Meanwhile, Balder Vidal—once the iron-fisted deputy of the General Odin, now bearing the full weight of command—stood fuming under the scorching sun. Dust clung to his boots, and his patience, already thin from days of pursuit, finally snapped. The fugitives had vanished, and the trail had gone cold.
He whirled around and struck his own deputy with a brutal kick to the side, sending the man stumbling.
"Idiots!" Vidal roared, his voice echoing through the ranks. "There are less than fifty of them! Fifty! And you command a hundred! How could you possibly let them escape?"
The deputy general swallowed hard, pain etched across his face, but he said nothing. He simply looked down, his fists clenched in silent frustration. These weren't mere criminals they had lost—they were Northem's finest warriors. Legends in their own right. How could they not fail?
He raised his eyes to meet Vidal's cold stare.
