Chapter 4: Last Words and New Responsibilities

Arriving at Maple Heights, I was hurried by the Chief to meet Uncle Leo—Leonard Dalton—who was still alive, for now. The mansion was dark, heavy with the scent of cedar and loss, the silence broken only by the ticking of a grandfather clock in the hall.

It wasn’t the "one lion splits into two tigers" scene, nor the "keep playing music and dancing" one. No grand theatrics, just the quiet reality of decline.

I just saw an old man on the verge of death. Though he still had some heroic spirit, it was clear he wouldn’t last long. He looked like the type who’d once tossed hay bales or given campaign speeches in the rain, but now the light in his eyes was fading.

After all, this is Maple Heights. The heart of the Dalton world, once bustling, now fallen silent.

Right in front of me, Uncle Leo said to the Chief that famous line of entrusting his orphan:

"You are ten times better than Carl Pierce. If my son can assist you, help him; if he proves unfit, take the reins yourself."

He also told me: "You treat the Chief like you’d treat me—no, better. And make sure your brothers do too."

Unlike the story, Uncle Leo didn’t die immediately after entrusting his orphan. He hung on, stubborn as an old oak in a hurricane.

We stayed in Oakridge Manor at Maple Heights for a while. Occasionally, Leonard would sit up from bed, force himself to hold a morning meeting in his room, and discuss matters with the generals and officials. I’d watch from the corner, feeling like a freshman at my first student council meeting.

And I, now Crown Prince Andy, was called by Leonard—my old man—to listen in. He’d nod at me, eyes watery but sharp, and I’d try not to fidget under his gaze.

It was just the chance to recognize people. Besides Grant, I hadn’t seen the others much. But their names were already thunderous in my ears, each one enough to make me almost squeal with excitement.

For example, Zach Young, who once carried me through the Battle of Green Valley, charging in and out seven times. I’d seen his name on street signs and in textbooks, but nothing compared to seeing him argue strategy in the flesh.

For example, the two brothers Aaron King and Ben Sanders, whose bravery was no less than their fathers’. They looked so young, yet already carried the weight of generations on their shoulders.

Of course, I also saw those people who made me grit my teeth when reading the books. The traitors, the backstabbers, the ones who’d set the family on fire for a shot at glory.

I secretly took out a little notebook and marked a cross next to certain key figures. I felt a little like a spy in my own home.

Special mention to Matt Summers, who lost Gateway Junction, and Larry Young, the County Manager, who caused party strife and delayed the Chief’s campaigns up north. Their faces were burned into my memory, a warning not to trust too easily.

Those present and those absent, I’d remember them all in time. Every handshake, every side-glance—this was my education now.

With Andy’s memories, I wouldn’t call anyone by the wrong name, but I couldn’t recall the deeds of some people. Or maybe they never became famous later.

Or maybe they never became famous later. It doesn’t matter. You never know who’s going to end up on the front page.

These days, I personally attended my old man’s bedside. I brought him water, fluffed his pillows, tried to memorize every word he said.

Listening to him lecture, listening to him talk about kindness and character, listening to him say never to neglect even small good deeds. I scribbled his advice into my notebook, just in case I needed it later.

Also listening to him talk about everything from Central City to Pinewood, from the Battle of Red Creek to Wolf Hill. It was American history come alive, with all its heartbreak and hope.

I came too late and never saw his imposing and commanding side. The man in the stories was different—taller, louder, always ready with a plan.

Apart from that tumble at Green Valley, I could feel that Uncle Leo really loved Andy. Every glance, every squeeze of my hand, was a silent apology for a lifetime lost.

It’s a pity, in my eyes, he was just an aging lion, telling a little cub about his regrets and helplessness before it leapt over the mountain pass. I couldn’t help but feel like an imposter, a stand-in at the world’s most important bedside.

After all, I’m not his Andy. But I still listened very carefully. This was my first and only chance to receive my old man’s teachings.

Such a miraculous experience—every word counts. I memorized the shape of his hands, the sound of his voice, the way the morning light caught in his hair.