"He's here!" a young woman called from outside the conference room of the Kingdom Hotel as she caught sight of the man in a suit walking through the glass doors. Her face lit up with excitement, and she waved eagerly.
Hearing her voice, another woman inside the room stood and walked toward the entrance.
"Davin! What took you so long?" the young woman exclaimed as soon as he came close enough. She threw her arms around him. "We saw the news—you didn't tell us you were going on a mission!"
Davin gave a small, apologetic smile. "Is everyone here already?"
"All of them," she said with a grimace. "And they're angry."
"You're late," came a stern voice from behind her. A woman—elegant yet sharp in presence—stepped out of the conference room. "And look at you. You just arrived, and instead of coming straight to your family, you went on a mission?"
"I'm home," Davin said softly, leaning down to kiss his mother on the cheek. "Is the General—"
"I am here," a commanding voice interrupted.
All three turned their heads as a tall man appeared in the doorway, his very stance radiating authority.
"Sir!" Davin snapped to attention and saluted.
"I just received a call from the President's secretary," the General said flatly.
"I'll write my report after this," Davin replied, keeping his tone disciplined.
"You shouldn't test the secretary's patience," his father said with a knowing look. "You know he's not a man who likes to wait." Then, his stern expression softened slightly. He placed a hand on Davin's shoulder. "You look in good shape. How about a quick sparring round before dinner?"
A grin tugged at Davin's lips. "I'd like that."
With that, father and son walked together into the conference hall, leaving the mother and daughter by the doorway.
The young woman frowned. "Isn't he supposed to be angry at him for being late?" she asked in disbelief.
Her mother laughed quietly. "Let's go inside." She took her daughter's hand and led her toward the room.
"I'll never understand those two," the girl muttered.
"I agree," her mother said with a smile. "They're far too alike."
Inside, the rest of the family was already gathered. A long table filled with food stretched beneath a banner that read:
"Congratulations on Your Retirement, Demon General!"
The air buzzed with pride and nostalgia. For decades, General Andrew Bryant had served his country with unwavering loyalty. Now, at last, he was ready to step down—to trade the battlefield for peace, the command center for a home.
He had already bought an estate far from the city, a quiet place where he could finally live as a husband and a father—not just a soldier. And with Davin now ready to carry on his legacy, the General could finally rest, knowing his name and honor would live on.
The conference hall buzzed with quiet laughter and clinking glasses as Davin and his father slipped through a side door leading to the hotel's private training room—a space reserved for special guests, lined with padded flooring and mirrored walls.
The General removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves with slow precision, his movements deliberate and dignified, as if even this—sparring with his son—was a ceremony.
"You've improved," he said, glancing at Davin's stance. "Your balance is better. The academy must've kept you busy."
"They did," Davin replied, already in position. "But not half as busy as you kept me when I was younger."
A rare smile crossed the General's face. "Then this should be easy for you."
They circled each other in silence.
The first move came from Davin—fast, precise, testing. The General parried it effortlessly, countering with a sweep that forced his son back two steps. The impact echoed faintly off the walls.
Davin straightened, grinning. "Still fast for a retired man."
"Retired," his father said, advancing, "not old."
Their strikes and counters blurred into rhythm—sharp movements that carried the weight of years of training together. Each clash of arms was both a lesson and a conversation: a father teaching, a son challenging.
Then, with one quick feint, Davin managed to disarm his father's hold and land a clean strike to the chest—light, controlled, but enough to make the General pause.
Silence filled the room.
The General looked at him, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, then laughed—a deep, genuine laugh that startled even himself. "Finally," he said. "You beat me."
Davin lowered his hands. "You let me."
"No," his father replied, breathing evenly. "You earned it."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The tension dissolved into quiet understanding.
"I wasn't sure if I was ready to leave the service," the General said after a while, his tone softer now. "But watching you fight... I think I can finally rest."
Davin looked at him, pride and respect mingling in his expression. "You've earned your peace, Dad."
The General placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "No, we have."
A knock at the door broke the stillness. It was Davin's sister, peeking inside. "Dinner's starting! Are you two done trying to kill each other?"
The General chuckled. "Just finished proving I'm still the better man."
Davin smirked. "We'll let the scoreboard decide that."
As they left the training room side by side, the General straightened his uniform and gave one last glance at the mats—his battleground for decades, now just a floor beneath his feet. For the first time in years, he felt light.
The banquet hall glowed beneath golden chandeliers, their light shimmering across polished glasses and crisp white linen.
Uniformed officers, old comrades, and family friends filled the room—each face turned toward the man of the hour: General Andrew Bryant, known to the country as The Demon General.
He stood tall at the head of the long table, posture still sharp despite the years etched in his expression. The medal on his chest gleamed faintly as he raised a glass.
"Tonight," he began, his voice calm but commanding, "I stand not as a general, but as a husband, a father, and a man grateful for the years given to him."
Applause rippled through the hall.
He continued, "For decades, I have served this nation with every breath I had. But every soldier knows—sooner or later—the battle ends. And when it does, the only thing that remains is the family waiting for you to come home."
His wife smiled from her seat, her eyes glistening with pride.
Andrew lifted his glass toward Davin. "My son," he said, voice steady, "has grown into the man I once dreamed I could be. Strong. Steady. And far wiser than I was at his age."
Davin rose slightly, giving a modest nod. "I learned from the best," he said simply.
The General chuckled softly, then gestured toward his daughter. "And this one—she's the only reason I still know how to smile." Laughter broke the solemn air, lightening the atmosphere.
As the toast concluded, waiters began serving the first course. The buzz of conversation filled the hall again—old war stories retold, laughter mingled with clinking glasses. The General moved from table to table, greeting old friends, shaking hands that once held rifles beside him.
Davin watched him for a moment, admiring the man who had once seemed invincible.
His mother leaned close and whispered, "He looks lighter tonight, doesn't he?"
"He does," Davin said. "Like he finally put the war down."
Then, the lights dimmed slightly. A projector hummed to life, casting images across the front wall: photographs from the General's long career—battlefields, parades, medals, his younger face framed by dust and duty.
The room grew quiet.
As the slideshow faded, the President's Secretary, seated at one of the front tables, stood and approached the stage. His presence drew murmurs—unexpected, sharp.
"General Bryant," he began formally, "on behalf of the Office of the President, we thank you for your service."
Polite applause followed, but his next words carried a different weight.
"However," he continued, glancing briefly at Davin, "your retirement does not mark an end. It marks a transition. The nation still needs men like you—and your son."
The General's eyes narrowed faintly. "I was told tonight would be my last command."
"It will be," the Secretary said with a small, knowing smile. "But before that, there is one final matter. A mission—classified, urgent. And we believe Lt. Commander Davin Bryant is the man to lead it."
Whispers erupted across the room. Davin's sister froze mid-bite. His mother's smile faltered.
Davin stood slowly. "Sir," he said carefully, "with all due respect, this is my father's night."
"Indeed," the Secretary replied. "And what better way to honor his name than to continue his legacy?"
The General exhaled, long and steady. Then, after a pause, he turned to his son.
"You don't have to accept," he said quietly.
Davin met his father's eyes. "Would you have?"
The General smiled faintly. "No. But that's why I'm proud of you."
The hall fell silent once more—two generations standing between peace and duty, both knowing what choice would be made.
Davin straightened his uniform. "Then I'll take it, sir."
His father raised his glass again, eyes glinting with both pride and sorrow. "To the next chapter," he said.
Glasses lifted all around, though none as steady as his.