[Memory Sequence – Operation "Ghost Wind" | Syrian Border, Nightfall]
The wind howled like it had teeth, kicking sand into every crack of my gear. I crouched low behind a rusted pipeline, finger resting near the trigger. My thermal visor lit up four heat signatures in the room ahead—tight formation, too comfortable.
"Ghost Unit, report," I said into the comm, voice barely above the wind.
"West flank secure," Nova responded. "Three down. No movement."
"East team's in position," Vek added, steady as always.
I marked the wall and tapped my wristpad. My drone above blinked green. Flashbang primed.
Three… two…
Pop!
I moved before the echo faded. Breaching the thin wall, I put two suppressed rounds into the first pair of targets—headshots, clean and fast. The third turned just in time to see me before my blade found his throat. I caught the fourth as he raised his weapon, swept his leg, and drove the knife through his chest before he hit the ground.
"Room clear," I said, standing as if I hadn't just killed four men.
No hesitation. No wasted breath.
I glanced at the timer on my HUD. 03:27 since breach.
Vek stepped in behind me, rifle sweeping. "You're a damn ghost, Commander."
I smirked faintly. "Move. Hostage is below. If she dies, this border turns into hell."
A whistle cut through the air—reinforcements. At least a dozen, judging from the vibration of boots in the steel tunnel.
"Nova," I called. "Collapse the north passage. Now."
"Roger."
The countdown on my visor hit zero. BOOM!
The explosion rocked the refinery. Concrete and fire crashed down behind us as the metal tunnel caved in. I didn't flinch. My focus was forward—always forward.
Through fire, screams, and chaos—I moved.
______
My eyes snapped open, but everything was dark. Not that it mattered—I wasn't in the mood to see anything anyway.
"Eugene Larson," I muttered, my voice barely a whisper. "CEO of the largest security and mercenary company in the world. Over a hundred billion dollars in value. I wasn't just some suit behind a desk—I was on the field with my men. I was a bloodthirsty man who found a way to get paid doing the one thing he loved most. Killing."
[Second Milestone Achieved: 3% Memory Unlocked]
With the little I'd remembered, I knew one thing: I was strong, rich, and had a family that loved me. So how the hell does a man like that become a prisoner of heaven?
I reached for my temple, but a sharp ache made me pull my hand back. A soft groan slipped from my lips as I slowly sat up. Every joint and muscle in my body throbbed.
"Lucky I didn't break a limb or two," I muttered with a sigh.
Clank!
The sound of a door unlocking caught my attention. It creaked open. Natasha stood there, holding a medieval torch. The smoke made me wrinkle my nose as I shot her a cold glare. She flinched and quickly shut the door.
A few seconds later, it opened again. This time, she stepped in and walked straight to the window. She pulled the curtains aside.
Moonlight spilled into the room. I blinked, my eyes adjusting as I stared at the full moon hanging high in the sky. The view was... beautiful. Calming. Just what I needed after nearly dying to bloodthorns and a flesh-eating gem.
"God... I didn't sign up for this," I muttered under my breath.
Now that I could see clearly, I took a good look at the room.
The bed wasn't anything like what we had back in America, but it wasn't bad either. An elegant four-poster, thick with old-world charm.
Near the window stood an ornate desk with an ink set, parchment, and even sealing wax.
"What kind of world is this?" I whispered, frowning.
I glanced at the hearth—it wasn't lit. Bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes lined the walls. Between them hung portraits of people dressed like nobles from a medieval film set.
"Did the fall turn you mute or something?" Natasha's voice cut through the silence.
Huff.
I didn't rush to answer. I let out a breath and adjusted how I sat, then finally looked at her.
"What happened?" I asked, the only question that really mattered right now.
Her expression softened, and she sighed. She dragged the wooden chair from the desk and pulled it beside my bed. Sitting down, she looked me straight in the eye.
"I'll tell you," she said, "but first... how are you feeling? Does it still hurt?" She reached for my face, but I leaned back, dodging her touch.
She froze. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes. Hurt? Regret? It disappeared just as quickly.
"I feel like I got hit with a sledgehammer," I replied. "Other than that, I'm fine."
She smiled softly and nodded, but the hurt hadn't fully left her eyes.
What was going on?
Was the Witch of the West upset I didn't return her affection?
Judging by her strong-woman facade, I assumed she wasn't the type to give affection in the first place.
Maybe she was charmed by my heroism during today's battle. That's the only logical reason for this behavior.
"We lost twenty students and thirty non-combatant personnel."
Buzz!
Her words sent a chill down my spine. I knew a lot of people died... but not this many.
"But how did we lose that many?" I looked up, my expression hard. "Pamela and Viktor…"
I froze mid-sentence.
Tears were running down Natasha's face.
"They let it happen. It's part of our training..." she said in a shaky voice.
For a moment, my mind went blank.
They let it happen.
They could've saved fifty lives... and they let it happen?
Forget about me. What about the normal humans dragged into this? Don't their lives matter?
I knew this world worshipped the Limitless, but I didn't expect this level of ruthlessness. Even someone like me—someone who used to be proud of his cruelty—was shaken.
"Then why did she ask you to protect me if she was just going to watch everyone else die?" I asked, my voice low, brows furrowed.
"You carry seventy percent of the team's supplies," Natasha answered, wiping her tears, her face lowered. "If anything happens to you, we won't survive long out here."
My hands curled into fists. My mind drifted back to my conversation with Pamela at the academy armory.
"You may not believe me, but after your first expedition, you and your class will become so close you'd never even think of hurting each other."
Her words echoed in my mind like a warning—or a prophecy.
Why would we ever hurt each other... when we're all we have left?
Our instructors. Our government. They've abandoned us. Forced us to become strong—or die trying.
Was the world really in such a desperate state that they needed to use trauma as training?
How would the general public react if they knew this was what academies were doing on the first expedition—handing out PTSD like homework?
"On the bright side," Natasha said with a shaky smile, "our contribution in breaking the formation was recognized. If we survive…"
Her voice trailed off. She looked so... far away.
The Witch of the West had been rattled by everything that happened today. She was trying to hide it, but doing a poor job of it.
I'd never been the smooth-talking, emotional support type. Still, I slowly dragged myself to the other side of the bed, making room.
I tapped the mattress.
Natasha blinked, confused—then her face flushed red.
She hid her face, sniffled twice, then quietly climbed into bed and slid under the sheets beside me. The soft, childish smile on her face reminded me that she was still just twenty-one, forced to witness something no one should.
That's when a thought struck me.
My eyes darted around the room.
We're in the castle.
What happened to the figure I saw at the window?
Does that mean the Lord is dead?
"The Lord?" I asked suddenly, my voice sharp.
Natasha gave me a raised brow, then replied.
"He's not here. Apparently, he left the castle to fight a war... and then we stormed it. Now we're holding his wife hostage."
I blinked in shock.
We're holding his wife hostage?