Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 35: Exposed

Lara’s hand remained hidden beneath her jacket, but in the next instant, four small objects whizzed through the air, their trajectory arcing straight toward the curly-haired man.

Two oval-shaped projectiles struck him just below the nape, sending a jolt through his spine. The third found its mark on the wounded spot atop his head, causing him to stumble, his cry of pain echoing through the street. The final one slammed into the back of his right knee, forcing him into an awkward half-kneel as he howled in agony.

"Brother, look. Now, there are four of them." The little girl’s voice held nothing but innocent curiosity as she crouched, gathering the fallen seriguelas at her feet, seemingly unaffected by the man’s tortured groans.

Her brother turned, his eyes meeting Lara’s. There was something fleeting in his gaze—recognition, perhaps even gratitude—before he turned back to his sister and ruffled her curly hair.

The girl giggled, handing two of the tiny plums to her brother before popping one into her mouth and munching away happily.

Meanwhile, the two individuals who had spoken on behalf of the wounded man rushed forward, lifting him with panicked urgency. They barely spared Lara a glance as they led him away, their steps hurried as they disappeared into the narrow alley. The woman they had seemingly abandoned stood still, watching them go with dull, unfocused eyes.

Lara observed their departure keenly, deducing that the man was likely their child based on the desperation in their expressions.

The disheveled woman wanted to use the commotion to slip away unnoticed, but before she could take a step, two imposing figures emerged from the crowd and flanked her on either side.

"Our nephew told us to escort you back home," one of them declared, his voice loud enough for onlookers to hear.

Lara instantly understood their ruse. These men wanted to ensure that anyone paying attention would believe they were her relatives, avoiding any unnecessary suspicions. Though she itched to teach them a painful lesson, she refrained.

Something was off.

Her sharp gaze drifted upward, landing on the third-floor window of the restaurant where she and the others had sold the tiger earlier. The wooden shutters were tightly closed, yet instinct told her she was being watched from behind them.

"Ari, let us rest first. The men are tired, and so are the horses. There’s an inn around the corner," one of the soldiers—clearly the most vocal—spoke again.

Lara’s lips curled slightly at the sound of the name. It was fortunate she hadn’t introduced herself as Larry.

She studied the speaker. To the untrained eye, he appeared to be the leader, his authoritative tone and composed demeanor supporting the illusion. But Lara recognized him for what he truly was—the right-hand man.

"Where are you from? Which unit do you belong to? If you’re interested, you can join us," the man with the commanding aura spoke, his obsidian eyes scrutinizing her from head to toe before locking onto her face.

Lara lifted her chin slightly, her response deliberate and respectful. "I come from the town of Legares and belonged to the House of Mendel."

Legares was five towns away from Calma, nestled northwest of Mount Ourea—the town where she had evaded the bandits. Calma, on the other hand, lay on the mountain’s southwestern side. She knew the soldiers wouldn’t have the time to verify her claim.

She had borrowed the surname ’Mendel’ from Jethru.

"If you change your mind, we’re heading to Hainai. You could reunite with the other troops from Legares there."

The man, Ari, spoke in an even, persuasive tone that could easily sway a hesitant listener.

Beside her, Barett, who had been silent all this time, shifted uncomfortably. He had no desire to see his ’Sir Kane’ leave so soon.

"I have unfinished business here," Lara replied smoothly. "I’ll be tied up for about a week."

Ari’s brows furrowed slightly. "What a pity. Should you change your mind, we’re staying here until tomorrow morning."

With that, he and his men turned and left, their horses’ hooves echoing as they moved down the road.

Lara remained where she was, her gaze once again flickering toward the closed window. She lingered a moment longer before finally turning away and stepping into the clothes shop.

From the upper room, Hook withdrew from the window, his fingers ghosting over a small hole in the wooden shutter. He had been watching through that slit, witnessing everything that had transpired below.

A slow smirk curled his lips as he touched the tip of his nose—a sharp, hooked feature that had earned him his nickname. His dark eyes flicked toward the disheveled bed, the linens twisted and stained with streaks of crimson.

His smirk deepened at the memory. He had taken the girl twice, each time drawing out her helpless whimpers and desperate pleas.

But his expression darkened as his thoughts shifted. When he had woken from a brief nap, expecting to enjoy her for a third round, she was gone. She had managed to escape, causing a ruckus in the process.

His jaw tightened. He had intended to punish her, to make her suffer, but the presence of soldiers forced him to reconsider. He would need to be cautious, to lay low for now.

Returning to the window, he peered through the small opening just in time to see ’Kane’ disappear into the fabric shop.

He had observed the earlier commotion closely. He couldn’t help but admire Ruffus, the restaurant owner, for his foresight—the man had arranged for people to handle unforeseen incidents in advance.

But one thing continued to nag at him.

Who had thrown those projectiles at Rico?

The trajectory had originated from the soldiers’ direction, but when he finally identified the objects, he was baffled. They weren’t stones or daggers.

They were plums. So How could he be in so much pain?

Was it one of the soldiers?

He was fastening the last button on his shirt when the door suddenly burst open without warning.

Steel glinted in the dim light, the blade reflecting the sunlight filtering through the hole in the window.

The tip of the sword hovered just a few centimeters from his chest—steady, unwavering, and deadly precise.

Hook’s smirk vanished. He made a step forward.

The figure took a deliberate step backward, and the blade swayed slightly against his sternum.