While waiting for Reza, who lay helpless in the hospital bed, Arman stood frozen behind the glass of the sterile hallway. His gaze was blank, but his mind was far-flung, replaying every moment of that night's events. To him, the attack wasn't just an assassination attempt. It was a sign. A sign that a great storm was slowly approaching, shattering the calm they had maintained with blood and sacrifice.

  Arman closed his eyes for a moment. Fragments of the past flashed through his mind: clandestine operations, brutal battles, the sound of gunfire on moonless nights, and the screams of death still etched in his memory. The attack patterns, the ambush techniques, and the way they disappeared without a trace—all too neat, too precise, and too familiar to be coincidence.

  That organization… should have been destroyed.

  He remembered with all clarity that final night ten years ago. The leader's body lay in a pool of blood beneath his feet, his last breath taken in Arman's own hands. Their entire network had been hunted down, captured, and destroyed to the core. There was no room for revival. At least, that was what he had always believed.

  But the reality before him told him otherwise.

  Arman clenched his fists, his jaw clenched. If the organization was truly back, then a major mistake had been made. A loophole that had been missed. A knot that hadn't been cut. And now, that mistake was exacting a heavy price.

  His gaze shifted to Reza's pale face behind the glass. Arman's chest felt tight. He wasn't just a bodyguard. They were family. Comrades in arms who had been through life and death together. This attack wasn't just a threat to the Van Arzelo Anim family, but a declaration of war on their past.

  Slowly, Arman took a deep breath. In his mind, one by one, the defense scheme began to take shape. Security lines, personnel movements, information networks, and even the possibility of betrayal from within—he calculated everything with cold precision.

  If this truly was the beginning of their revival, then there couldn't be a single mistake.

  Because this time, it wasn't just their lives that were at stake.

  It was the future of a child named Laigt.

  On the way back from the hospital to the Van Arzelo Anim family home, the morning light was just creeping over the eastern horizon. The city was still half asleep, but Mahendra sensed something unexplainable. On one of the main roads, he saw a large group of people walking in a certain direction.

  There were quite a lot of them.

  Their steps were fast, orderly, but without the clamor of most people. There was no conversation, no laughter, just a silent line moving in unison. Mahendra slowed his car, watching them through the window.

  His gaze then fell on four figures in the crowd.

  They were walking slightly apart.

  Their postures were straight.

  Their gazes were sharp.

  And… they were all watching him.

  Mahendra felt his chest tighten. The car continued to move slowly, but his instincts screamed with alarm. The four people were staring at him expressionlessly, as if measuring, assessing, even memorizing.

  In his heart, Mahendra muttered:

  This is no ordinary group…

  He noticed their direction. The road didn't lead to the morning market, the terminal, or the office district. Instead, they were moving toward an old area that should have been deserted long ago.

  So early in the morning, where were they going?

  The four figures felt like shadows in broad daylight—clearly visible, yet their presence felt wrong.

  Who were they… and why did my instincts tell me this wasn't a coincidence?

  Mahendra sighed softly, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. He continued driving, but his thoughts lingered.

  If this was related to last night's attack… then today was no ordinary day.

  Meanwhile, Van Arzelo Anim—the grand master of the Arzelo family—finally arrived at his residence. Without removing his long coat, he quickly stepped into the house, his eyes searching for the one name that had been on his mind since last night.

  Light.

  The servants immediately informed him that his son was playing in the family entertainment area, in the timezone room, with four children he had just met.

  Van nodded curtly and immediately headed in that direction.

  Inside the room, children's laughter rang out merrily. Laigt, Raka, Dimas, Karel, and Beni were engrossed in their play, as if the world consisted only of simple, small pleasures. In the corner of the room, Laigt's beloved orange cat, Sambo, lay relaxed.

  But suddenly, Sambo stood up, pricked up his ears, and then sprinted toward the door.

  Laigt stopped playing.

  He knew that cat well.

  Sambo never approached strangers.

  Laigt's little heart beat faster. He turned toward the door, and there stood the figure he had missed so much.

  "Daddy...!"

  Without hesitation, Laigt ran as fast as he could, crashed into Van's chest, and hugged him tightly. Van was startled for a moment, then immediately returned the hug, lifting his son's small body into his arms.

  For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

  Van closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of Laigt's hair, holding back the surge of emotion that threatened to overflow. The worries, fears, and longing that had built up since last night seemed to melt away in that one embrace.

  Laigt smiled broadly.

  “Dad, these are Laigt’s new friends!”

  He pulled Van’s hand toward the four children who stood awkwardly, slightly nervous at the sight of the dignified man before them.

  “This is Raka, Dimas, Karel, and Beni.”

  The four children looked at each other, then bowed respectfully.

  “Good morning, Uncle…” they said almost simultaneously.

  Van smiled softly, then knelt down to their level.

  “Thank you for accompanying my children. You are all great children.”

  He extended his hand one by one. They greeted him with awkward but respectful expressions. There was no arrogance, no distance. There was only a father’s sincerity and human warmth.

  “Consider this house your home too,” Van continued quietly.

  The four children fell silent, not expecting such a warm welcome. Their eyes sparkled, their chests warmed with a feeling they had never felt before.

  Laigt smiled proudly.

  Van looked at his son, his heart filled with mixed emotions. Happiness… and pain.

  In his heart, he whispered:

  Laigt… you amaze me.

  At ten years old, you've found your own friends, built your own world.

  You're experiencing the hardships of life too soon, son.

  May God always protect you… from the storms that await you ahead.

  Van hugged Laigt once more, tighter, as if wanting to hold back time so this happiness could last just a little longer.

  After Mahendra arrived at the main house, he parked his car in the yard. But he paused for a moment when he saw a sight he rarely saw.

  A van.

  Several guards were unloading suitcases and personal belongings, moving quickly, orderly, and silently. Mahendra's heart beat faster.

  The master has arrived…

  Wasting no time, Mahendra immediately jogged into the house.

  At the main door, he encountered a tall man with a sharp gaze, a calm yet commanding presence. He was Van's right-hand man, someone who only appeared when the situation was truly critical.

  "Commander Arga," Mahendra greeted breathlessly.

  Arga nodded curtly. "The master has arrived."

  "Where is he?"

  "The timezone room."

  Mahendra said nothing more. He immediately quickened his pace.

  When he reached the doorway of the timezone room, Mahendra stopped.

  The sight before him made his chest both warm and ache.

  Van Arzelo Anim—a man feared by many, wielding immense influence around the world—sat on the floor, chuckling, teasing an orange cat named Sambo, while Laigt rolled around happily beside him.

  A father.

  Not a ruler.

  Not a lord.

  Not a symbol of power.

  Mahendra stood still, as if unwilling to ruin the moment.

  But Van had noticed his presence.

  He turned, stared at Mahendra for a moment, then smiled faintly. Gently, he stroked Laigt's head.

  "Go play with your friends again, son."

  Laigt nodded obediently, then ran back toward Raka, Dimas, Karel, and Beni.

  Van rose and stepped toward Mahendra. His aura of authority returned immediately.

  "I know," he said quietly, but with authority. "Now take me to the hospital. I want to see Reza's condition."

  Mahendra bowed respectfully. "Yes, sir."

  “And order your men,” Van continued without pause, “to fetch my wife from her parents’ house in the village. Tell her… I need her here.”

  His tone was calm, but Mahendra understood perfectly well that this wasn’t just a request—it was a meaningful order.

  “I will carry it out immediately, sir.”

  The two of them walked toward the door.

  But Van’s steps stopped.

  “Father…”

  A small voice called out.

  Laigt stood behind them, hugging Sambo tightly to his chest. His eyes looked at his father with an innocent, hopeful expression.

  “Are you going to work again, Dad… with Uncle Mahendra?”

  Van was silent for a moment. The cold, stern gaze slowly melted. He knelt in front of Laigt, stroking his cheek with his thumb.

  “No, son. I just want to buy some food.”

  Laigt blinked in confusion. “For Sambo?”

  Van smiled.

  “Yes. I have four little bodyguards now.”

  He glanced at Raka and his friends, then back at Laigt.

  “Do you only have three?”

  Laigt chuckled.

  Van hugged his son tightly, kissing his forehead deeply.

  “Take care of yourself, okay?”

  Laigt nodded enthusiastically. “Father too.”

  Van rose slowly, suppressing the trembling in his chest.

  For a moment, the man was no longer a figure respected by the world… but a father holding back his own fears.

  Mahendra stared at them, his chest tight.

  He knew… after this, the storm would truly begin.

  On the way to the hospital, Mahendra again noticed the strangeness that had been nagging at him.

  The crowd, which had previously only seemed like a few small groups, was now growing in size.

  They were coming from various directions.

  They were moving slowly.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  In an orderly fashion.

  As if following an invisible command.

  The flow of movement slowly formed a large line—flowing toward the city center.

  Mahendra stared through the car window with a frown.

  This was no ordinary crowd…

  Van, sitting in the back seat, noticed the change in Mahendra's expression.

  "Where are they headed?" Van asked flatly, yet with urgency.

  Mahendra shifted his analysis tablet, his fingers moving quickly. Several satellite maps and traffic routes appeared on the screen.

  "From the analysis of their movement path, sir… there is only one destination."

  Van stared straight ahead. "Name it."

  "The White House."

  The car suddenly felt quieter.

  Arga, sitting in the front seat, turned sharply. "Presidential Palace?"

  Mahendra nodded slowly.

  “There’s no other logical route. All their directions point in that direction.”

  Arga took a deep breath. “Is there an official agenda today?”

  Mahendra shook his head. “Nothing is listed on the national calendar. No ceremony, no public state meeting.”

  Silence.

  Several seconds passed before Van finally spoke.

  “Then… this isn’t an event.”

  His tone was cold.

  “This is a warning.”

  Mahendra swallowed.

  Arga turned to Van. “Orders, sir?”

  Van paused for a moment, staring at the gathering crowd.

  “The only way to know their intentions… is to observe, not stop.”

  He then leaned forward.

  “Reno,” he called.

  The driver glanced through the rearview mirror. “Ready, sir.”

  “Proceed to the hospital. Don’t divert. But send a shadow team to follow the crowd.”

  “Order received.”

  Van turned to Arga. “You lead the way.”

  Arga nodded firmly. “Ready.”

  Mahendra felt a great pressure on his chest.

  Something was brewing.

  And all signs pointed to one thing—

  This country was on the verge of change.

  Meanwhile, in the distance, the crowd continued to move, forming a silent wave that slowly rolled toward the center of power.

  When the car stopped in front of the Emergency Department, Van, Mahendra, and Arga immediately got out without waiting for the guards to open the doors.

  Their steps were quick.

  Steady.

  Purposeful.

  As they entered the emergency room hallway, the usually bustling hospital suddenly felt much quieter. Several nurses on duty paused for a moment, glanced around, then instinctively stood up.

  Arman stood near the door of the intensive care unit. His eyes were initially lowered, but when he heard approaching footsteps, his instincts kicked in.

  He lifted his head.

  Their gazes met.

  For a moment, time seemed to stop.

  Arman straightened, then stepped forward.

  Van raised his hand first.

  “Assalamu’alaikum.”

  The voice was calm, dignified, and full of sincerity.

  “Wa’alaikumussalam,” Arman and several medical personnel replied almost simultaneously.

  The doctors and nurses looked at each other.

  Before them now stood a figure they had only seen on television—a generous figure, a gentle leader, widely known for his kindness and steadfast devotion.

  One of the doctors covered his mouth slowly, his eyes welling with tears.

  “Oh God…” he whispered softly. “Is this really… him standing before us?”

  His hands trembled slightly.

  “The person we have been praying for in prostration… is now here.”

  No one dared to approach too closely. Everyone stood respectfully, as if afraid of disturbing the sacred atmosphere.

  Van returned their gazes with a faint smile.

  “Please continue with your duties. We just want to check on the patient.”

  His tone was gentle, yet firm.

  The nurses nodded, then returned to their work, though the emotion was still evident on their faces.

  Van turned to Arman.

  “How is he?”

  Arman took a deep breath.

  “Still critical, sir. The internal injuries and head trauma are quite severe. But the doctors are doing their best.”

  Van nodded slowly, then motioned for them to move a little further away from the treatment room.

  Mahendra and Arga approached.

  The hallway became a silent meeting room.

  Arman began to speak.

  “That night… I chased the black car carrying the perpetrators. The attack pattern, the speed of movement, the coordination, and even how they disappeared…”

  He paused, his eyes narrowing.

  “That’s no ordinary group.”

  Mahendra straightened his back. “Are you sure?”

  Arman nodded firmly.

  “I know that style by heart. Every angle of attack, every step, every pause in their breath as they fought.”

  He stared at Van.

  “It’s them.”

  The air felt tense.

  Arga clenched his fists. “That organization was destroyed ten years ago.”

  Arman smiled bitterly.

  “Yes. I personally killed the leader. I sent their leaders to prison for life. I watched their network collapse one by one.”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “That’s what makes this terrifying.”

  Mahendra swallowed. “Then… who brought them back to life?”

  Arman paused.

  His face looked more tired than before.

  “They were never truly dead,” he said quietly. “They were just… sleeping.”

  He stared blankly at the floor.

  “And now… they’re awake.”

  Silence.

  The nurse’s footsteps could be heard faintly in the distance.

  Van closed his eyes for a moment.

  “If this is true,” he said slowly, “then a major storm is heading our way.”

  Arga stared straight ahead.

  “And their first target is Reza.”

  Arman nodded.

  “Reza was just the opening act. Bait. To ensure we were aware… the old game is starting again.”

  Mahendra clenched his jaw.

  “And the biggest question—”

  “Who is the mastermind?” Van interrupted.

  His gaze was sharp, cold, yet controlled.

  “Who has the power, funds, and network to revive an organization that has been dormant for ten years?”

  Arman took a deep breath.

  “I haven’t found the answer yet, sir.”

  Van opened his eyes.

  “But you will find it.”

  He patted Arman’s shoulder gently.

  “And before they go any further… we will cut off his breathing.”

  In the distance, Reza’s heart monitor beat steadily.

  But to them, the beat sounded like a countdown to an inevitable war.

  They had only taken a few steps toward Reza’s room—

  BOOOOM!!!

  The sound of a powerful explosion shook the air.

  The vibrations were felt all the way down to the hospital floor.

  The windows shook violently, the emergency alarm blared, and panicked screams immediately ripped through the hallway.

  In a split second—

  Arga moved first.

  He pulled Van behind him, while Arman and Mahendra immediately formed a protective formation.

  Their movements were swift, precise, and nearly silent.

  It wasn't a panic reaction.

  It was a high-level combat reflex.

  "All positions on standby!" Arga hissed.

  Arman lifted the communicator on his lapel.

  "Shadow Unit, status red. Lock down the hospital perimeter. Protect code black patients."

  The answering voice instantly reached his ears.

  "Ready! All units mobilize!"

  Elite guards emerged from every corner of the hallway. In a matter of seconds, the hospital transformed into an invisible fortress.

  Mahendra stood still for a moment, concentrating.

  He listened intently.

  The direction of the vibration.

  The echo of the sound.

  The air pressure.

  Then his eyes widened.

  "The White House."

  Everyone turned.

  Van stared at him sharply. “Are you sure?”

  Mahendra nodded. “The direction of the shockwave, the pause in the sound, and the echo. That’s downtown.”

  He swallowed hard. “That wasn’t a small bomb.”

  Van took a deep breath.

  “So this is the answer,” he said softly. “That mob earlier… wasn’t a demonstration. They were a diversion.”

  Arga clenched his fists.

  “They’re starting a war.”

  Arman raised his communicator again.

  “All units! Priority one: evacuate the Great Master!”

  A voice filled the line.

  “Ready to protect!”

  “Diamond formation ready!”

  “A safe passage is being opened!”

  In less than thirty seconds, the exit was cleared.

  Mahendra pulled out his car keys.

  “I’ll drive.”

  Arga nodded curtly.

  As soon as he exited the hospital doors, the atmosphere turned chaotic. Sirens blared, aftershocks could be heard in the distance, and security helicopters began to fly low.

  The elite guards formed a human shield.

  Each step was measured.

  Hands tucked into their jackets.

  Eyes scanned every corner.

  “Air contact secure!”

  “Perimeter clear!”

  “No suspicious movement!”

  Van strode swiftly through the formation.

  His gaze was calm.

  But beneath that calm, a cold ember of anger burned.

  As the car door opened—

  Van paused and looked at Arman.

  “Before we move…”

  His voice was low.

  “Leave some of your troops here.”

  Arman nodded immediately.

  “Ready, sir.”

  “Reza must not die.”

  The words fell like a sledgehammer.

  “He’s the key to everything.”

  Arman pressed the communicator.

  “Units Seven and Nine, stay at the hospital. Priority: Reza. If necessary, make this a battlefield.”

  “Ready! To the last drop of blood!”

  Mahendra started the engine.

  Arga sat in the front, his eyes intently scanning the road.

  Arman was in the back, one hand on his weapon, the other on his communication device.

  Van leaned back for a moment.

  “If they’re starting now,” he said slowly, “that means they’ve prepared everything.”

  Mahendra stared straight ahead.

  “And we can’t be one step late.”

  The car sped through the hustle and bustle of the city.

  In the distance, black smoke billowed into the sky.

  Omen—

  The war of ten years ago had truly begun.

  The car sped through the city center, which was beginning to fill with people. Through the bulletproof glass, Van saw rows of banners stretching along the road.

  “Eradicate Corruption!”

  “End Human Trafficking!”

  “Eradicate Drugs from This Country!”

  “Stop Illegal Logging!”

  “Take Action Against the Mining Mafia!”

  “Expell the Arms Dealers!”

  “Destroy the Organized Crime Network!”

  The shouts blended with the pounding of thousands of feet. Tired faces, angry eyes, and fading hope all united in one voice: justice.

  Van fell silent.

  His chest felt tight, not from the threat, but from the reopening of old wounds.

  Deep inside, he whispered softly:

  They aren't demanding power… they're demanding justice.

  He saw old women clutching tattered posters, laborers with rough hands raised to the sky, students shouting until their voices broke. They stood not because they wanted to cause chaos, but because they had been forced to remain silent for too long.

  However, their instincts screamed louder.

  Explosions.

  Destroyed cars.

  A mess that was too neat.

  Van shook his head slowly.

  “This isn’t the people’s doing…” he muttered.

  He had lived among them for decades. He knew all too well how his people thought, how they raged, how they hoped. Their anger was always honest. Their cries were always genuine. And their struggles were always born of real pain.

  “The people don’t kill in a premeditated manner,” he continued to himself.

  “The people don’t strategize terror.”

  “The people don’t create fear.”

  The car sped off again. A faint siren could be heard in the distance.

  Van closed his eyes for a moment.

  Images of his past came flooding back to him: courtrooms full of intrigue, meeting tables filled with fake smiles, corrupt officials who swore on holy books and then betrayed the people behind closed doors.

  He knew full well that his country was filled with rats in ties—greedy men who hungered for power, lacked empathy, used the law as a trading tool, and exploited the suffering of the people for personal gain.

  However, precisely because of that, he became even more convinced:

  My people are not monsters.

  They are merely victims.

  Those explosions were not their screams. They were the sounds of the guns of a criminal organization exploiting the people's anger as cover.

  "This is an operation…" Van whispered softly.

  "And very neat."

  Mahendra, sitting in the front seat, glanced through the rearview mirror, catching the change in his master's expression.

  "They're instigating something," Mahendra said quietly.

  Van opened his eyes, his gaze cold, sharp, and calculating.

  "They want war."

  The car passed through the increasingly dense crowd. Van saw small children cradled by their mothers, small traders closing their stalls, and frightened faces trapped amidst the chaos.

  His chest ached.

  This country was too beautiful to be destroyed by greedy demons, he thought.

  And too sacred to be used as a chessboard by a dark organization.

  Van took a deep breath.

  “If they think they can exploit the people’s cries to build an evil empire…” he said softly, yet menacingly,

  “then they’ve chosen the wrong enemy.”

  The car accelerated.

  Behind the shouts of the demonstrators and the booming of explosions, a shadowy war slowly opened its curtains.

  And Van knew—

  the long night had begun.

  MARCH 3, 1972

  In the heart of a forest untouched by light, an old building stood silently, surrounded by darkness and night fog. The structure was fragile, its walls mossy, but around it stood guard dozens of heavily armed men. Searchlights spun slowly, scanning the trees, as if to ward off any possible threat.

  But inside the building, it wasn’t the weapons that were most frightening—it was the cries of the people.

  Soft, broken, suppressed cries.

  Dozens of people sat huddled together on the cold floor, hugging each other, holding each other’s hands, trying to survive the fear that was slowly eroding their sanity. Children clung to their mothers’ breasts. The men bowed their heads, swallowing their sobs. No one dared to speak out loud, as if afraid that hope itself would summon death.

  Amidst the whispered prayers and trembling breaths, one small hope hung in the air:

  May God hear us.

  Outside, the rain fell slowly, piercing the dense foliage. The drops fell like cold needles piercing the ground. The wind stirred the branches, creating a rustling sound that blended with the night.

  And in that darkness…

  four black shadows darted.

  Without warning. Without sound. Without error.

  They moved like hunting spirits—silent, swift, and deadly.

  One shadow slid from the treetops, landing behind the two tower guards. A short knife flashed for a moment, then vanished. The two bodies collapsed simultaneously, without a sound.

  A second shadow crept behind the bushes, moving low. The gun slung over the guard's shoulder was slowly drawn, and a strong hand covered his mouth. The crack of a neck bone was heard faintly, swallowed by the rain.

  A third shadow darted through the shadows of the building, blending into the mossy wall. Each step was measured. Each breath was controlled. The two smoking guards only had time to glance at each other before darkness swallowed their consciousness.

  The fourth shadow moved the fastest.

  It leaped over the barbed wire fence silently, rolled across the wet ground, and then finished off three guards at the main post in one breath. Its movements were efficient, cool, and nearly flawless.

  In less than thirty seconds, the outer perimeter vanished.

  There were no screams.

  There were no shots.

  There were no alarms.

  Only the rain continued to fall, as if unconcerned that dozens of lives had just been wiped from the world.

  The four shadows paused for a moment behind the trees, exchanging hand signals.

  The formation formed.

  Two moved to the left side of the building.

  One took a position on the roof.

  The other crept toward the main door.

  Inside, the prisoners still sobbed. They had no idea that the angel of death for the guards—and the angel of salvation for them—was standing just meters away from hope.

  That night, the forest bore witness.

  That there were humans who weaponized darkness.

  And made silence…

  the deadliest terror.

  Inside the old building, ten armed guards remained, forming a perimeter along the corridor and the iron door of the detention room. Their breathing was heavy, their fingers tightened on the triggers. They had no idea that death had already penetrated the perimeter.

  Outside, high above the tallest tree, a lone black figure lay perfectly still, its body blending into the wet twigs and leaves. Its breathing was steady, its pulse calm. Before its eyes, the sight lens reflected the faint glow of the building's lights.

  Its index finger slowly squeezed the trigger.

  Pttt—

  A single bullet flew, piercing the main light bulb on the side of the roof.

  DARKNESS.

  In an instant, the entire building was plunged into darkness. Total darkness.

  Before the guards could react, a second bullet struck the backup power substation.

  Bang!

  The lighting system went completely out.

  Only the sound of rain and shocked gasps remained.

  From high above, a calm voice came through a small communication device behind the combat mask.

  "Black Eagle to all units. Lights out. Path clear. Enter now."

  On all four sides of the building, four shadows moved in unison.

  There were no shouts.

  No loud commands.

  Just cold coordination, absolute precision.

  The first shadow, built strong, his steps calm yet authoritative. He was the rhythmic center of this operation. Every movement was measured, every decision final.

  "Wolf, right. Ghost, left. Hammer, center. I'll take the front."

  His voice was low, cold, and full of authority.

  He was known by the nickname:

  ALPHA — The Shadow Leader.

  The second shadow, slender and agile, darted swiftly into the right side of the building. The curved knife in his hand glinted faintly.

  He didn't wait for the enemy to move.

  He came.

  His steps were silent, his body blending into the darkness.

  Two guards collapsed before even realizing he was there.

  His nickname:

  WOLF — Close-Range Killer.

  The third shadow moved to his left.

  He closed his eyes for a moment.

  Regulating his breath.

  Relying on his hearing.

  The sound of a heartbeat.

  The scraping of shoes.

  The hiss of nervous breath.

  In the pitch darkness, he danced with the sounds.

  One thrust.

  One stab.

  One pull.

  His enemies fell without even seeing the face of death.

  His nickname:

  GHOST — The Listener of Darkness.

  The fourth shadow stepped into the center lane.

  There was no hesitation in his movements.

  As soon as the hallway door opened, he charged in like a hurricane.

  The butt of a rifle struck a jaw.

  An elbow struck a neck.

  A knife dug into a slit in his vest.

  His movements were brutal, precise, and deadly.

  There was no wasted movement.

  Every step meant a life.

  His nickname:

  HAMMPER — Silent Executioner.

  From atop a tree, Black Eagle continued to monitor.

  "Two targets to the east. Three in the center. One moving west."

  The bullets whizzed by.

  Ptt— Ptt—

  Two guards on the roof collapsed silently.

  "Target neutral. Continue."

  Inside the building, time seemed to slow.

  Ten armed guards were now reduced to shadows, falling one by one.

  There was no prolonged firefight.

  There was no significant resistance.

  Just absolute domination.

  In less than a minute, the corridors of the old building were silent again.

  The only sound was the rain seeping through the leaking roof.

  Alpha stood before the metal door of the detention room.

  He raised his hand.

  "Clear."

  The four shadows stopped moving.

  Behind their combat masks, the five figures exchanged a brief glance.

  There were no smiles.

  There was no celebration.

  For them, this was just the beginning.

  And behind that metal door…

  dozens of lives awaited rebirth.

  The lights in the old building came back on one by one.

  The dim light illuminated the prisoners' pale faces—their eyes wide, in disbelief that their years-long nightmare was finally over.

  Alpha raised his hand in a gesture.

  "Stay still. Follow the path of the light. Don't make a sound. Move quickly."

  The prisoners stood on trembling legs. Some staggered, some cried, and others hugged each other, making sure this was all real.

  Wolf and Hammer formed a protective corridor.

  Ghost guarded from behind.

  Black Eagle secured the perimeter.

  One by one, they moved out into the rain, toward the pickup point in the darkness of the forest.

  None of them looked back.

  Because in that building, there was only pain, screams, and death.

  As the last prisoner disappeared behind the trees, Alpha pulled out a small lighter.

  He glanced at the old building—a den of suffering, a living grave, and witness to the most heinous crimes.

  A fire ignited.

  Within seconds, the small flame turned into a full-blown blaze.

  The scattered gasoline spread rapidly, devouring the rotting wood and old walls. The flames rose high, defying the relentless downpour.

  The bodies of the dead guards burned with the building, disappearing in embers and smoke.

  Amidst the rain, the fire continued to smolder.

  As if conveying a message:

  Not all crimes deserve to be punished.

  Some must be erased from history.

  The five black shadows stood for a moment, staring into the flames.

  There was no victory in their eyes.

  Only the realization that tonight was just the beginning of a long war.

  And deep in the darkness, something… had awakened.

  Not a spy.

  Not a murderer either.

  Shield of Darkness, Guardian of World Balance.

  is their first step into a world that never knows mercy.

  All characters, events, organizations, and plotlines in this novel are solely the product of the author's imagination. Any similarities between names, places, events, or characters and real-life individuals, groups, or events are purely coincidental and unintentional. This story is presented solely as a work of fiction for the purposes of entertainment and to develop the reader's imagination.