Victor never believed in mercy. He built his reputation on blood and fear. His daughter? She was born to inherit his strength, not his weakness.

In the middle of the battlefield, a thick fog hung low. Victor walked slowly, his weapon already stained with blood, without hesitation, without regret.

From a distance, he saw his daughter—standing tall, blocking his way. Behind her, dozens of terrified civilians hid.

Victor stopped a few steps away from her.

"Move them aside," he ordered, coldly.

His daughter tightened her grip on her weapon, but didn't move.

Victor sighed, disappointed.

"I didn't raise you for this. I raised you to erase the weak, not protect them."

He stepped forward, and each step sent tremors of fear into the ground.

At that moment, without warning, he raised his weapon toward his own daughter.

"If you block my path, you'll fall with them."

And the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see who would lower their weapon first.