Chapter 69

David Moore trudged back to Factory Manager Victor Green's house with his head hanging low. The moment he stepped inside, he was stunned by the sound of wailing filling the rooms. Victor Green froze at the sight of him, then his expression softened slightly—this kid hadn't actually run away.

Just as dawn broke, General Charles Turner arrived with his entire family in tow. Four jeeps screeched to a halt outside, the sheer scale of the commotion enough to make anyone nervous. Helen Turner barged in, her voice shrill as she cried, "Where's my son?" Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen from crying.

Fiona Turner quickly pulled her mother and two sisters into the inner room. The moment Helen saw her son's pale, lifeless face, her legs gave out. "My boy! You're killing me!" she wailed, her grief so raw that even her three daughters couldn't hold her back.

Snow and Grace Turner also broke into tears. Their little brother was the family's treasure—kind, sensible, and beloved. If he really left them like this...

"Mom! Please!" Fiona stomped her foot in desperation. But Helen had already fainted from the overwhelming sorrow and was carried to the next room. The factory doctor examined her and declared it was just emotional exhaustion—nothing life-threatening.

In the living room, General Charles Turner interrogated his son-in-law with a face like thunder. Victor Green broke out in a cold sweat as he explained everything. None of this was their fault—who would've thought a nosebleed could be fatal?

"The specialists?" the old general suddenly demanded, making Victor flinch.

Richard Adams, the eldest son-in-law, glanced outside. "They should be here soon, Dad." For his brother-in-law, the general had summoned the best doctors from the provincial capital, and they were rushing over now.

General Turner sat by his son's bedside, gripping the cold hand tightly. He'd had this child late in life, and the boy had never given him a moment's worry—until now.

The old man's throat worked, but not a single tear fell.

By full daylight, five military trucks roared into the compound. White-coated specialists filed in, stethoscopes moving over the patient's chest before they all stepped back, shaking their heads.

"Prepare for the worst," the lead doctor said quietly. "A stimulant might buy him a few last words."

General Turner swayed on his feet, steadied by those around him. The doctor quickly handed him medication. "Sir, your heart condition—"

The old man suddenly laughed, the sound more painful than any sob. He'd survived war and bloodshed, yet now he couldn't save his own son.

David Moore stared blankly out the window. It was already 5:30 a.m., summer mornings arriving early. Watching the once-indomitable general's hunched shoulders, all his petty thoughts evaporated.

"General Turner!" he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Richard immediately scowled. "Not now!"

"But... there might still be hope," David stammered.

The general's head snapped up, his gaze sharp as a blade. "What did you say?"

"I know an old physician—family secrets, acupuncture techniques..." David's legs trembled under that stare.

Richard scoffed. "Western medicine failed, and you think a few needles will bring him back?"

But the general seized David's wrist, veins bulging. "Where is he?"