Chapter 6
2183words
"It's over." I nodded, staring at the stone prison where Victor had met his end.
The revenge I'd craved for so long left me hollow instead of satisfied. Without another look at Victor's withered corpse, I turned and headed back to the chamber where we'd found my father's remains.
In the weak light, I removed my jacket and carefully wrapped my father's fragile bones and personal effects inside it. I cradled the bundle against my chest, the cold remains somehow anchoring me to reality.
"Let's go home, Dad," I whispered to myself.
The time had come for the truth to emerge.
This time, we took no shortcuts, choosing instead the main entrance. When the massive stone door finally swung open and the first rays of morning light spilled through—carrying the scent of damp earth—we all squinted against the sudden brightness.
"Christ, being alive feels fucking amazing." Leo gulped down fresh air and grinned, momentarily forgetting his injuries.
Michael, in an uncharacteristic gesture, removed his glasses and wiped them on his shirt before replacing them. As he gazed at the green world outside, something profound and unnameable flickered in his eyes.
When we finally emerged—bloodied and mud-caked—from the massive burial mound, the scene that greeted us stopped us in our tracks.
The clearing before the tomb swarmed with people—nearly every core family member had gathered. They stood in clusters, arguing intensely, faces ranging from worried to barely concealed satisfaction. At the front, several white-haired elders paced anxiously.
Our appearance hit the crowd like a stone through glass.
Every eye locked onto us. Conversations died mid-sentence. A heartbeat of silence, then an explosion of voices!
"They're alive! They actually survived!"
"My God! Is that Jason? What's he carrying?"
"Leo and Michael too… how did they make it out?"
Through the sea of stunned faces, I walked forward with my father's remains, my expression stone-cold. I met each pair of eyes—familiar and strange alike—registering their shock, fear, and bewilderment.
"Jason!" An elderly man with a snow-white beard stepped forward, his voice quavering. It was Walter Lawrence, from my grandfather's generation, one of the most respected elders. "Where… where is Victor?"
Before I could answer, Victor's son Brian shoved through the crowd, jabbing his finger at me. "What have you done to my father, you treacherous bastard?!"
"Your father?" I laughed bitterly, gently setting down my bundle. I pulled my father's final letter from my pack and held it high. "You should be asking what he did to MY father! What he did to our entire family!"
Before the entire assembly, I read my father's dying words, revealing Victor's plot to seize power by weaponizing the "sonic curse" against his own blood relatives—even murdering his own father. I spoke each accusation with crystal clarity, my voice carrying to every ear.
At first, only my voice broke the silence. Then came the inevitable wave of denial.
"Bullshit! That letter's a forgery!" Brian shouted, face contorted with rage.
"Exactly! Our leader would never do such things! You failed to kill him and now you're spreading lies!" Victor's loyalists chimed in.
"The curse comes from our ancestors! How could it possibly be man-made? Absurd!"
I offered no defense against their accusations. I simply waited, knowing what would come next—a phone call that would shatter their denials more effectively than any argument.
Just as tensions reached breaking point, with several younger members surging forward aggressively, a phone rang somewhere in the crowd.
"Hello?.. WHAT?!" The man's expression transformed from confusion to disbelief to ecstatic joy. "Are you serious? That's incredible! The doctor says Michael's vitals are normalizing! His fever's broken—he's awake!"
The news hit like a thunderbolt, stunning everyone into silence.
Within moments, another phone rang. Then another.
"My daughter too! The hospital says she's sitting up and drinking water!"
"Uncle Robert's conscious! The doctors are calling it a miracle!"
The calls kept coming, a cascade of miraculous recoveries flooding in from every branch of the family. All the "cursed" victims were simultaneously recovering! No evidence could have been more damning.
The crowd erupted again—not with doubt, but with rage and horror as understanding dawned. Their fury instantly redirected toward Brian and Victor's inner circle.
"It was Victor all along!"
"That heartless monster! He even cursed his own blood!"
"My brother died from this 'curse' last year! Victor, you murderous bastard!"
As the truth sank in, the crowd turned savage. Brian and his cohorts found themselves surrounded by vengeful family members, their faces drained of color.
Under the weight of countless stares, I carefully lifted my father's remains once more.
"According to our most ancient traditions," Elder Walter approached me, voice quavering with emotion, "any Lawrence who passes the tomb's trial through bloodline and wisdom, and saves our family from peril, shall become Family Head." He bowed deeply. "Jason… no, Family Head. This old man offers his respect."
At his words, every Lawrence present—young and old alike—bowed as one, their voices rising like thunder: "We honor the Family Head!"
Cradling my father's bones, surrounded by people who'd once dismissed me but now knelt in reverence, I felt no triumph—only bitter irony. This blood-bought title of "Family Head" weighed on me like a mountain.
Three days later, I called the most significant gathering in family history to order in the ancestral hall.
I refused the ornate chair of leadership, choosing instead to stand beside my father's memorial tablet, facing the assembled family.
"I, Jason Lawrence, as the new Family Head, issue my first decree." My voice carried without shouting. "From this day forward, the 'Ancestral Tomb Trial' tradition is abolished. Forever."
Gasps echoed through the hall.
"Family Head! Impossible! This tradition comes from our ancestors themselves!" An elder shot to his feet in protest.
"Please reconsider! Without the trial, how will we find worthy leaders?"
I raised my hand, and the protests died instantly.
"Rules?" I swept the room with an icy gaze. "You mean the 'rule' that turned brother against brother and led to my grandfather's and father's murders? The 'rule' that let a monster like Victor seize control?"
My voice rose, ringing with authority: "From today, I AM the highest rule in this family! No Lawrence child will ever again risk death for some title! Our future will NOT be determined by bloodshed and betrayal!"
"Future leaders will be elected democratically. Merit will determine advancement. All finances will be transparent. Every Lawrence child will have equal access to family resources and education."
"Remember one thing," I locked eyes with each person in the silent hall, emphasizing every syllable. "We are family. Not enemies."
When I finished, the hall fell so silent you could hear dust settling. Finally, Elder Walter broke the stillness, tears streaming down his weathered face as he bowed deeply once more.
Days later, the dust began to settle.
Victor's crimes were formally documented, his entire branch exiled from the family. I allocated funds to compensate every family harmed by his actions. My father's memorial tablet took its rightful place beside my grandfather's in the ancestral hall.
I stood at the window of my father's old study, watching the perfect afternoon light bathe the courtyard below.
Lily wore a simple sundress, still thin but with healthy color in her cheeks again. She laughed at something Leo said—his arm still in a cast but waving animatedly as he told some outrageous story. Even Michael seemed lighter, a rare smile playing at his lips as he tinkered with a miniature drone, making Lily burst into giggles.
Watching them, I felt the crushing weight of recent days lift slightly in the golden light.
I refused to lose myself in power or revenge. By abolishing that bloody tradition, I'd chosen a harder path than simply walking away—the path of rebuilding this wounded family on foundations of transparency, justice, and compassion.
I'd moved beyond my father's tragedy and my own bitterness. Once, I'd wanted nothing more than to escape the Lawrence name. Now, I would dedicate my life to protecting and transforming it.
Perhaps this was my true purpose all along.
I once believed the story would end on that sunlit afternoon.
Ten years have passed.
Under my leadership, the Lawrence family has transformed into what appears to be a model organization that outsiders envy. We boast democratic governance, transparent finances, and compassionate management. Our reputation has soared to unprecedented heights, with major media outlets hailing me as a "visionary leader" and "pioneer of modern family governance."
But only I know that Victor, though dead in that tomb, never truly vanished.
He simply found another vessel—me.
Behind our celebrated "democratic elections" lies an intricate manipulation system. For months before each vote, I carefully shape family members' thinking through casual conversations, training programs, and strategic meetings. They believe they vote freely, but every ballot falls precisely where I've predetermined.
Our "transparent accounting" is real—but fragmented into countless sub-projects so complex that only I can see the complete picture. Family members access only what I permit them to see. Financial control remains firmly in my grasp.
Those much-praised "democratic meetings" are elaborately staged theater. My plants raise pre-arranged objections, creating the illusion of genuine debate, before inevitably arriving at my predetermined conclusion—disguised as collective wisdom.
I don't eliminate opponents brutally as Victor did. My methods are far more refined.
Those who question me suffer "unfortunate" business failures until they depend on family charity to survive. Their children experience mysterious setbacks in school applications or job interviews. Eventually, they learn silence is safer.
I never leave fingerprints—only "fair competition" and "consistent rule enforcement." To all appearances, I remain the selfless leader, sacrificing my own interests for the family's welfare.
Leo noticed. So did Michael.
But what could they prove? Every procedure follows protocol. Every outcome appears democratic. Every method seems legitimate.
One night, Leo stumbled drunk into my study, jabbing his finger at my face as he slurred:
"What happened to you, Jason? You've become worse than Victor! At least everyone knew he was a monster. But you? You've got them all thinking you're a fucking saint while you're colder than the devil himself!"
I watched him from my father's old chair, my expression unnervingly serene.
"Leo," I said quietly, "isn't this better?"
"You're fucking insane," Leo whispered, voice breaking.
"I'm not insane. I'm seeing with perfect clarity." I met his gaze directly. "I've protected this family, made it powerful and respected. Every Lawrence child gets the best education and opportunities. I've ended the bloodshed and created stability. I've accomplished what my father couldn't—what generations of leaders failed to achieve."
"It's all a goddamn lie!" Leo shouted, slamming his fist down.
"And if it is?" I replied coolly. "The results are real. Lawrence family members are happier than ever before. They don't need truth—they need security and prosperity. Sometimes ignorance is the kindest gift."
Leo buried his face in his hands. I'd lost my oldest friend forever, but felt no regret. On the scales of power, sentiment weighs nothing.
Months later, Leo and Michael left the country together. They never returned. Before leaving, Leo said one final thing:
"Jason, if your father could see you now, what would he think of what you've become?"
I gave no answer. I knew my father would see beyond appearances to results: a powerful, unified, prosperous Lawrence family.
Methods are irrelevant. Only outcomes matter.
Today, twenty years on, I stand in our new family cemetery before my father's and grandfather's graves. Their granite headstones catch the sunset's glow, bearing epitaphs I personally composed.
Nearby stands our grand memorial hall, chronicling the Lawrence family's illustrious history. Thousands visit annually, marveling at the "remarkable transformation of a historic dynasty" and celebrating my "visionary leadership."
None suspect that thirty meters below the memorial lies a chamber sealed with reinforced concrete, entombing our dark history—including the ancestral tomb that claimed so many lives.
I brush a fallen leaf from the headstone and whisper:
"Dad, can you see? I did it. I've transformed our family into something admired and respected. I eliminated the curse and the chaos. We'll never see another Victor in our family, because…"
I pause, a perfect smile touching my lips:
"Because only I know how to become Victor now, and I've made sure no one else ever will."
As the sun sinks, my shadow stretches across the graves. To all appearances, I remain the benevolent, beloved leader. But within that shadow lurks another shape—something ancient and reptilian, with gleaming scales, razor teeth, and eyes like frozen wells.
The dragon-slayer never became a dragon himself—dragons are too obvious, too easily opposed.
Instead, he became something far worse—a creature more ancient, more cunning, more lethal. One that hides its teeth and claws, that weaves its traps beneath still waters where none can see.
True terror isn't obvious villainy, but manipulation cloaked as benevolence. When people kneel in gratitude at your feet, who among them thinks of rebellion?
This is the most perfect ending.
