𝗪𝗵𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗧𝗶𝗴𝗲𝗿 [ʀᴡʙʏ x ᴍᴀʟᴇ ᴏᴄ]

Chapter 32

It was the grasslands of Vale, stretching endlessly under a sky tinged with hues of dusk. In the northern region, a lone figure moved through the tall grass-a blur of white and shadow. An animal, sleek and powerful, sprinted across the fields with an intensity that matched the winds chasing it. The tiger's form, stark and otherworldly, stood out against the golden expanse.

The scene was tranquil, almost serene, yet heavy with an undercurrent of tension. The tiger's movements were relentless, driven by instinct or something deeper, leaving a trail of disturbed grass in its wake as it vanished into the horizon.

The tiger slowed as it neared the edge of Vale, its massive paws sinking slightly into the soft earth of the cliffside. The sea stretched out before it, an endless expanse of shimmering blue, the waves crashing rhythmically against the rocky shoreline far below.

The tiger's gaze shifted to the distant horizon, where the sea met the sky. Over the other side lay the Kingdom of Atlas, its icy peaks and towering spires faintly visible through the shimmering haze of the ocean. The stark, cold kingdom stood as a contrast to the warmth of the sunlit Vale, its distant silhouette both imposing and familiar.

For a moment, it seemed as though the tiger might leap into the waters and swim toward that far-off land, driven by instinct or some lingering tether to its origin. But instead, it stayed rooted, its muscles taut with restrained energy.

For a moment, the tiger lowered its head, its ears flicking back as though listening to the whispers of the wind or the pull of the waves below. It was a moment of stillness, of silent reflection, before its eyes sharpened once more, and it turned its head inland.

The serene landscape slowly gave way to signs of human presence-a faint trail carved into the earth, broken twigs, and the distant hum of machinery.

Its sharp ears perked up, catching faint voices carried on the breeze, mingling with the rhythmic clinking of metal. Pushing forward, the tiger emerged through the brush to find itself staring at a military outpost, perched strategically near the border.

The structure was surrounded by tall metal fences, watchtowers armed with floodlights, and soldiers patrolling with precision. The emblem of the Atlas military gleamed on the armor of a few stationed personnel. The outpost's stark, sterile aesthetic was a jarring contrast to the natural beauty surrounding it.

It had been 10 days since the fall of Beacon, and the air still carried the acrid smell of smoke and destruction. From the Atlas military outpost near Vale's border, the gates creaked open, and a convoy of armored vehicles rolled in. At the center of the commotion, flanked by soldiers and commanding officers, emerged General James Ironwood.

His posture was as rigid as his polished armor, the weight of the recent events visible in the tight line of his jaw. He scanned the scene with sharp, calculating eyes, taking in every detail of the outpost's operations. Soldiers saluted as he passed, their movements crisp, but Ironwood's expression didn't falter.

As the tiger prowled closer to the edge of the outpost, its golden eyes locked onto General Ironwood. The imposing figure of the general stood tall among the soldiers, his commanding aura radiating authority and resolve. Something shifted within the tiger as it observed him.

The tiger froze mid-step, its claws sinking into the damp grass. A flicker of recognition seemed to flash in its eyes, an instinctive pull toward the man who had unknowingly shaped its destiny. The beast growled low, its body tense, as if wrestling with itself.

Ironwood's head turned sharply, his sharp gaze narrowing as he noticed the movement on the hill overlooking the outpost. For a brief moment, man and beast locked eyes across the distance.