numb acceptance.
The girl before him, though—still young, burning with ideals, standing like a leader despite her age—this was her first time facing such a decision. And she still balked at the cruelty of it.
Of course, it made sense. After all, this kind of decision was something every leader had to face sooner or later.
If Talulah truly wanted to create her so-called Reunion Movement, then this moment—choosing how to deal with her people in crisis—was an inevitable trial.
Steven and Patriot both waited, curious to see what decision she would make.
"…I understand. I'll go and persuade the ones who don't want to leave."
Her quiet words surprised them both.
"…You're not running a fever, are you?"
Steven finally stepped forward, blinking in disbelief.
He'd only meant to spectate, to watch how she handled it, same as Patriot.
He hadn't expected her to concede so quickly.
He reached out and pressed his palm lightly to her forehead. Smooth, soft skin met his touch—no sign of fever at all.
"Don't look at me like I'm reckless all the time," Talulah muttered, brushing his hand away with a sharp glare. "If even the old man says the situation is that dire, then I'd be foolish to argue pointlessly. Better to use that energy convincing the infected to move. That way, at least some losses can be reduced."
Steven smiled faintly. That wasn't just youthful stubbornness speaking anymore—there was calculation there, and restraint. Growth.
She had guessed the reason, of course. That explosion out on the tundra… there was no way it wasn't connected. And her instincts told her that the man standing in front of her, the one she trusted most, was involved somehow. Perhaps even responsible.
But she said nothing.
"That's the spirit," Steven said warmly, patting her shoulder with all the gravity of a doting father. "A leader needs exactly this kind of composure. Like you said—arguments won't solve a thing. Only action will."
He gave her a look so proud and satisfied it was almost paternal.
Ever since she'd declared her intention to found Reunion, she'd been forced to grow. And now, he could see that growth clearly.
"That's why I trust you," he continued, smile deepening. "You've shown me what you're capable of. And as I promised before—if you prove your worth, then I'll give you my support."
Sliding seamlessly into the conversation between her and Patriot, Steven proposed a third solution:
"If I bring out some food and supplies, then persuading the infected to leave shouldn't be much of a problem, right?"
It was the simplest, most brutal answer. No speeches, no arguments, no lofty ideals—just material comfort to grease the wheels.
And the truth was, only someone as outrageously well-stocked as Steven could even afford to say something like that.
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Note: Character Illustration is in this Google Drive:
https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1iuyfwNVFHzIi9H4rWNT_lAm7jTSiah_M
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