Return of the General's Daughter
Chapter 162: The Enraged Grandfather

Chapter 162: The Enraged Grandfather

Fists hurtled toward her from every direction—wild, desperate, relentless. But Lara was a blur of movement, gliding between the blows with a grace that defied belief. Her footwork was poetry in motion, a hypnotic display of balance and agility, each step landing with precision and purpose.

To her attackers, she moved like a phantom, untouchable and elusive. Punches whistled past her ears, slicing through the air where she had stood a heartbeat before. It was as if time itself bent to her rhythm, allowing her to weave through the chaos with serene fluidity, a masterful dance amid madness.

Every movement she made was calculated, elegant—an artist crafting a deadly ballet on the battlefield. The mercenaries threw everything they had at her, only to strike empty air and each other. Their confusion deepened with every miss, frustration gnawing at the edges of their control.

Lara smirked. "Ha. And here I was, worried that fatigue might slow me down and their punches would heat me. I am worried for nothing."

But even brilliance has blind spots.

Someone grabbed her, yanking her off balance. Then her back slammed against a tree, and another layer of rope was put on her. They tied her up at a tree.

Lara: "..."

"Now," sneered one of the injured mercenaries, stepping forward with blood trickling down his cheek, "let me see if you can still dodge this."

He cocked his arm back. The punch coming toward her was brutal, raw with fury. It was aimed to disfigure, to break her spirit and her face in one crushing blow.

But it never landed.

A blur of white descended from the tree branch above. A flash of motion so fast it was barely seen, only felt. A gust of wind. A whisper of movement.

In less than ten seconds, the entire battlefield shifted.

Mercenaries and bandits crumpled like dominoes—some screaming, some groaning, some simply falling limp where they stood. A few writhed on the ground, clutching fresh wounds with horror in their eyes. Others lay still, their eyes vacant, their breath shallow. The sounds of battle gave way to eerie silence. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, unwilling to disturb the carnage.

Amid the stunned quiet, Lara was already on her feet, the ropes around her arms undone—whether by skill or instinct, no one could say. She joined the figure in white, standing side by side with the man who had turned the tide in an instant.

Her master. Jethru.

Now, only one figure remained standing.

The leader of the bandits.

Jethru stepped forward slowly, his white hair gleaming like frost in the waning light. His eyes were unreadable—calm, almost gentle in appearance. But Lara knew better. The calmer Jethru was, the more dangerous he became. Her skin prickled, a shiver tracing her spine as the stillness between them stretched taut.

"Now that you’re the only one left," Jethru said, his voice soft—almost soothing. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

His tone didn’t rise, didn’t waver. It carried no rage, only a stillness that echoed louder than any scream. And yet, that quiet command sent tremors through the bandit leader.

Lara, watching from a few feet away, swallowed hard. A single thought flashed through her mind: Who told them to mess with his precious granddaughter?

The bandit leader clenched his jaw, trying to keep the fear off his face, but it was too late. His hands trembled. His gaze flicked toward the unconscious bodies of his men, then back to the white-haired man whose presence loomed like death itself.

He thought that the young man was formidable. Indeed, he was. But the man with the white hair was ... He could not describe the speed with which he moved. All he knew was that he effortlessly took all his remaining men, even the mercenaries.

He regretted everything.

If only he hadn’t stopped. If only he hadn’t been tempted by the sight of a seemingly unguarded carriage and a beautiful little girl playing alone. He just wanted a bit of extra money. Now? Now he was standing at the edge of his grave, with one foot already dangling in.

Jethru’s next words were ice.

"Tell me. What did you plan to do with my granddaughter... and my niece?"

The air dropped ten degrees. The leader flinched involuntarily.

Niece? His eyes widened. That young man... was a girl?

Before he could respond, a boot slammed into his gut. The force sent him staggering backward, doubling over as he gasped for breath.

"I... We..." he stammered, trying to recover, to say anything that might save him.

Jethru said nothing at first. He only bent down, picked up Lara’s discarded knife from the ground, and began to twirl it with lazy precision—like a man toying with time before delivering judgment.

The bandit leader’s eyes locked on the spinning blade. It moved with elegant menace, slicing the air in delicate arcs. He was almost mesmerized—until the knife hissed past his face, so close it shaved strands of his unkempt hair, and embedded itself into the tree behind him with a violent thunk.

The leader jumped.

"We—we were going to sell them... to the Zurans," he confessed, panic breaking his voice into uneven fragments. Beads of sweat formed along his brow as he struggled to hold Jethru’s gaze. The older man’s silence was crushing, a weight that settled into the bandit’s bones and squeezed.

"Zura?" Jethru repeated the name with a dangerous stillness.

The bandit nodded, swallowing hard. "Lately, they requested for more products, I mean for more children."

"Who’s your boss?" Jethru asked, eyes narrowing.

The leader froze.

A beat of silence.

"I... I’m the leader. We don’t have a boss," he said quickly, the lie transparent in his voice.

Jethru tilted his head. His dark eyes deepened, a shadow flickering across them.

The leader shivered again. Damn it, he thought. Why am I so scared of him?

But the truth was already written in every crushed rib, every silenced breath on the battlefield, and in the quiet promise in Jethru’s gaze.

Jethru approached him, and in one swift motion, he twisted his hand, and the sound of bone breaking filled the air, drowned by the man’s screams.

"That’s the hand that covered my granddaughter’s mouth."