{"id":8967,"date":"2025-12-19T06:21:40","date_gmt":"2025-12-19T06:21:40","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/?p=8967"},"modified":"2025-12-19T06:21:42","modified_gmt":"2025-12-19T06:21:42","slug":"the-son-runs-out-his-rancher-father-from-the-mansion-little-did-he-know-that-the-old-man-was-a-billionaire-and-owned-everything-get-out-of-my-house-old-man","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/?p=8967","title":{"rendered":"The son RUNS OUT his rancher father from the mansion. Little did he know that the old man was a BILLIONAIRE and owned EVERYTHING. \u2014Get out of my house, old man."},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Posted onEric<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilherme’s voice sliced \u200b\u200bthrough the air of the living room like a whip. There was marble beneath his Italian shoes, lamps that shimmered like private constellations, and an expensive silence that seemed to belong to someone\u2026 until the solid wood door burst open and Osvaldo’s worn suitcases flew out onto the sidewalk like trash. The father said nothing at first. He just stared at his own hands: large, cracked, with nails worn smooth by years of soil and labor. Hands that had built fences, healed animals, sustained a family when there was nothing but sun and hunger.
\"\"<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo wore an old hat and simple cattle rancher’s clothes. In that mansion, his presence was an unwelcome shadow, a memory Guilherme wanted to erase. And yet, that “memory” was the origin of everything: his son’s studies, the expensive suit, the surname spoken with respect at gatherings, the immaculate garden behind the high walls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sabrina, Guilherme’s wife, appeared like a perfume that was too sweet and too strong. She didn’t even have the courtesy to call him “sir.” She said it as if she were spitting out a word: “Osvaldo.” Her gaze traveled over his stained boots, his work pants, his hat. And in her eyes there was no doubt, only contempt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“The party’s this Saturday,” she announced, the phone still warm in her hand. “Important people will be there. The banker’s wife. People who matter. And you… you can’t be here.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\nhttps:\/\/0a1181c359d35c223b3458cc4b8ef3e2.safeframe.googlesyndication.com\/safeframe\/1-0-45\/html\/container.html\n<\/div><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo slowly chewed a piece of bread with cheese on the back terrace, watching a bird in the garden as if the world were simple, as if life were not full of masks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“I like parties, girl,” he said calmly. “If you want, I can even grill some meat.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sabrina let out a laugh that had no humor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014Grilling meat? Do you think this is a ranch? Good heavens\u2026 you’re going to embarrass us. Your clothes, the way you talk, your mannerisms\u2026 you’re going to ruin everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\nhttps:\/\/0a1181c359d35c223b3458cc4b8ef3e2.safeframe.googlesyndication.com\/safeframe\/1-0-45\/html\/container.html\n<\/div><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

At that moment, Guilherme entered, adjusting his tie. Ready for \u201chis\u201d business, \u201chis\u201d life, \u201chis\u201d image. He saw Sabrina’s tense face, and her father standing upright, like a tree that has learned to withstand storms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“What’s wrong?” he asked, tired before he even started.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“I’m telling your father he can’t stay for the party,” Sabrina replied, crossing her arms. “He’ll embarrass us.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilherme looked at Osvaldo. And Osvaldo saw, like someone recognizing a wounded animal, the hesitation in his son. He saw the fear. Fear of not being accepted by those people with their refined laughter, fear of being looked at as “the caipira’s son,” fear of feeling that everything he had built could crumble with a single glance from another.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Dad\u2026” Guilherme began, adjusting his tie as if that gesture could ease his conscience. “Sabrina’s right. Maybe\u2026 maybe it would be best if you took a vacation.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo blinked, as if the blow had been not a word but a fist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Vacation?” he repeated softly. “Vacation from what, son? From seeing you?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“That’s not it,” Guilherme stammered, but Sabrina finished him off with practical cruelty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014Of course that’s it. You don’t fit in. You walk around the house in those dirty boots. You talk to the staff like they’re your friends. You’re an embarrassment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The word \u201cshame\u201d dulled the taste of the bread for Osvaldo. He sat up slowly. He didn’t shout. He didn’t swear. But his voice came out with a weight that wasn’t anger, but history.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014I’m your husband’s father, girl. Show some respect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Respect is earned,” she spat. “And you haven’t done anything to deserve it in this circle.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo felt the air grow heavier. He looked at his son the way one looks at someone who is getting lost.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014I gave you everything\u2014he said. \u2014I worked from sunrise to sunset so you could study, so you wouldn’t have to get your hands dirty like I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilherme swallowed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014And I appreciate it, Dad. I really do. But things have changed. I have a position. I’m president. I have an image\u2026 and, frankly, the \u201ccattle rancher’s son\u201d image doesn’t help in business.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was a physical pain. Osvaldo felt an emptiness in his chest, as if someone had ripped a piece of his heart out with pliers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“President?” he whispered. “Do you really think you’re president?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilherme exploded, with the frustration of months and the arrogance of years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014I’m the president! I make the decisions! You wouldn’t even understand what I’m doing! You’re stuck in the past, with your cows and your pasture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sabrina, impatient, issued her ultimatum like someone signing a death warrant:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014Either he leaves, or I leave. And if I leave, I’m taking half of everything you think you own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilherme paled. And Osvaldo understood in that instant that the choice had already been made. Not out of love, but out of fear. The son chose the false brilliance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Dad, please pack your bags,” said Guilherme, now coldly. “Don’t make it any harder.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo walked toward his little room at the back of the house, that small room they had \u201cassigned\u201d him as if he were an unwelcome guest. He packed some clothes, an old book, and a framed photograph of Helena, his deceased wife, the woman who had loved him when he was just a man with dreams and mud on his boots, into his worn leather suitcase.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he returned, Guilherme was on the phone talking about business as if nothing had happened. Sabrina was filing her nails.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“I’m ready,” Osvaldo said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Good,” Guilherme replied without looking at him. “I ordered a ride-hailing car. It’ll take you to the terminal. You can go back to the farm. That’s where you belong.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“An app car?” Osvaldo repeated, incredulous.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“We’re not going to spend money on a driver for this,” Sabrina said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo put his hand on the door handle. He paused for a moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Guilherme,” he said. “Are you going to regret this?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The son finally looked at him. And in his eyes there was contempt, not pain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014I doubt it. You’re a burden, Dad. I’m finally getting rid of him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then Sabrina took the suitcases and threw them into the street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014Get out of my house, old man!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The door slammed shut. Osvaldo lay on the sidewalk, beneath the manicured trees of a wealthy street. A car pulled up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Terminal?” the driver asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo took a deep breath. The betrayal burned like an open wound. But beneath the pain, something older stirred: a firm coldness, a resolve that needed no shouting. He gazed at the mansion like someone looking at something that belongs to them and that has been defiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple, old, no-frills cell phone. He dialed a number from memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Vicente,” he said, his voice steady. “It’s me, Osvaldo. The boy kicked me out of the house… Okay. The test’s over. He failed. Start all over again.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And as the car moved forward, Osvaldo didn’t go toward the terminal. He changed course, heading for the heliport. Because the man who had been expelled wasn’t a poor old man. He was the silent owner, the true architect of everything Guilherme thought he possessed. And that morning, the owner had decided to return.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From nine o’clock onwards, the cards stopped working as if the city had shut down just for them. Guilherme tried to pay for a coffee at a meeting: “Not approved.” He laughed nervously, feeling everyone’s eyes on him. Sabrina, in an exclusive boutique, watched her world crumble as her card was declined again and again. She shouted, “Do you know who I am?” and, for the first time, no one seemed to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the company, the secretary Clara received him with a calmness that was painful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014Mr. Guilherme\u2026 the bank called. The suppliers won’t send the trucks until an old invoice is paid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Absurd!” he roared. “I am the president!”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He turned on the computer. He typed his password. \u201cAccess denied.\u201d He tried again. \u201cAccess denied.\u201d A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. When the technician arrived, his voice was trembling:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014Sir\u2026 your access was revoked by the parent company. By order of Mr. Vicente.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Vicente works for me!” Guilherme spat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The technician swallowed hard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014With all due respect\u2026 I don’t think so. He’s the CEO of the group. His company\u2026 is just a division.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The phrase broke his heart. Then came the final blow: a court officer handed him a document in the hallway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBreach of contract. Vacate the property. 24 hours.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“They can’t kick me out of my own house,” Guilherme murmured.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“According to this, sir, the house is not yours,” the man replied. “And your position… has also been terminated. With immediate effect.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two guards he’d never seen before approached to escort him. The power he’d used as a shield evaporated in seconds. He ran to the parking lot and discovered his car also belonged to the company. He tried to start it. Nothing. Everything was shutting down, piece by piece, as if an invisible hand were unplugging his life. And, without meaning to, Guilherme began to suspect something that frightened him: that hand smelled of earth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That night, the city seemed different to him. He wandered aimlessly. The cold bit him. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. He saw people eating behind windows, laughing, living, and he felt like he belonged to no one. He sat on a park bench, his expensive suit wrinkled, his eyes red. For the first time in years, he had nothing to command.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked for a public phone and called Sabrina with coins he found in his pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“What did you do?” she yelled at him. “There are guards at the door! They say they’re evicting us. They say the house isn’t ours.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014I didn’t do anything\u2026 he’s my father. He’s Vicente. Everything\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sabrina let out a hysterical laugh that turned cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Your father? The caipira?”\u2014and then, as if an idea struck her\u2014”Wait\u2026 I’m reading the papers\u2026 Vicente is the president of the holding company. And if Vicente is an employee\u2026 then who’s the owner? Think, Guilherme. Who?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilherme leaned on the phone, feeling dizzy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“No\u2026” she whispered. “It can’t be.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Yes, he can,” she said. “The old man owns everything. And you called him ‘dead weight.'”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilherme felt like he was running out of air. He wanted to talk about \u201cus,\u201d about apologizing together, about fixing things. But Sabrina cut him off with a sentence that truly left him alone:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014There is no \u201cus\u201d. I wasn’t born into poverty. They come looking for me. You\u2026 you fend for yourself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The line went silent. Guilherme held the receiver as if he were holding a corpse. He was left alone with the night, with hunger, and with a childhood memory: himself as a small boy on the farm, afraid of the bulls, and his father gently lifting him up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be afraid, son. Respect the earth and the earth will take care of you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When did respect become shame?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at his soft hands, hands that had never built anything. And he understood something brutal: without his father’s invisible money, he didn’t know how to be. He didn’t know how to live.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At dawn, he went to a pawnshop and sold the luxury watch he’d bought to celebrate himself. They gave him a pittance compared to its real value, but it was the first time Guilherme had ever touched money that wasn’t borrowed out of someone else’s pride. He bought bread, water, a cheap backpack, and secondhand clothes. He threw the suit in a basket. He looked at himself in a broken mirror and for a moment saw a stranger\u2026 and felt, strangely, a relief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He took a bus to the town near the farm. Twelve hours of jolts and introspection. Each bump peeled away a layer of arrogance. Upon arriving, he walked thirty kilometers along a dirt road at night, filled with fear and determination, driven by a single desire: to see his father. Not for money. For forgiveness. To learn how to build something real.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he finally saw the simple wooden gate, with the name of the ranch hand-painted on it and worn smooth by time, he stopped. Humility trembled in his knees. He pushed open the gate. The farm smelled of grass, of life. It wasn’t a “poor farm”: it was an immense, discreet complex, with technology, solar panels, genetic research. And in the middle of it all, the heart: the barn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was Osvaldo. Not in a billionaire’s suit, but in grease-stained overalls. He was laughing with Dami\u00e3o, the foreman. The laughter died when he saw his son’s silhouette in the doorway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They looked at each other. Silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Boss… I’ll leave you two,” murmured Dami\u00e3o, passing by Guilherme with a hard look.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo wiped his hands with a rag. He looked him up and down: the cheap clothes, the dusty sneakers, the tired face, the wrist without a watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014So the \u201cpresident\u201d came to visit the caipiras \u2014he said, without raising his voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilherme felt the phrase pierce his chest. He deserved that and more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Dad…” she began, but her throat broke. “I…”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Did you come to ask for your house? Your position? Your credit cards?” Osvaldo approached, and there was no fury, only disappointment. A disappointment so great it seemed to fill the air. “The last time I saw you, I was dead weight.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“No…” Guilherme shook his head, and the tears finally came. “I don’t want any of that. I… I saw what I am without you. I’m nothing. I only know how to spend. I only know how to pretend. I… I want to learn.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo stared at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014Learn what? How to sign checks?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014To work\u2014 said Guilherme. \u2014To understand the land. To build something with my hands. To be\u2026 someone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo observed it like someone evaluating a broken tool: not to humiliate it, but to decide if it still works.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He went to a wardrobe and took out some old rubber boots and a dirty pair of overalls. He threw them at his feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“The back stable is full of manure,” he said. “If you want to start, you start there. The farmhands’ dormitory is behind the kitchen. Hard bed. Cold shower. Food at five in the morning and six in the evening. If you’re late, you’ll go hungry.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilherme swallowed. The smell of the overalls hit him before he even touched them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014And\u2026 you? \u2014she whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo approached, face to face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“I’m not your father here. I’m your boss. And you’re not my son. You’re the new pawn. You’ll do what Dami\u00e3o says. And if you complain even once… I’ll fire you as quickly as you fired me from that mansion. Understood?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilherme, his face wet, took the boots as if they were an oath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014Yes, sir\u2014 he said. \u2014Understood, boss.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And that was the first spark of its reconstruction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first few days were hell. The manure was like a wall. The work tore the skin off his hands. His muscles screamed. The other farmhands watched him suspiciously, waiting for him to give up, as those who live by words always do. But Guilherme didn’t give up. He learned the rhythm of the farm. He learned to be quiet and listen. One day, Dami\u00e3o threw him some mutton tallow ointment and a pair of old gloves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“It’ll burn, but it’ll heal,” he grumbled. “Be grateful your father taught me not to waste a pair of arms, even if they’re soft.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Weeks. Months. The man in the suit became a different person. His skin tanned in the sun. His hands grew rough. He stopped hating the land. He began to understand the peace of real work: repairing a fence, watching a calf being born, eating rice and beans after a hard day and feeling that he had earned it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One day Osvaldo called him to his office, a room full of books on genetics, agronomy, and philosophy. Guilherme entered through the back door, like any other employee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014Dami\u00e3o says you’re good with numbers \u2014Osvaldo said\u2014. You reorganized the warehouse inventory and food waste went down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilherme lowered his gaze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014I just\u2026 fixed what was wrong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo watched him. And for the first time in a long time, something akin to pride appeared in his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have a problem at a logistics company abroad,\u201d he said. \u201cVicente needs someone he can trust. Not as president. As a junior auditor. Fair salary. Simple life. Real work.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilherme looked at his calloused hands. It wasn’t a return to the throne. It was the first real step.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“I won’t disappoint him,” she said, with a newfound firmness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo let out a small gesture, almost a smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014Go take a bath. You’re not going to get on the plane smelling like a barn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Years passed. Guilherme traveled, worked his way up from the bottom, slept in humble places, listened to the workers before the directors, fixed financial leaks and also leaks of pride. He never asked for luxuries. He never again sought a life of appearances. And every week he spoke with his father in short calls, where Osvaldo always asked the same thing:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014What’s the soil like there?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And Guilherme would respond by describing the ground, the weather, the people. They had found a new language: the language of reality.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he finally returned to the farm, he stepped out of the helicopter with his own suitcase, dressed simply, with a quiet authority that didn’t need shouting. Osvaldo was waiting for him on the terrace, in his rocking chair. He looked older, more frail, but his eyes were still steely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014Dad\u2014 said Guilherme.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Son,” Osvaldo replied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And they hugged. A long hug. No speeches. No applause. Just two men who had been lost and had finally found each other in the right place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the office, Vicente had documents on the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Good job,” he said with a genuine smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo pointed to the main chair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014Sit down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilherme hesitated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014That’s your chair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m tired of sitting around,\u201d Osvaldo replied. \u201cI\u2019m a cattle rancher. My place is in the countryside. And you\u2026 you proved you understand the land and the spreadsheets. Not by inheritance. By merit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Vicente slipped a document over his shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014This makes you CEO of the holding company.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilherme looked at him, and then looked at his father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“I don’t want to,” he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Vicente and Osvaldo remained still.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot only that,\u201d Guilherme clarified. \u201cVicente, you\u2019re the best in the city. The empire needs you there. But I\u2026 I\u2019m not going to confine my life to a building. The foundation of everything is here. On the farm. In the land.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She smiled, looking at Osvaldo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014Unless the boss still needs me to clean stables.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Osvaldo let out a genuine laugh, one that comes from the chest and not from pride.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Dami\u00e3o will never let you go,” he said. “But I think I can give you my office.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And at dusk, father and son gazed at the grass, golden in the sun. It wasn’t just wealth. It was a legacy built with dirty hands and a steadfast heart. Guilherme put his arm around Osvaldo’s shoulders, the old man he had expelled, the silent billionaire who owned everything\u2026 but, above all, his father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“It’s beautiful,” Osvaldo said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“That’s all, Dad,” Guilherme replied calmly. “That’s all.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And there, in the silence of the countryside, they understood the lesson the city never teaches: respect isn’t bought, it’s cultivated. Like the land. Like life. Like love, which, when it’s true, always finds its way back.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Posted onDecember 17, 2025 by Eric Guilherme’s voice sliced \u200b\u200bthrough the air of the living room like a whip. There was marble beneath his Italian shoes, lamps […]<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":8965,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-8967","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorised"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8967","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=8967"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8967\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8968,"href":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8967\/revisions\/8968"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/8965"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8967"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=8967"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/news5.chainityai.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=8967"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}