Chapter 2: Grief, Legacy, and Rebirth

His hand closed on empty air. He frowned, patting his hip, looking for the familiar weight that should have been there.

Damn, where’s my sword? I’ve walked the backroads for so many years and never left my blade. Never left my blade. Wait—where’s my blade?

He cursed under his breath, suddenly feeling naked without it. Years of habit made him itch for the comfort of cold steel at his side. “Damn it,” he muttered, “first time in years I’m caught without my blade.”

Robert lightly raised his eyebrows, smiled again. After so many years in the underground, from being the leader of wandering do-gooders in Chicago to a bystander in the coalition against Don Drake, Robert knew one thing very well:

He’d learned the hard way: trust was rare. Show your hand too soon, and you’d get it bitten off. Life in the city taught him to keep his cards close, his smile ready, his enemies guessing.

The world is treacherous and the road is dangerous, never reveal your thoughts easily.

He’d seen too many men fall because they let their guard down. Robert resolved to keep his wits about him, no matter how strange things got.

So the more flustered you are inside, the more you have to smile on the outside. I don’t have the family background of Paul Pierce or Roy Sanders, nor the army that Don Drake raised out West. Besides guts, all I’ve got are these little tricks.

He straightened his shoulders, forced a grin, and let his old confidence settle back over him like a well-worn coat. “If all I’ve got are my wits,” he thought, “then that’s what I’ll use.”

Robert took a deep breath, his mind working again.

He let the air fill his lungs, clearing away the last of the confusion. His mind started working again, fast and sharp as ever.

This time his gaze swept over those unfamiliar but well-dressed and prominent figures, and finally landed on two old acquaintances.

He spotted them in the crowd: John Young, fidgeting as always. Daniel Price, stoic as ever. Relief washed over him.

“John Young, why do you look like this? Running for your life? Even if you are, you don’t have to dress so well—what, couldn’t find enough corpses to blend in with? Danny, when did you come to Maple Heights? Why are you crying again?” Robert jumped straight off the bed, his smile more genuine, and threw his arm around John Young’s shoulder.

The move was so natural, so familiar, that for a second, everyone in the room relaxed. It was the Robert they remembered—irreverent, sharp-tongued, impossible to keep down. He clapped John on the back, then reached out to Daniel, pulling him into the circle.

His eyes burned, still fixed on white-haired Daniel Price.

He held Daniel’s gaze, searching for something—reassurance, maybe, or just the comfort of an old friend. The years seemed to melt away, leaving only the bond between them.

Most of the officials in Maple Heights Mansion took a step back in unison, the timid ones shivering, some even collapsing to the floor.

It was as if a ghost had walked into the room. Some of the younger aides looked ready to bolt, while the older ones just stared, too stunned to move.

Daniel did not move, only tears streamed down.

His face was set, but the tears kept coming. He didn’t bother to wipe them away. Robert felt a pang of guilt—so much loss, so much left unsaid.

Charles stayed kneeling, then suddenly let out a wild, grief-stricken laugh, his heart breaking.

The sound was wild, almost manic—a release of pain that had nowhere else to go. It echoed through the mansion, mingling with the sounds of mourning and disbelief.

Robert: “….”

He didn’t know what to say. For once, words failed him. He just stood there, letting the moment wash over him.

Robert was about to ask John Young what was going on, when he felt the old guy opposite suddenly hug him tightly, as if the years had melted away and he was holding his old friend again.

The embrace was fierce, desperate—a reunion and a farewell all at once. Robert stiffened for a moment, then let himself be held, closing his eyes against the rush of emotion.

Many years later, the important officials of Silver Hollow would say, at that time they were shocked—truly shocked. Think about it: you enter the mansion to mourn the Mayor, hear his testament, even watch him die, and suddenly he comes back to life!

They would tell the story over poker games and drinks at the local bar, shaking their heads in wonder. “I was there,” they’d say. “I saw him rise. Never seen anything like it, and I doubt I ever will.”

Leonard Yates reached out to stop the excited officials, dazed, saying, “What is this—coming back from the dead? Getting younger? It’s a miracle.”

He spoke in a hushed tone, as if afraid to break the spell. Someone else muttered, “If this is a miracle, Lord, don’t let it stop now.”

At that moment, every official in the hall, without exception, looking at the lively Robert Hastings, had the same thought in their hearts:

For the first time in weeks, hope flickered in their eyes. The room felt lighter, the future a little less bleak. Even the most cynical among them found themselves believing, just for a moment, that anything was possible.

Fate does not abandon Silver Hollow; the Mayor is the hand of fate.

It became a saying around town, whispered in the markets and the taverns. “The Mayor’s back. Silver Hollow’s got a fighting chance.”

Whether for revenge or for the great campaign north, from now on, there was hope again to support the cause.

People started to talk about plans, about what might come next. The mood shifted from despair to determination. Silver Hollow would not go quietly into the night.

“So… I am now the head of Silver Hollow?”

Robert looked around, still trying to piece it all together. He felt the weight of expectation settle on his shoulders—a burden, but one he was ready to carry.

“And now I’ve got another shot at making things right?”

The words tasted sweet and bitter at the same time. He remembered every fight, every setback, every small victory. Now, it seemed, the story wasn’t over yet.

In Maple Heights Mansion, Robert squatted in a corner, reviewing with Daniel Price and John Young the thirty years he missed.

They spread out old maps and letters on the floor. The three of them huddled together like boys plotting mischief. For a moment, it felt like old times.

Daniel nodded, saying, “Mayor, you should call yourself ‘the leader.’”

His voice was respectful, but there was a hint of mischief in his eyes. The old nicknames and titles felt strange in this new world.

Robert laughed, “Nonsense, this isn’t a formal occasion, who are we trying to impress?”

He waved a hand dismissively, grinning. “Save the titles for the newspapers.”

Then he poked John Young, “Don’t stop, keep talking.”

He nudged John in the ribs, eager for the story to continue. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging.”

“After Gabriel flooded the seven armies and shook all of America, what happened? I came to the Northern Campaign, got tricked by that crook Don, you all cried so hard—were you mourning for me?”

He raised an eyebrow, half teasing, half serious. He wanted the truth, even if it hurt.

Thinking about it, Robert felt something was off. He laughed, “Not really, if you were really mourning me, how could Gabriel and Frank not be here?”

He looked around, expecting to see familiar faces, but the absence hit him like a slap. The laughter faded, replaced by a dull ache.

John Young opened his mouth, hesitated to speak.

He shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting to Daniel, as if hoping someone else would take the lead.

Robert frowned, looked at Danny, whose hair was white and who was silent in the cold wind.

He waited, the silence stretching between them. He could see the grief etched deep in Daniel’s face, and his heart sank.

Thirty-year-old Robert Hastings was no fool. In troubled times, life is as fragile as grass. He had rolled through blades and bullets half his life; what life and death had he not seen? Robert just shook himself, already guessing the answer.

He drew a shaky breath, telling himself what he already knew. The world had changed, and there was no going back.