The room fell into a suffocating silence.

  Herman Merz, Grand Marshal of the European Army, let it stretch for several long, painful seconds. Only when he was certain every spine had gone rigid did he speak.

  “Good. Now that I have your attention,” he said, voice cold as a glacier. “It has come to my attention that the army has grown corrupt. And because of that corruption, my granddaughter and the entire Black Owls unit were nearly wiped out—because they were given the wrong intelligence.”

  Several officers swallowed audibly.

  “To fill you in,” he continued, “her mission was simple. Make contact with a reclusive group of archers rumored to practice war archery. They live deep in an isolated forest. She went there with a guide arranged by the local base commander.”

  He tapped a button on the table.

  A projector hummed to life.

  “Watch.”

  The lights dimmed. Footage recorded by his granddaughter flickered across the screen.

  “As you can see,” Herman narrated, “they were openly hostile. Not because of her—but because of the guide. According to the locals, he belongs to a faction that despises that archery club.”

  Before he could continue, a loud snort echoed through the room.

  “Oh, come now, sir!” boomed a jolly, round man in a Dutch general’s uniform. “You seriously expect us to believe the Black Owls could be wiped out by that old man? If anything, he should be arrested for threatening an officer! And frankly, I am offended she humbled herself to him—”

  Herman slowly turned toward him.

  “...Who,” he asked softly, “are you?”

  The rest of the room stiffened.

  They recognized that tone—recognized the thin, lethal smile forming on the Marshal’s face.

  The fat general, oblivious, continued blathering about disciplining Sofie, eyes glinting with something vile.

  “Right,” Herman said. “Take him away. Investigate everything—who appointed him, his connections. You have permission to use lethal force.”

  He did not look at the man. He looked at the wall—where his right hand stood in the shadows.

  The Knife of the Butcher of Crimea.

  A frail-looking seventy-year-old.

  A legend whispered about in every barracks.

  “Yes, sir,” the old man said.

  A heartbeat later, the fat general was unconscious on the floor and being dragged out of the room.

  Herman turned back, expression resetting as if nothing happened.

  “Now, where were we? Ah yes—the video.”

  The footage resumed. The camera focused on the hunting lodge deep in the forest.

  “First lesson,” Herman said. “Guns don’t work anymore. Second—how many people do you see in this picture?”

  The generals squinted.

  “One,” they answered hesitantly.

  “And you would be correct.” Herman chuckled, his mood briefly lifting. “That grumpy old man is an old friend of mine—who once stood toe-to-toe with some of the strongest special forces in the world.”

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He leaned forward, folding his hands.

  “Now tell me—how many of you would have stormed in to arrest him for ‘disrespecting an officer’? After all… he’s alone.”

  No one dared answer.

  “Well,” Herman continued, “all of you would have. But why does this one old man have the confidence to stand there alone?”

  He gestured at the screen.

  “Let’s keep watching.”

  As the footage played on, the room grew paler with every passing minute.

  People appeared from nowhere—silent, ghostlike—demonstrating frightening speed, precision, and discipline.

  By the end, several generals were visibly sweating.

  “Now do you understand,” Herman said quietly, “why I praised my granddaughter for how she handled the situation? They could have been killed, and we’d never find the bodies. Those people would simply… disappear.”

  He stood.

  “And no—we are not taking action against them. We need them. Not only for their archery; for their techniques, their instincts. Their camouflage skills? Forget it. They won’t teach those. As my friend once told me—you have to start as a child until it becomes instinct.”

  He exhaled, remembering.

  “I trained under that grumpy old man for two years. In a war zone. And I barely absorbed ten percent.”

  His eyes snapped back to razor sharpness.

  “Before we move forward:

  This video must be shown to all teams who will contact practitioners of these ancient techniques. Without guns, they can take down at least three of our special forces before we bring down one. And that assumes they only use melee weapons.”

  A wave of unease washed through the room.

  “Second—we must accelerate all training programs.

  Third—begin a full inspection of the military and every public office. We are going to war in a year. We cannot afford corruption.”

  He turned toward the door.

  “Investigators are to arrest on suspicion alone. Anyone obstructing them may also be arrested. I will speak with the heads of state about this matter. Dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The room emptied in a controlled stampede.

  And as the machinery of the state roared awake—hungry for traitors and corruption—the rest of the world took notice. Tensions were already high; rumors spread quickly. When the EU publicly announced the capture of several foreign spies and demanded their own back, every nation suddenly had an excuse to begin its own “spring cleaning.”

  Even countries ruled by dictators, where corruption ran in the families of those in power, were forced to purge—because anyone who wished to attend the world summit next month had to participate.

  After all…

  Officially, they were preparing to “defend the world together.”

  Unofficially?

  They all wanted a piece of the pie—information the general public did not yet have.