The house was no longer quiet.
Not peaceful.
Not normal.
Voices filled the space.
Footsteps.
Doors opening.
People entering.
Han Chandu stood inside.
Calm.
Unmoving.
Because now—
The outside world—
Had followed him home.
His mother stood in the center.
Still.
Looking at him.
"…you killed that thing?"
No trembling.
No panic.
Only certainty.
She stepped closer.
Han Chandu didn't move.
She reached out.
Her hand stopped at his shoulder.
Then—
Pressed lightly.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"…you're injured."
Not a question.
A fact.
She didn't wait for an answer.
Her hand moved.
From shoulder—
To arm—
To chest.
Checking.
Carefully.
Han Chandu remained still.
Because this—
Was familiar.
"…deep cuts," she said quietly.
Her fingers paused at one place.
"…this one would've killed a normal person."
No emotion in her tone.
Only assessment.
She turned slightly.
Moved toward a cabinet.
Took out medicine.
Bandages.
Then returned.
"…sit."
Han Chandu sat.
She began treating the wounds.
Clean.
Precise.
No shaking hands.
No hesitation.
Only experience.
Behind them—
Voices still echoed.
Relatives.
Noise.
"…we saw it!"
"…he killed a Super!"
"…this is huge—"
His mother didn't react.
Didn't even look back.
Her focus remained.
"…hold still," she said.
Han Chandu didn't move.
The treatment continued.
Only after she finished—
Did she speak again.
"…don't come back like this again."
A pause.
Not a command.
Not anger.
Just a statement.
Han Chandu didn't reply.
Because he understood.
Then—
He stood.
Turned toward the others.
"…leave."
One word.
The room quieted.
Some hesitated.
"…we're family—"
One tried.
Han Chandu looked at him.
Calm.
Cold.
"…leave."
This time—
No one argued.
A quiet voice spread from outside:
"…clear the area."
Instantly—
People moved.
Left.
Because they understood.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
His mother sat down.
Finally.
She looked at him.
"…you've gone too far now."
Not fear.
Not rejection.
Understanding.
Han Chandu didn't answer.
Because now—
There was no going back.