Within seconds, several of the villagers hurried toward him—some cautiously, some eagerly, some with genuine awe in their expressions.
Their steps were unsteady, their eyes bright, their hands slightly trembling like they weren't entirely sure whether approaching him was allowed.
They looked at him the way people would look at a heroic figure returning victorious from a great battle.
"Damien!"
"You're back!"
Their voices overlapped—excited, breathless, almost worshipful.
They crowded around him, leaving tools behind, abandoning tasks mid-way, as if the mere sight of him demanded their full devotion.
Damien, however, didn't react.
He walked forward with his usual cold expression, as though he didn't even notice them.
But his indifference didn't stop them.
If anything, it made them follow closer.
At the front of the house, standing stiffly like two decorative posts that had lost their relevance, were the village chief and his son—Brad.
