Return of the General's Daughter
Chapter 316: The Man Behind the Mask

Chapter 316: The Man Behind the Mask

Beyond the Capital Walls — The Ruins of the Ancient Tower

In a blink, a sword was taken off its scabbard and flashed. The masked man pivoted, drawing his blade with a silent grace honed by years of practice in the shadows. His cloak swirled like smoke around him, eyes cold beneath the mask.

A figure stepped from the underbrush and dropped to one knee and bowed.

"It’s me, my Prince," said a deep voice — steady, but reverent.

The man knelt low, clad in a heavy black cloak, the hood hiding most of his rugged face. His build was formidable, a tower of muscle wrapped in the darkness of the night.

The masked man did not move for a breath. Then, slowly, he lowered his weapon and slid it back into its sheath.

"You startled me, Molavi. You can rise," he said quietly, his voice gravelled with fatigue and something deeper—sorrow. And how many times have I told you that I am no prince; I am your captain" He said in a firm tone.

Molavi looked up, voice faltering. "My Prince... Kasmeri, the blood that runs in your veins is royal blood. You are the king’s firstborn. Nothing can change that. The king can deny that a thousand time, but the truth remains."

A bitter silence passed. The wind sighed through the ruins.

"Accompany me to that place. I want to spend the rest of the night there." Kasmeri sighed. "The day after tomorrow, we enter the capital." He said, his voice was tinged with desolation.

The man called Molavi had a strong physique and stood at 1.8 meters, while the masked man was a little taller than him.

They mounted their steeds, and with the moon and the stars guiding them, they let the horses trod toward a small hill to the west.

Thirty minutes later, they arrived beneath the ancient banyan tree. It was monstrous — a living cathedral. Ten men would be needed to encircle its gnarled trunk, and its aerial roots had grown wild, tangling into false trunks like petrified sentries. Its branches reached outward like the arms of gods, cloaking the earth in a twilight gloom.

Here, beneath its sacred canopy, her ashes lay.

Kasmeri dismounted and stood still, eyes locked on a place where the roots curled around a mossy rise in the soil.

It was where his mother was buried, and tonight was her death anniversary. The masked man stood there unmoving, gazing at a spot where the roots of the tree protruded like an open arm cradling something precious.

Molavi kept his distance, standing watch like a silent statue. He knew this ritual. Fifteen years now, and every year the same — a night spent in silence, in mourning, in rage. A prince born in exile, bound to grief like a chain around his neck.

Kasmeri had never known his father — the man who would become the king of Northem. His mother, a palace maid with eyes like those of a doe, had been discarded like refuse after that one night. When she revealed her pregnancy, the crown prince spat in her face and called her a liar. She was chased out of the palace and was told to be grateful because she kept her life.

The crown prince was adamant in denying that he slept with her, and she was slandering him.

It broke his mother’s heart that she decided to leave Savadra and settle at Cavinta, where she met and married a merchant.

While his stepfather was not unkind to him, he was also cold and indifferent, treating him like air.

When he was ten, a tragedy struck in the middle of the night, their house was burned. With it were his mother, his stepfather, and his half-sister, who were blissfully sleeping at their room. He barely escaped with his life, but a scar was left on his face, and he had worn a mask since then.

It was a stranger who pulled him from the ashes — his father’s cousin. And with him came the truth.

He said that the crown prince ordered the arson because he did not want to leave any loose ends. He did not want his bastard child to haunt him someday when he became king.

From that day forward, vengeance became his breath. His blood. His destiny.

He took his stepfather’s name, inherited his trade, and by fifteen he had carved out a reputation — Kasmer Roce, the rising merchant of Cavinta. But beneath the silks and silver, a storm brewed.

Three years ago, he vanished. He left behind a decoy to run the merchant’s name while he vanished into the underworld. He gathered the broken, the betrayed, the abandoned, the orphans of tyranny, survivors of fire.

The people who were like him, who had been wronged and were thirsty for revenge. These were souls who had tasted injustice, their hearts simmering with a potent thirst for vengeance, ready to rise up and reclaim what had been taken from them.

And thus, The Vengefuls were born — blades sharpened by hatred, hearts forged in loss. Their mission was to bring justice to those who were wronged and to punish the sinners.

They robbed the wealthy and shared the spoils with the poor and needy. They were whispers in the night, shadows behind every noble’s smile. One by one, they dismantled the corrupt — patiently, precisely. They killed without mercy. They kidnapped their daughters and demanded ransom.

The masked man kneeled on one knee and bowed solemnly. "Mother, soon, he will pay for the humiliation and injustice you suffered."

The masked man placed his cloak on the ground, lay down and closed his eyes. Molavi sa beside him and leaned on the tree to sleep.

Yes, they needed rest.

The daybreak unfolded to the melodious symphony of birds singing joyfully from their leafy perches high in the branches of the ancient tree. Their vibrant feathers shimmered in the soft light of dawn, adding splashes of color to the tranquil scene as the sun began to cast golden rays across the landscape.

Kasmeri rose from the ground, and now, as he stood beneath the banyan’s ghostly canopy, the wind carried whispers of what was to come.

"The day after tomorrow," he said, voice quiet but electric, "we enter the capital."

Molavi bowed his head.

The past would no longer remain buried.

Vengeance was coming — not as a whisper.

But as a reckoning.

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