Fallen General's Omega (BL)
Chapter 147: Traces

Chapter 147: Traces

I push myself to my feet, cradling Grape against my chest, and make my way back toward the village, determination blazing through me like wildfire. My mind races with possibilities and plans, each more desperate than the last, but I know one thing for certain: we need answers, and we need them now.

As I enter the village clearing, I spot Roman in the middle of an interrogation, politely questioning an elderly couple. His approach has clearly yielded nothing useful. It’s time to change tactics.

"Roman, that’s enough," I call out, my voice hard and commanding. "Bring the village head. We’re done playing nice."

Roman’s demeanor shifts instantly. The polite, diplomatic front he’d been wearing vanishes, replaced by a cold, ruthless expression. He nods curtly, and within moments, an old man is dragged forward and placed in front of me. I don’t like treating elders especially the weak this way; it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. But if it gets us the information we need, I’m willing to make an exception.

Our forceful actions have drawn a crowd. The villagers gather, wide-eyed and fearful, whispering anxiously among themselves. My men, always eager to demonstrate their loyalty and power, unsheath their swords in a synchronized motion. It’s an unnecessary display, more theater than anything, but it has the desired effect. Gasps ripple through the crowd, and terror blooms on their faces.

Kindness and diplomacy didn’t work, but fear will. It always does.

The village head’s fear is palpable as he meets my gaze. His eyes flicker with desperation and determination, but I press on, refusing to relent.

"You see, we’ve spent all morning asking, and none of you claim to remember anything," I say, my voice edged with barely restrained frustration. I crouch down to his level, making sure he can see the fury simmering in my eyes.

"I’m not a fucking idiot, alright? The beautiful man you all must have seen two years ago—the one we’re asking about? That’s my omega. My husband. And I’m running out of patience."

The village head’s eyes widen slightly, but he grits his teeth, his voice defiant. "Go on then—kill me!" he spits, his bravado hanging by a thin thread. I scoff and rise to my feet, turning my attention to the gathered crowd. They’re hanging onto every word, fear etched into their faces.

"I’m sure you all heard me," I announce, my voice booming. "I’m looking for my omega, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that he was here. You think I’m going to kill you if you keep lying to me?" I pause, allowing the silence to deepen, my lips curving into a cold smile. "No, no, I’m far more creative than that. See those fields outside your village? I wonder how long you’d last if they went up in flames. Imagine winter coming without a single grain left to harvest. Imagine starving this winter."

Gasps echo throughout the crowd, and I let the threat linger, savoring the shift in the villagers’ expressions—from defiance to pure terror.

"Or perhaps," I continue, "I’ll get my hands on a certain powder, one that can make your precious soil barren for years. You’ll be fighting to survive long after I’m gone."

The silence that follows is suffocating. No one dares to speak, and my patience is razor-thin. "Alright then," I sigh, signaling Roman. "It’s been decided."

Roman steps forward, and the villagers recoil, some clutching one another in horror. Just as Roman is about to proceed, a voice cuts through the crowd.

"Wait!" A desperate, terrified cry. I whip my head around, and a teenage girl emerges from the mass of people, trembling but resolute.

Tears glisten in her eyes as she steps forward, her hands trembling. "I’ll tell you," she pleads, her voice cracking. "Please, don’t hurt us. Please."

My heart leaps with a mix of hope and relief, but I keep my expression neutral, a harsh facade I’ve perfected over the years. Finally, a lead. Finally, a chance.

*

"Roman, give me some space," I order, my voice tight with the strain of holding back my emotions. Roman nods, understanding the unspoken plea, and silently steps outside, closing the door behind him. The soft creak of the old door echoes in the small, nearly suffocating space, and for the first time in ages, I let the mask slip.

I stand in the center of the shack—this crumbling excuse for a home—and the realization hits me like a physical blow. My knees nearly buckle under the weight of it. Noelle was here. He lived in this tiny, oppressive room for an entire year, enduring what must have been an existence full of hardship and loneliness. My heart feels like it’s cracking, each fracture threatening to dissolve me into nothing.

I take a shaky step forward, my boots kicking up dust from the splintered wooden floor. My gaze roams over the obvious repairs made to the shack, signs of someone desperately trying to make the unlivable habitable. Ben, I think, with a pang of gratitude and guilt. He must have tried to make this place a little more bearable for Noelle.

There’s only a singular mat lying in one corner of the room, its fabric worn thin from use. My eyes catch a small grey cotton bag tucked in the shadows. Kneeling down, I open it, my hands trembling as I sift through its contents. Old, worn shirts spill out, and I spot a pastel-colored designer shirt, one that unmistakably belonged to Noelle. I lift it to my face, inhaling deeply. There’s barely a trace of his pheromones left, the familiar scent faded with time and absence, but for a moment, I let myself believe that I can feel him. That he’s close, just out of reach.

Setting the shirt aside carefully, like a precious relic, I continue to search. My fingers brush against something hard and delicate—a hairpiece, hidden at the bottom of the bag. I pull it out, recognizing it instantly. It’s elegant, expensive, and unmistakably the one Noelle treasured, claiming it was a gift from his mother. The fact that he had hidden it so well... it tells me everything.

I slip the hairpiece into my pocket, the small item suddenly feeling like a lifeline, a tangible piece of him I can hold onto. I keep looking, my eyes roaming the space as though I could conjure his spirit from the air, willing the walls to whisper back to me stories of the nights he spent here. Did he think of me, his alpha, as he lay on that thin mat under the stars

he loved so dearly? Was he safe? Was he okay?

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