Fallen General's Omega (BL)
Chapter 43: Back from the dead

Chapter 43: Back from the dead

Roman watched closely as his longtime comrade’s friendly demeanor evaporated, replaced by something far more imposing and familiar. Thorne’s expression shifted—where once there was warmth, now there was only a blank, impassive mask. His eyes, once alive with casual ease, had hardened into chips of ice, glinting with a cold, calculating edge. Every trace of the man Roman had met a few days ago is gone and buried beneath a ruthless exterior that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

The change was palpable, like the air had been sucked out of the room. A suffocating weight settled over the space, and Roman could feel the pressure pushing down on him, making it hard to breathe. The temperature seemed to drop as Thorne’s aura shifted from a casual, approachable energy to something much darker, much heavier. This was the Thorne Roman had come to know over the years—the commander who could silence a room with a single look, whose mere presence could make seasoned soldiers second-guess their every move.

Thorne didn’t need to speak to assert his dominance. It radiated from him in waves, an invisible force that pressed against everything around him. His posture remained deceptively relaxed, but Roman knew better. Beneath that calm exterior was a man capable of extreme violence, a predator lying in wait. It was the same aura that had led Thorne to countless victories on the battlefield—a mix of lethal precision and unyielding strength.

The atmosphere around Thorne was stifling now, oppressive in its intensity. Roman felt as though he was standing in the eye of a storm, waiting for the inevitable devastation to follow. The weight of Thorne’s gaze, though currently focused on nothing in particular, was enough to make anyone feel small, insignificant. It was as if Thorne could see through people, stripping away their facades and exposing their weaknesses with terrifying clarity.

This was the Thorne Roman knew best—the commander whose cold, calculated mind had won wars and crushed enemies. The man whose presence could instill fear with a glance, whose very aura was a weapon as sharp and deadly as any blade.

*

As the carriage rolls up to the villa, Thorne steps out, his cloak billowing dramatically behind him. The setting sun casts an ominous glow, amplifying the air of expectation. Roman stays behind in the carriage, preparing to gather the remaining men and change into something more suitable.

Roman arrives at the villa with a trio in tow. The group includes a massive, bald man whose gory scar and imposing physique resemble a fierce, untamed beast. He grumbles loudly, his displeasure evident as he surveys the surroundings.

"Roman, what is this about?" the man growls, his voice as rough as gravel.

Roman, with a nonchalant demeanor, merely rolls his eyes in response. Behind the large man are two more figures: a striking woman whose commanding presence demands attention, and a delicate-looking man with dark circles under his eyes. The stark contrast between their appearances and the grumbling man’s brutishness adds to the tension.

The bald man continues to mutter under his breath, his frustration palpable. "You guys are so boring. Only Victor keeps me company," he complains, clearly annoyed by the lack of excitement.

Roman remains unfazed by the man’s complaints, his calm exterior masking the inner workings of their mission. He guides the group through the villa’s opulent corridors, each step echoing with purpose.

*

Roman leads the group through the villa’s grand hallways, their polished decor a stark contrast to the gravity of their mission. The opulence of the villa is overshadowed by the oppressive atmosphere surrounding their task. They reach a room that resembles a formal office more than a personal space, its heavy ambiance adding to the sense of foreboding.

Upon entering, they find the room dominated by a solitary figure shrouded in a large, dark cloak. The setting sun outside casts long, eerie shadows that only heighten the imposing presence of the figure, who stands with his back to the window. The temperature in the room seems to plummet, an icy chill seeping into every corner, intensifying the already tense atmosphere.

Without a word, the four individuals—Roman, the scarred giant, the commanding woman, and the exhausted-looking man—fall to their knees on the cold marble floor. Their voices merge into a somber, almost reverent chorus as they intone, "We greet the Crimson General."

At their words, the figure slowly turns from the window, revealing an imposing presence draped entirely in black. His face is a mask of unyielding steel, devoid of any visible emotion. His movements are deliberate and precise as he strides to the grand chair behind an imposing desk, the sound of his polished knee-high boots resonating with each step, accompanied by the authoritative tap of his ornate cane.

As he takes his seat, the air becomes even denser with anticipation and respect. The four remain on their knees, their heads bowed, the silence stretching taut with a palpable intensity that presses down on them. The room’s heavy atmosphere is almost suffocating, underscoring the gravity of the Crimson General’s presence.

"Get up," he commands, his voice a chilling whisper that carries the weight of his authority.

With synchronized precision, the four figures—Roman, the scarred giant, the commanding woman, and the exhausted-looking man—rise from their kneeling positions. Their movements are fluid yet respectful, a testament to their training and discipline.

As they stand, the Crimson General leans back into his grand chair, its dark, imposing form accentuating his own formidable presence. His cold blue eyes, piercing through the dim light, sweep over each of them with a scrutinizing gaze.

***

In a dimly lit office within the heart of the capital, a tense meeting unfolds. The room is crowded with a group of five or six individuals, their faces a mix of anticipation and concern. At the center of the table sits a man, his gaze fixed on a small flame dancing atop a candle. With deliberate calm, he watches as he incinerates a letter, the paper curling and blackening into ash.

"It appears the other four are making a move," he says, his voice steady and measured. "Roman was seen gathering his three comrades earlier today. It seems they plan to orchestrate a break for their ally."

A man among the group, whose features bear a striking resemblance to Thorne’s, scoffs dismissively. "Probably just a desperate last attempt. What could they possibly achieve?"

The central figure’s eyes narrow slightly, his expression turning icy. "This is the difference between you and your brother," he retorts. "You allow overconfidence to cloud your judgment."

The man who resembles Thorne’s brother shifts uncomfortably, his face contorting into a scowl. The tension in the room escalates palpably.

"Call the judge," the central figure commands with a steely tone. "We’ll move the execution up to today. After all, dead men tell no tales."

His golden eyes gleam with a ruthless light, reflecting the cold, calculated resolve that drives his decision. The gravity of his words hangs in the air, underscoring the severity of their next actions. The room, once bustling with activity, falls into a heavy silence as the implications of the order settle in.

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