Brothel Manager : Unexpected Encounter with A Hidden Family Heirloom Chapter 507 507: Sorry For My Mis-Conduct!

The sun had not yet risen, and a faint gray of sea hue hung over the battlefield as Patriarch Ryon of the Taurus family rushed through the cold morning mist. His face was tense, a mixture of worry and frustration etched deep into his expression.

He reached the entrance of the royal tent, the flap swaying in the gentle breeze. Inside, his wife, the matriarch Maya, sat before a swirling circle of incense, deep in a ritual. Her eyes were half-closed in concentration, the air thick with the scent of burning herbs.

Ryon hesitated for a mont before stepping inside. He didn't want to disturb her, but ti was slipping away. Standing to the side, he cleared his throat. "Maya, we need a strategy for today's battle."

Maya didn't open her eyes, her lips murmuring softly as the incense continued to burn. A long, uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she opened her eyes and looked at him. Her face was calm, but there was a glimr of uncertainty in her eyes.

"I'm not confident about my thoughts today," she admitted, her voice quiet, almost hesitant.

"My intuition says we will get the upper hand today, but sothing feels off. I can't fully trust it." She sighed, folding her hands in her lap. "It might be best to take a defensive stand. Play it safe."

Ryon's face fell, the weight of her uncertainty hitting him like a blow. He had co to this war with full confidence in his wife's abilities. She had always guided them with precision, but now, his major advantage felt nullified.

"Defensive..." he repeated, more to himself than to her, his voice heavy with disappointnt. Without another word, he nodded and left the tent, his shoulders slumped under the burden of uncertainty.

-

anwhile, on the Faurus family side, the morning was already buzzing with activity. The patriarch, flanked by twelve commanders, stood outside Das's tent. The air was tense, every eye fixed on the closed flap of the tent as they debated among themselves how to approach the situation.

One of the commanders, a stocky man with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward. "I'll wake him," he grunted before marching into the tent.

"Bam…"

A mont later, a loud crash echoed outside, and the commander was thrown out, landing hard on his back. He blinked in confusion, still unsure how he had been kicked out so swiftly.

The others looked at each other, stunned. With a collective sigh, they entered the tent, the patriarch trailing behind them.

"Das... Das, wake up!" several commanders called out. Their voices were urgent, but there was a mixture of fear and respect in their tone.

"The patriarch has co to see you. Please, get up!"

Das lay sprawled on his bed, half-buried under a heavy blanket. His face was obscured, only a tuft of hair visible above the covers. Slowly, with a groggy groan, he pulled the blanket down just enough to reveal his tired eyes. He stared at the gathering of commanders with annoyed expression.

"What do you want? Can't you see I'm still sleeping?" He muttered, his voice deep with sleep.

"Das, the patriarch is here. Don't forget your manners." A commander stepped forward and spoke in a commanding tone.

Das let out a long, exaggerated sigh, wincing slightly from the pain of his wounds. "Sorry," he said in a weak, sarcastic tone. "I'm suffering from severe injuries, or I'd be bowing before the patriarch. My deepest apologies for my misconduct."

The commanders exchanged awkward glances. They didn't know how to handle this. None of them had ever seen a man speak so casually, so flippantly, in front of the patriarch. Their eyes eventually turned to the patriarch himself, who stood silently, his face unreadable.

After a mont, the patriarch sighed heavily and gave a subtle nod to the head commander.

"Mohan Das," the head commander began, stepping forward.

"The patriarch wants you to participate in the war today. It would be a sha for a warrior of your caliber to sit out. Your efforts in saving the princess have proven your strength and skill. The battlefield needs you."

Das, still lying flat, didn't bother to lift his head. His voice ca out muffled under the blanket. "What happened to your brain, commander? My role is to look after the servants' section. I'm just a commander of the 13th segnt, which belongs to the servants and workers. I'm happy where I am.

Don't try to complicate my life with your honorary words."

The head commander's face flushed with irritation. "Then why did you save the princess yesterday if you're just a 'servant commander'?" he snapped.

But his question was t with silence. The only sound was Das's loud, rhythmic snoring.

The commanders stood in stunned silence, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Finally, the patriarch, his face a mask of disappointnt, turned away with a grunt, signaling the others to follow.

As they left the tent, the head commander looked back at the blanket in frustration, muttering under his breath, "Unbelievable."

Monts later, as the commanders disappeared into the early morning haze.

After another Half-hour…

The sound of soft footsteps approached Das's tent. The flap was pulled back gently, and Princess Amara stepped inside, her face pale but serious. Her heart raced as she spotted Das, still sprawled under his blanket. She approached his bedside, her voice soft but urgent.

"Das?"

"Are you awake?" She called, her voice tinged with emotion.

Das stirred slightly but didn't move.

Amara knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch the blanket. "I… I wanted to thank you. For saving . I owe you my life." She whispered, her voice cracking with emotion.

Das opened one eye lazily and groaned. "Princess," he mumbled, "I'm trying to sleep. Can't this wait?"

"You risked your life for . You bled for . And… and I didn't even thank you." She insisted, her voice firm.

"Then what about the hundred thousand soldiers who fell in the battle to save you? Did you thank them?" Das's voice ca sharp this ti.

-

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