8
The Arthur family cemetery was eerily quiet, the only sound being the soft rustle of leaves in the cool night breeze. Tyler stood before his grandfather's grave, his expression unreadable.

At his feet lay the severed head of Don Gil, eyes staring lifelessly at the ground. Tyler bent down, placing the head gently on the grave.

“Grandfather, I have avenged you,” Tyler murmured, his voice carrying through the stillness of the night. “Don Gil is dead, but my work isn’t done. I’ll retrieve the family heirloom and restore the honor they stole from us. I promise you.”

He bowed his head for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself. The memories of the massacre haunted him, fueling his determination.

As he straightened up, his eyes blazed with resolve. He turned away from the grave and walked briskly toward the cemetery gates, disappearing into the darkness.

Meanwhile, at the Gil family villa, chaos and despair hung heavy in the air. The grand hall, once a place of opulence and pow
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