CHAPTER 143: TRUCE

When Sian heard the old man declare that he owed humanity nothing, his control nearly slipped. For a man as disciplined as he was, that alone was telling. His eyes quivered, a faint tremor running through his lashes, and a subtle redness burned at their edges like embers threatening to flare into flame.

Yes—he owed no one. Never had.

The truth of it cut deeper than any sword could. He was not bound to the world, not shackled to gratitude, not chained to duty. Yet still, beneath that façade of cruelty and iron, something softer lived.

Sian’s heart—though locked behind iron bars of pride and rage—was the gentlest, most fragile heart imaginable. A heart that had not hardened, despite every reason to do so.

Why? Because fate had carved for him the role of a villain.

After the loss of his family, he should have fully embraced that role. He should have risen as a tyrant, painted in blood, vowing vengeance against a world that had taken everything from him.

After being imprisoned, treated like a laboratory specimen, reduced to a mere rat beneath cold hands and colder eyes, he should have broken free with nothing but hatred in his veins, determined to scorch everything in his path.

After betrayal upon betrayal, he should have buried himself in solitude, walked the wastelands alone, indifferent to life and death, unmoved by the suffering of those around him.

But did he?

No. He did none of those things.

To call him a cruel, demonic man was a half-truth at best. The mask of the demon, yes, he wore it. He displayed it proudly—ferocity was his shield, coldness his armor. But beneath the quills was something else.

He was like a hedgehog, bristling, spines sharpened and ready, curling inward when touched too closely. Not because he relished the cruelty, but because he feared letting the world glimpse the softness hidden beneath.

Even to the last moment of his former life, Sian carried that mask. His expression was fierce, his posture unyielding. To allies and enemies alike, he was a commander whose lips rarely curved into anything resembling warmth. A smile? That was a rare treasure few had ever witnessed. Yet he had led—brilliantly, unfalteringly.

That was why Kira loved him. That was why He Junyun, even across years and distance, still loved him and could never forget him.

Among all the so-called safe havens that dotted the ruined world, Sian’s was different. Not grander, not richer—but fairer, safer, more human. In a time when laws had collapsed and cruelty had become currency, Sian’s stronghold obeyed its own law. His people did not kill one another. They did not rob or exploit. They did not quarrel endlessly in the chaos. Ordinary men and women—those stripped of worth in the eyes of the powerful—found sanctuary in his domain. For those enslaved by the superpowered, for those whose lives had been deemed cheaper than a loaf of bread, Sian’s stronghold was salvation.

So how could the world judge him?

No one had the right.

He was no devil. Or, if they insisted he was one, then he was a devil with an angel imprisoned in his heart—an angel whose wings were shackled, yet still shone through the cracks.

Whenever that angel was called upon, it emerged with overwhelming force. It drove him to acts of sacrifice, to saving lives that should have meant nothing to him. And that—ironically, tragically—was his greatest weakness.

It was the reason he had died. The reason he had accepted his fate without resistance.

And it was why, now, sitting before these so-called allies and adversaries, he pressed his hands to his face and let out a laugh—low, hoarse, and bitter, carrying in it the weight of a thousand ironies.

The laughter did not end quickly. It rolled, harsh and scathing, echoing in the chamber. Faces turned toward him in silence, unsure whether to recoil in fear or lean in closer to decipher it. When at last the sound died, Sian parted his fingers and peered at them through the gaps, his gaze sharp, his expression unreadable.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his hands and rested his cheek against his palm. A few strands of his dark hair slipped free, falling across the pale line of his neck, framing him like a painting: a study of beauty and danger combined.

His smile deepened, subtle yet cutting. "You’re a crafty old man," he murmured, eyes locking on Old Man Lan. "Your sight is sharper than most." He exhaled a sigh, the kind that carried both amusement and resignation.

Confusion rippled among the onlookers. The words seemed divorced from their ongoing negotiation. But Lan’s expression did not waver; he knew the game he played had been exposed. Still, rather than flinch or falter, the old man leaned back and sighed, long and heavy.

"This old man has lived far too many years," Lan said softly, voice like rustling parchment. "I have seen much, learned more. Child, do not underestimate the eyes that have watched generations rise and fall."

His words carried weight, not only for Sian but for those gathered. And perhaps sensing the growing unease, Lan continued—whether to explain, or to strip away the veil of misunderstanding between them.

"You are a man of harsh choices and unbending will. To most, you seem cold, as if no one around you matters. But that is not the truth. If it were, you would not have done all you’ve done since stepping into this world. You have saved many. You cannot stand idle while innocents perish. Yes—your treatment of the guilty is ruthless, even merciless. But that is not what defines you. What matters is the line you keep, here—" He touched his chest. "Between right and wrong. That is enough.

"You have done well, child."

The words fell like a benediction, an elder’s judgment wrapped in rare praise.

And Sian’s eyes, unwilling though they were, shimmered faintly.

He had lost. He could not deny it. And though he knew his heart was not as gentle as the old man claimed—after all, had it not been for the one he loved, he would have burned the Institute to ash and never looked back?—he also knew he was weary of running from himself.

"Fine," he said at last, voice low, edged with reluctant humor. "You win, old man."

Straightening, Sian cast aside the weight of emotion, letting his expression harden into cool composure once again. He crossed one leg over the other, leaned back, and allowed the faintest of smiles to play on his lips. No longer a snarl—just something calm, self-assured.

"Still," he added, "my decision remains. Kira cannot work with the State team. I have my own men, my own command. Kira belongs to me. Her loyalty cannot be divided."

The smile curved deeper, his voice slipping into mockery as if the moment of vulnerability had never existed. "But if you insist, I’ll endure reality for a time."

His gaze slid to the young woman standing silently beside him. His words dropped with deliberate weight. "Kira, when you work with your comrades later... remember to tell me what you did, how you did it, and when. Clear?"

The implication hung in the air like poison.

Kira, bright and gentle by nature, should have flinched. But instead, her lips curled into a smile so chillingly similar to his own that several hearts skipped a beat. "Don’t worry, Leader," she said sweetly. "I’ll tell you everything—every time—without you even asking."

The echo of him in her voice was undeniable. A proverb whispered through the minds of the listeners: If you walk with someone for forty days, you become like them.

Kira had walked beside him for years. She could not help but become a reflection of him.

Minister Wei’s face betrayed the storm raging inside him. A politician schooled in masking every flicker of emotion found himself powerless. His features cycled through worry, hope, dread, and fury in quick succession—until he could do nothing but sit frozen, watching his daughter and this devil she called commander.

Lan, however, understood better than most. Sian was no seeker of battle. He did not love bloodshed. Yet he was perfectly capable of it—capable of unleashing ruin if provoked, if his boundaries were trampled once too often, and beneath the calm exterior still lurked the beast.

So the old man relented. He promised a discussion with the other leaders, with Minister Wei, and hinted at a decision that would not drive Sian to war.

And Sian, finally, relaxed his quills. Did pity soften his stance? Did the sight of their helpless faces move him? No. In truth, he was bored. He longed to retreat to his black-draped chamber, to sink into the silence of his great bed.

"All right then," he said lazily, "remember this. If I move, if I help, the when and how and what will be mine to decide. I have always given orders—I have never taken them. Do we understand each other?"

The arrogance of those words might have shattered another negotiation. But from Sian, it was not arrogance—it was simply truth.

For he was the key. The keystone to saving this world teetering on the abyss. He had every right to be proud, every right to refuse submission.

And they all knew it.

He was a rebel by nature, and rebels did not bow. They broke chains. They overturned worlds.

And as the air thickened with his words, every person in that chamber knew it: if pushed one step too far, Sian would not hesitate to turn the entire board upside down.