The Blessing Hidden in Blood
One whole gang filled the building.
The moment Victor entered, the atmosphere shifted.
Men who ruled alleys, extorted merchants, spilled blood without blinking—stood straighter.
Watched.
Waited.
The hideout of the Ox King was not some crude den of brigands as Clara once imagined.
It was a war chamber.
A wide central room lit by hanging oil lamps. Smoke curled upward in lazy coils. Maps, weapons, and ledgers lay scattered over side tables. Hardened men lined the walls in silence.
And at the center—
a great dark chair carved from old timber sat like a throne.
Victor walked to it without hesitation and sat.
Not arrogantly.
Naturally.
As though he had always belonged there.
One leg crossed over the other.
Golden eyes calm.
Sharp features touched by faint amusement.
Like a monarch entertaining a petition.
Videl stood beside him to his right, blue sapphire eyes bright with quiet devotion.
