"I'm sorry," the old man said, his voice heavy with resignation as he eyed the small crowd gathered at the gate. "They're stubborn."
"More than I expected," Vaidya replied, brushing off the concern with a wave. "Guess my theatrics sold it." His tone was light, but his blood-streaked jacket told a darker story.
Of the camp's original hundred-plus souls, only thirty had opted to follow him. The rest chose to stay, banking on bolstered defenses and their own grit to survive.
Vaidya couldn't fault them—when Harman ruled, this place rivaled his own in strength, brimming with young blood. Now, with that vitality snuffed out, the scales had tipped.
Fear and skepticism kept them rooted; many scoffed at the tale of an "alien man" saving anyone, dismissing it as a fable spun by a battered general.
Ignoring the ache gnawing at his shot-up frame, Vaidya stood tall, his spine rigid despite the pain.
