Chapter 1309: Chapter 635: The Emperor’s Whisper
November 1st, one of Mexico’s most important holidays—Day of the Dead (Día de Muertos) began.
It is a day to commemorate the deceased, devoid of mourning, instead filled with vibrant colors, music, food, and a celebration of life’s cycle.
People believe that deceased loved ones return to the world on this day to reunite with the living.
However, for Belsaria, this day holds deeper, more personal significance.
Tepeya Mountain, renowned worldwide for the appearance of the Guadalupe Virgin, was enveloped in a solemn yet gentle atmosphere.
The path to the Big Cathedral was crowded with people coming for worship and pilgrimage. The air was filled with the intense and distinctive scent of marigolds mixed with the smell of wax from burning candles and the sweet aroma of food.
Colorful paper cut-outs gently swayed in the breeze, featuring skulls, flowers, and various designs. Large and small altars lined the path, piled with foods, drinks, photos, and lit candles favored by the deceased, lighting the path for the returning dead souls.
Victor’s group did not take the crowded main path.
A few black bulletproof SUVs silently drove into a secluded side road, stopping halfway up the mountain in a private area with a wide view.
Here, far from the bustling crowd, they could overlook the glittering lights of Mexico City below and see the majestic outline of the distant Guadalupe Cathedral.
An altar, carefully arranged but relatively simple, had already been set up.
A white cloth covered the altar, with a few photos placed in the center: one of grandfather Ramsfield in a United States military uniform, looking solemn, and another of Belsaria’s father, also dressed in a suit.
The altar held traditional Day of the Dead offerings: life-symbolizing bread, crisp tequila, clear water, salt, lit white candles, heaps of marigolds, and some foods they might have liked in life—a few pieces of sugar-coated bread, some fruits, and a small dish of chili peppers.
Victor and Belsaria stood side by side in front of the white altar, the flickering candlelight illuminating the familiar faces in the photographs.
Belsaria’s gaze lingered long on the photos of her father and grandfather, her tense shoulders trembling slightly.
Finally, a suppressed sob escaped from her throat, and she collapsed at the altar’s edge, her forehead resting against the cold tabletop, her shoulders shaking violently.
“Dad…” her voice broke, thick with nasal resonance, “Grandfather… I brought you tortillas… and, Dad, your favorite chili peppers… Did you see them? I miss you so much…” Tears silently slid down, soaking the corner of the altar cloth.
Victor didn’t speak immediately, merely standing quietly at her side, like a silent mountain. He extended his hand, his broad palm carrying a steady warmth, gently resting on Belsaria’s back, rising and falling with her sobs, the action almost deliberately gentle, starkly contrasting with his usual cool demeanor.
It was a kind of comfort for his inner guilt.
“They know.” Victor’s voice was low and steady, like the night breeze gently brushing over the hill, “They’re right here; you see this candlelight, this floral scent, they hear it.”
His gaze swept over the photos on the altar, his deep eyes steeped in indescribably complex emotions; if it were someone else, they would have already felt guilty.
After all, Victor was the “real culprit” behind their deaths.
Belsaria’s cries gradually quieted down, turning into intermittent sniffs.
She remained there, as if drawing invisible solace from the altar, also seemingly pouring out all her pent-up longing and sorrow onto this space guarded by candlelight and marigolds.
Victor’s hand never left, that silent companionship in the flickering candlelight, more solid than any words.
The city’s lights below and the cathedral’s outline atop the mountain blurred in the night, only the candles on the altar persisting brightly, illuminating the silent yet warm bridge between the living and the deceased.
Three hours later.
The candles on the altar had burned down to just short stubs.
Belsaria leaned against Victor’s side, tear marks still on her face, her prolonged sadness draining most of her strength.
“It’s time to go,” Victor said softly.
At night, there would be someone here in charge to ensure the candles’ continuous brightness.
Belsaria nodded obediently, allowing Victor to help her up. She couldn’t help but turn back to look a couple more times, her footsteps unsteady while Victor’s firm and strong arm supported her as they walked to the car.
Sitting in the car, she curled up in the back seat, tiredly closing her eyes; Victor sat beside her. He opened the window slightly, letting a bit of sour cool air in.
As the car approached the mountain’s base main road, another black sedan silently followed, after a moment traveling parallel, stopped ahead, Victor’s car window lowered a small crack.
Director George Smiley got out, walked to the window, his voice low and urgent:
“Supreme Leader, urgent report from the Medellin front, the drug traffickers are resisting fiercely, we’ve suffered significant losses, the front command requests authorization for ‘indiscriminate attack,’ to destroy the resistance core.”
The air inside the car froze.
Victor stared straight ahead, his face without a ripple, only the fingers resting on his lap reflexively curled slightly.
“Has the Military Department approved?”
“Yes, the Military Department has signed the order, waiting for your final directive.”
Victor glanced at the seemingly asleep Belsaria beside him, then returned his gaze toward Smiley, slightly tilting his head to indicate Smiley to come closer.