Chapter #72: Shadows Beneath the Snow
Führer King Bradley stood before the ruined cabin, his hands clasped behind his back, his brow furrowed. The frigid northern air did not seem to affect him; his presence was as solid as ever, as dangerous as a freshly sharpened blade. Around him, several army officers examined the still-smoking remains: splintered wood, snow blackened by gunpowder, and blood slowly freezing into the ground.
"Has it been taken care of?" Bradley asked without raising his voice.
One of the officers stepped forward and squared his shoulders.
"Yes, my Lord. The target was neutralized… but he was not the person we were looking for."
The Führer's eye flashed with irritation.
"That damn fool…" he muttered. "He slipped away again."
The officers exchanged uneasy glances, daring not to say more. Bradley clenched his jaw. Something did not add up, and he knew it.
Then, as if time itself rewound, the truth of what had happened unfolded in silence.
The hooded man had been surrounded. Bullets tore into the cabin walls like a deadly rain, splintering wood and throwing clouds of dust and snow into the air. Anyone else would have fallen in seconds. But not him.
With a swift, almost desperate motion, he slammed the palm of his hand against the floor. A circle of light flared beneath his feet, complex symbols glowing for a brief instant before everything detonated.
The floor gave way.
The explosion hurled debris and smoke upward, diverting the gunfire. When the soldiers burst inside, all they found was a smoking hole.
Beneath the cabin lay an old tunnel—narrow, dark, likely once used for smuggling or shelter. The hooded man fell, rolled, struggled to his feet, and began to run, gritting his teeth against the pain of his wounds.
He ran, expecting to hear footsteps behind him, shouted orders, bullets ricocheting off the tunnel walls.
But there was nothing.
Only his ragged breathing and the echo of his own steps.
He stopped at a fork in the tunnel, slipped into the shadows, and waited. Seconds passed. Then minutes.
No one followed.
The surprise was as great as the relief—and just as unsettling as a bad omen.
Back in the present, Bradley stared at the hole in the ground, frustration plain on his face.
"All this effort," he said coldly, "and once again I find myself chasing Greed."
The officers remained silent as he continued.
"He escaped along with some experimental chimeras. I've been hunting him for some time to bring him before Father." His eye hardened. "But it seems I wasted my time following some filthy Ishvalan citizen who has nothing to do with him."
One of the officers dared to speak.
"Do you believe Greed used him as a distraction, my Lord?"
Bradley slowly shook his head.
"Greed wouldn't be so pathetic as to sacrifice one of his own that way. That's not his style." He glanced at the tunnel. "Besides, he already escaped through here. By the time we search, he'll be far away. Wasting time would be pointless."
He turned decisively.
"We're returning to Briggs. Return the armaments, and I will see General Armstrong. I want to know if anything has changed while I was away."
The soldiers obeyed at once.
Deep within the tunnel, the hooded man listened as the voices faded and the footsteps disappeared. Only then did he allow himself to breathe more freely.
"Greed…?" he whispered to himself. "What is that old man talking about?"
He frowned, confused. The name meant nothing to him—or at least, nothing consciously. Perhaps it belonged to some monster he had no desire to know.
"I don't care," he muttered at last.
Exhaustion overtook him. He settled against the tunnel wall, sheltered by the darkness, and closed his eyes. He decided he would stay there for a few days, regaining his strength. After that, he would search for another cabin, deeper in the mountains—a place where he could finally hide his brother's papers and manuscripts for good.
That knowledge could not fall into the wrong hands.
Never.
The Briggs Base stood as imposing as ever when the Führer's convoy returned. The gates opened with their usual metallic groan, and the soldiers moved with absolute discipline.
Bradley dismounted and walked through the interior corridors, studying every corner with care. That was when he saw Miles.
The young Major was reviewing reports near a workshop. Sensing the Führer's presence, he snapped to attention at once.
"Where is General Armstrong?" Bradley asked.
"She shouldn't be long, my Lord," Miles replied firmly. "She's on her way."
Bradley studied him for a second longer than necessary.
"I didn't see you in formation," he said. "What happened?"
Miles did not hesitate.
"I was in the workshops. The order didn't reach me in time. By the time I arrived, the ranks had already dispersed." He paused briefly. "I'm working on a special-use all-terrain vehicle. It's a classified project, so I was deep inside the base."
The Führer stared at him, as if trying to pierce him with his single eye. Then he smiled faintly.
"I see," he said. "I'm glad to see initiative, even in times of war."
Miles maintained his composure, though inside his pulse quickened.
"You may go," Bradley continued. "Tell the General I appreciate her hospitality. I will be reading her monthly base report with great interest."
"Yes, my Lord."
Miles executed a perfect salute and withdrew without haste. Only once he was out of the Führer's sight did he release the breath he had been holding.
Bradley left the base shortly afterward, leaving behind an uneasy feeling, as if his mere presence had frozen the heart of Briggs even further.
From one of the towers, Olivier Mira Armstrong watched the convoy vanish into the distance. She did not smile. She did not sigh.
She thought only, with absolute coldness:
"This isn't over."
The snow continued to fall, covering tracks, secrets, and lies… at least for now.
(end of chapter)