Chapter 14 – Among the Silent Peaks

Mountains are always called to Hulio Moreira. No matter where he stood—on dusty roads or the balcony of a luxury hotel—if there was a mountain in the distance, a part of him longed to climb it, to touch its summit, not merely admire it from afar.

To some, a mountain was a challenge. To others, a place of comfort. But for Hulio, it was home—or perhaps the only home that never asked him to change.

After his thunderous appearance at the Moreira family gala—an event that shook the lineage and unearthed buried history—everyone assumed Hulio would return to his old habits. Lavish apartments on Avenida Paulista, rooftop parties above glittering skyscrapers, or underground casinos in Rio de Janeiro where he used to gamble as if testing fate.

But no. Hulio disappeared from the spotlight. He didn't return to the city. He didn't return to the false life he once lived. His spirit, it turned out, was more like that of his true parents—drawn to silence and simplicity.

He invited his newfound companions, Diah Saraswati and Rendra—the son of Bima—to Mount Corcovado. An ancient hill in the heart of Rio de Janeiro, watched over by the statue of Christ the Redeemer with arms open wide.

At the mountain's slope stood a wooden house, once used by Mary Moreira before she married Dom Aureliano. Every weekend, a younger Mary would escape there, hiding from the lavish chaos of city life. The house had been her secret—from her husband, and from Antonio, her only child.

Now, Antonio and his family lived near the foot of the mountain, close enough to Leticia's school. And Mary's hidden home sat quietly above.

Antonio never used the Moreira name anymore—for safety, and for distance. It was no surprise that Dom Aureliano had never searched for them there.

When Hulio and his companions arrived, the house was locked and neglected. Dusty. Forgotten. Years had passed since Antonio had last visited, quietly returning to feel close to the mother he never truly knew. After military service, he would rest there, playing the classical music Mary once loved and baking bread in the morning.

Now, that house breathed again.

Hulio carried on a tradition two generations old. Together with Diah and Rendra, he grilled fish beneath an old guava tree in the backyard. He wore a worn wool sweater and hiking pants. From the edge of the hill, he gazed at the city, still wrapped in morning mist.

Sometimes, a black bird would perch on the wooden fence. And that morning, Leticia—his thirteen-year-old half-sister—arrived with bright eyes, accompanied by her parents.

Usually quiet, Leticia now giggled with Rendra, who was trying to learn Spanish.

Antonio said nothing. His son—once presumed dead—now sat only a few steps away, calling him father with a calm, steady voice.

And Teresa, once a famed actress, said nothing at all. She simply watched, as if protecting the fragile silence she'd finally found.

But silence never lasts.

From afar, the secret Hawkline route had reopened. Porto was moving again. And the inheritance Mary Moreira had kept hidden… would soon rewrite not just one generation, but the very foundation of the Moreira dynasty.

Among the clouds of Corcovado, Hulio knew one truth:

Mountains cannot be moved. But what grows on their slopes… can change the world.

---

– Shadows from the East

While the mist of Corcovado slowly faded under the morning sun, thousands of kilometers away, Bali's humid heat clung to a hidden villa in Ubud.

From the second-floor balcony, Mateo Moreira stood shirtless, staring at the lush valley. His coffee had gone cold. His eyes fixed on a blinking phone screen.

A message had arrived:

"Hulio appeared. At the family gala." —Luis Moreira.

Mateo didn't flinch. His jaw clenched. Fingers tightened around the phone until his knuckles turned white. He replayed the video—Hulio, standing calmly at the podium, dressed in black, his eyes slicing straight through the screen.

"Impossible…" Mateo muttered. "You were supposed to die on that mountain."

On the table beside him lay a folded map of Mount Rinjani, marked with red ink. Targets. Sites. Dead ends.

Mateo had originally come to Indonesia to locate his missing men—operatives sent to silence witnesses, including a man named Rendra.

But now… everything has changed.

Hulio hadn't just survived. He had walked into the lion's den, alone. And brought the dynasty to its knees.

He wasn't a ghost from the past. He was a threat. A crack in the foundation Mateo and his father had spent decades building.

The coffee cup shattered against the floor.

"That bastard didn't die…"

He called for his assistant.

"Cancel everything. Book a flight. Tonight. We're going back to São Paulo."

"What about the search in Rinjani, Senhor Mateo?"

"Forget it."

Within an hour, the villa was abandoned. Shutters closed. Pool untouched. And the soft echo of Balinese gamelan lingered, like a warning that came too late.

Mateo Moreira was returning to the battlefield—not as a shadow operator, but as a son of the dynasty whose throne was now under siege.

---

– A Midnight Call

Before leaving Bali, Mateo made one final call. He dialed a number he never saved—but knew by heart.

Three rings.

Then a voice answered—low, slurred with alcohol, layered with lounge music and women's laughter.

"Who the hell calls at this hour?" Julius grumbled.

"He's back," Mateo said.

"Who?"

"Hulio. He showed up. At the family gala dinner."

Mateo sent the video.

Silence.

Out on the balcony of a luxury suite in Monte Carlo, Julius Moreira—firstborn son of Dom Aureliano—froze. One hand gripped a glass of wine. The other was draped around a woman in satin.

But those words—"He's back"—hit harder than any slap.

"What did you say? Hulio? Alive?!"

The wine spilled from his hand. The woman on his lap shrieked as she fell and slammed into the marble couch.

"Not just alive. He's got documents. He even dared to threaten Grandfather."

"That's impossible. I'm the one who gave the—"

"Yes," Mateo cut him off. "We all know who sent the team to Rinjani. But apparently… the mountain failed to kill him."

Julius's jaw tightened. He stood and switched off the pulsing music from inside. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the woman. She left with an annoyed mutter.

"We need to talk. Get the jet ready."

"Already done. Meet me in São Paulo. One more thing…"

"What is it?"

"You need to clean everything. If Hulio starts digging... we'll be the first ones to burn."

Julius didn't reply. But the words struck deep.

His heart pounded.

And then, like a ghost from the past, something surfaced in his memory—

Mary Moreira's final will.

---

– The Contract Killer

Hitmen began to move. They stalked the big cities—São Paulo, Salvador, Recife. They asked around at docks, underground clubs, and old haunts where Hulio once thrived. Searching for traces. Searching for blood.

Hulio knew.

He had expected this ever since revealing himself at the gala. Everything the Moreiras tried to bury was now clawing to the surface. And his cunning uncle Julius—of course he wouldn't sit still.

For years, Hulio had stayed away from Julius and Mateo's dirty empire. Father and son—rotten fruit from the same poisoned tree. Whether Dom Aureliano knew or merely chose ignorance… Hulio didn't care.

He only cared about one thing: the legacy of Mary Moreira.

"I don't want their filthy fortune," he told Antonio one night. "Let them choke on their blood money. I only want what rightfully belongs to my grandmother—and the foundation she envisioned."

But now… his thoughts had shifted.

He realized one truth:

Staying silent allows evil to grow.

They wanted to come after him?

Let them.

"They want to play dirty?" Hulio said with a faint smile. "Fine. Let them sell. I'll buy. But they'd better not cry when they can't afford the price I demand."

---

– A Night Not Meant for Rest

That night, Hulio escorted Diah and Rendra back to Antonio's house near Corcovado's base. After a long day, they didn't question him when he said he needed some air.

He left without a word.

As he entered the Tijuca Forest, his body changed pace. He moved like a shadow, gliding between trees. Roots and branches couldn't touch him. Slumbering primates stirred briefly, sensing a presence—not a predator, not prey, but something else entirely.

In less than an hour, Hulio landed atop his old apartment in downtown Rio. Silent. Swift. He changed clothes—gray sweater, black pants, a neutral cap—and walked toward a nearby supermarket.

Behind him, a few men followed.

Plain clothes. Calm steps. But their eyes moved like hawks, and tiny mics hid in their collars.

They didn't know they were being watched.

After picking up a few meaningless items, Hulio left the store and chose a winding, dimly lit road home.

The men followed.

They thought they were the hunters.

But they had no idea—

Hulio had seen them the moment they stepped into his shadow.

That night, he wasn't the prey.

They had entered a trap.

***

They thought Hulio was just another man walking alone with a grocery bag.

Five hitmen. Trained. Armed. Overconfident.

They thought it would be easy.

But they didn't know one thing:

The mountain had shaped Hulio into something else.

When they cornered him in the back alley behind an old bakery, Hulio didn't flinch.

He smiled.

"Five against one?" Hulio chuckled. "Too bad... you're not even close to worthy."

"Bastard!" one of them growled, charging forward.

Hulio laughed. His uncle had underestimated him—again. These men weren't opponents.

They were street dogs. Hired muscle.

Did they really think they were worthy to face someone trained by the mountain's masters?

Then he moved.

Like mist. Silent. Precise. Deadly.

The first one dropped without a sound.

The second lost his weapon before he even blinked.

The third fired his gun—only to be used as a shield.

The fourth ran.

The fifth tried to fight. He ended up on the ground, gasping, shaking.

"Tell them," Hulio whispered to the last conscious one, "I've only just started to remember who I am."

Then he vanished into the night, leaving them scattered across the alley.

Not dead. But utterly defeated.