Mercenaries, I Will Be King Chapter 1675 - 1336:

"It's all about work."

He lied.

The falseness of his voice was so obvious he even despised it himself.

"That's how it is for soldiers, you know that. Border tension, exercises, deploynts... it's all routine."

Lana gazed at him, her amber eyes unusually clear under the light.

She didn't counter, didn't question, just watched him quietly like that.

This silence tornted Tor Khan more than any interrogation.

Because she chose to believe, or perhaps she knew he was lying but chose not to expose such a clumsy lie.

"Go take a hot bath."

Finally, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, her warm lips touched briefly and then were gone.

"You look very tired. I've already filled the bathtub with water."

Tor Khan nodded, watching her turn and walk towards the stairs.

The hem of her robe brushed against the wooden steps, making a rustling sound.

Suddenly, he had an impulse to call her back, to tell her everything, to kneel before her and confess his betrayal.

But he couldn't. The more she knew, the more dangerous it would be for her.

Barzani would not tolerate any potential informants, and Rashid's "cleaning" list would have no rciful exceptions.

As he headed towards the bathroom, he stopped at the foot of the stairs.

The door to the upstairs nursery was ajar, and from inside ca a sound like a kitten's cry.

Tor Khan gently pushed open the door and saw his three-month-old son Ali wriggling in the crib, his little face scrunched up in a frown.

The nanny Maria was trying to soothe him with a bottle, but the little one was clearly dissatisfied.

"Let ."

Tor Khan said softly, taking over the warm bottle.

He carefully picked up the soft little life, feeling its unreal lightness.

Ali gradually quieted in his arms, his big blue eyes peering at his father's face under the dim nightlight, his small hand unconsciously grabbing at his collar.

His son's hand was so small, yet so forceful.

Tor Khan looked at his son, at his sparse, light-colored hair, at his gently twitching nostrils, feeling the faint but tenacious heartbeat transmitted through the thin pajamas to his chest.

Suddenly, a suffocating panic gripped him.

What was he doing?

He was involved in a conspiracy to assassinate a national leader, in a coup that could lead to an all-out civil war.

This child he held in his arms, this little life he was willing to protect with his own life, how would he face a father whose hands were stained with the blood of his own people?

If the coup failed, he would die on the gallows, his body hung in the square for all to see.

Lana would beco the widow of a traitor, despised by others, and Ali would grow up in sha, branded as a "traitor's son."

And if it succeeded?

Would Barzani really allow all those who knew about it to live?

Rashid had made it clear—"eliminate all participants after the fact."

Like the saying goes, "Once the rabbit is dead, the hounds are cooked; once the birds are gone, the bow is put away" — it's an unchanging rule in the ga of power.

In Barzani's new order, he would only ever be a potential threat to be eradicated.

More importantly, did he really want to watch Masood die with his own eyes?

mories surged like a tide.

Ten years ago, his father, gravely ill from an old wound, was saved when Masood sent his personal doctor overnight, bringing a specific dicine that was unavailable in the Kurd Region at the ti.

Seven years ago, at his wedding with Lana, Masood personally attended to give his blessings, presenting Tor Khan with a ceremonial dagger passed down from his father, saying, "May it protect your family, as you protect this land."

Five years ago, when their first child with his wife died prematurely, Masood held his hand, those old hands warm and firm, saying, "Allah will have better plans, Tor Khan, keep your faith."

That old man was not just a political leader; he was an elder, a benefactor, a symbol of the Kurdish Nation's decades of struggle.

And now, he was about to send him to the gallows himself.

"Sir?" Maria gently reminded him, her voice tinged with uncertain fear, "Little Ali is asleep."

Only then did Tor Khan realize the child in his arms had closed his eyes, the bottle tilting to the side, a drop of milk sliding from the corner of his mouth.

He gently placed Ali back in the crib, moving as slowly as if handling a fragile porcelain.

He tucked the blanket around his son, planted a kiss on that smooth forehead — as his lips touched the soft skin, tears nearly sprung from his eyes.

Exiting the nursery, Tor Khan didn't head to the bathroom but turned into the study instead.

He locked the door, turned on the desk lamp, and the dim light illuminated this ten-square-ter private space.

The shelves were packed with books on military theory, history, and politics; on the wall hung photos and dals from his service, the desk piled with docunts and maps.

This was the study of a standard professional soldier.

He walked to the shelf, pulled out a heavy 'History of the Kurdish Nation' from the bottom layer, and opened the cover to reveal a hollowed-out compartnt.

Tor Khan took out an old wooden photo fra.

The glass was sowhat blurry, with the gilt at the edges peeling away to reveal the black wood underneath.

The photo showed a hillside outside Haraabja in the spring of 1988.

An eight-year-old Tor Khan stood in the middle, wearing ill-fitting traditional attire, grinning with a missing front tooth.

To the left was his twelve-year-old brother, Kareem, arm slung over his shoulder, eyes already showing a bit of teenage defiance.

To the right was his father, Mustafa, in his thirties, hair at the temples already graying, but standing straight as an old tree weathered by the frost yet refusing to fall.