William was no stranger to the seductive pull of fame, but he understood the cold utility of prestige better than anyone.
He knew, with absolute certainty, that he was the architect of this survival—the singular hero whose mind had outmanoeuvred a disaster.
Yet, as he neared the clan gates, he felt no desire to stand at the centre of the cheering crowds. He knew when to command, but he also knew when to step back and let the "limelight" of this historic credit fall upon others.
He might have been the mastermind, but he was a mastermind who understood that a general is only as effective as the soldiers who execute his will.
He had tested these youngsters—Kong, Lang, Lina, and the rest—repeatedly over the past few hours. He had pushed them to their mental and physical limits, and in the end, they had earned his rare, hard-won respect.
They had followed him even when he took that impossible leap of faith, plunging headlong toward the gaping maw of a certain death.
