Chapter 66
Mike stepped onto the stage as soon as he saw Miley draw his dagger and charge at Bardi. Anticipating the attack, Mike moved swiftly. He grabbed the bloodied green saber dagger, still sticky from Leon's earlier use, and stepped in front of Bardi, deflecting Miley's blade with practiced ease.
"Calm down. Pick up your brother's head and put it back—maybe there's still a heartbeat," Mike sneered coldly, his voice laced with mockery.
Miley's rage only deepened. His bloodshot eyes were locked on Bardi, filled with unrelenting hatred and fury.
Bardi, however, stood motionless, his expression indifferent, as if Miley's attack didn't concern him in the slightest.
There was no real threat to Bardi; a dagger wouldn't even come close to harming him. But to Mike, this was a matter of attitude. Mike understood his role well, Bardi needed someone to handle situations that didn't require his direct involvement, and Mike saw it as his duty to step in. This wasn't about showing off but about knowing his place and proving his value.
Mike knew he couldn't catch bullets with his bare hands like Bardi, such a feat was beyond human capability. But stopping an enraged gangster armed with a dagger? That was well within his skill set.
With a sharp clang, the two blades collided, the sound echoing through the room as the white light above illuminated the struggle. Sparks flew as the weapons clashed, and when the blades parted, a small notch had been carved into Miley's dagger.
Miley's face twisted with fury, his skin glistening with sweat and bulging veins. He roared like a wild beast and lunged again, aiming to slash at Mike with all his strength.
Mike tightened his grip on the bloodstained green saber dagger, his eyes narrowing as he faced Miley's frenzied assault. When the daggers collided again, Mike used a deflecting technique, redirecting the force of Miley's attack to the side. With a fluid motion, Mike spun his own blade in his hand, returned it to his palm, and slashed downward in one decisive stroke.
The blade cut cleanly across Miley's wrist, severing the artery. Blood spurted out in a crimson arc, splattering across the stage.
Miley staggered, his knees buckling. Mike delivered a precise kick to the back of his legs, forcing him to kneel. Miley, still gripping his dagger despite the injury, was pulled forward. Mike grabbed Miley's other arm, twisted it behind his back, and locked it in place. The green saber dagger came to rest against Miley's throat, its sharp edge pressing against his skin.
Miley, though furious and reckless, was no match for Mike's experience. As a seasoned mercenary who had survived countless battles, Mike easily subdued the Brotherhood's second-in-command.
It had taken only a few seconds.
Blood continued to gush from Miley's severed artery, pooling around his knees and staining the stage red. Despite the pain, Miley stubbornly held onto his dagger, his grip weakening only when Mike delivered a final kick to his wrist. The weapon flew out of his hand, spinning off the stage before landing at Jetley's feet.
"Stop!" Jetley's voice thundered through the room, trembling with both rage and fear.
His eyes darted to the severed head of his eldest brother, still lying motionless on the stage. Now his second brother was kneeling, bleeding profusely, his lips pale from the rapid loss of blood.
The stench of blood filled the air, so thick it overwhelmed the senses.
The Brotherhood gang members surrounding the stage looked on in panic, gripping their weapons tightly. Their arsenal was impressive for a street gang, Thompson submachine guns, UZI 9mm submachine guns, pistols of every caliber. It was enough firepower to rival a small police force.
Even the police in the suicide slums wouldn't dare provoke them.
"Let him go! Are you trying to die? If Miley dies, I'll bury you all with him!" Jetley shouted furiously, his eyes bloodshot as he stared at his brother's pale, blood-covered face.
The Brotherhood members under the stage moved in unison, aiming their guns directly at the platform.
The three brothers were well known for their deep bond. They had risen together in the harsh environment of the suicide slums, enduring countless struggles. As triplets, their connection ran deep, and their loyalty to one another was unwavering.
There had been a time when someone tried to harm Jetley. In retaliation, his eldest and second brothers didn't hesitate to storm into their enemy's home and kill them outright.
Though they didn't care about anyone else, their devotion to each other was absolute, each brother willing to sacrifice themselves for the others.
"Fine. Kill him," Bardi's cold voice came from behind Mike.
Initially, Bardi had intended to approach the Brotherhood quietly, intending to convince their leader to submit and work under him.
But instead, the Brotherhood boss had greeted him with violence, firing at him like a madman.
With that, Bardi no longer saw the point in sparing him. Though dealing with the Brotherhood members without their leader would be slightly more troublesome, it wasn't beyond Bardi's capability. If it meant a bit more effort, he would simply kill all the leaders and claim the Brotherhood for himself.
Without hesitation, Mike swung the bloodstained green saber dagger in a horizontal slash, cutting deep into Miley's neck. With a sharp kick to Miley's back, Mike sent the bloodied man tumbling off the stage. Blood sprayed everywhere, leaving the scene shockingly gruesome.
After finishing the task, Mike didn't linger. With agile movements, he rolled across the stage and tucked himself into a corner, pulling Leon to the ground with him.
Bardi didn't reprimand Mike for his quick retreat; in fact, he silently approved. It showed that Mike understood his limits. He had done what was within his ability and avoided unnecessary risk. Staying on the stage amidst a hail of bullets would have been foolish.
"Miley!"
Gunfire erupted alongside Jetley's anguished scream. Jetley rushed to catch his second brother as he collapsed to the floor, blood soaking his hands and body.
Miley lay there, his throat gurgling with blood as it spilled from the gaping wound on his neck. His mouth opened and closed as if he were trying to speak, but his torn vocal cords rendered him silent. His lips trembled, desperate to convey something.
Jetley's tearful face pressed against his brother's, his voice breaking as he sobbed, "I know what you're trying to say, Miley. You always said it—I'm a smart kid! A smart kid!"
Hearing his brother's words, Miley's tense body relaxed. His eyes softened as he let out one last breath, his body convulsing before going still.
Jetley's cries echoed across the nightclub as his second brother died in his arms. His teeth clenched, and his grief twisted into raw, burning hatred.
Then the gunfire stopped.
The room fell into a deafening silence, the smoky stench of gunpowder lingering in the air.
The Brotherhood gang members exchanged nervous glances, their hearts pounding in their chests. Their hands tightened on their weapons—Thompson submachine guns, UZI 9mm submachine guns, pistols of all kinds. They had enough firepower to overwhelm most police forces.
Even the local precinct in the suicide slums wouldn't dare provoke them under normal circumstances.
But now, as the silence stretched, they felt an oppressive fear settle over them.
Bardi stood still on the stage. His right hand, now holding a fistful of brass bullets, moved slowly. With a flick of his fingers, he sent one of the bullets flying.
The bullet pierced the air with a sharp whine before striking one of the men, blowing his head apart in a grotesque spray.
"From today onward," Bardi's calm voice rang out, "I'm your boss. Any objections?"
He scanned the remaining Brotherhood members coldly.
One man, too frightened to think straight, tried to run. Bardi flicked another bullet, hitting him in the back with such force that his body flew seven or eight meters, his head reduced to a mangled mess.
Panic overtook the room.
Another gang member, unwilling to submit, raised his gun and fired at Bardi.
Before the shot could reach him, Bardi's hand moved again. Another bullet flew from his fingers, silencing the man for good.
The rest of the gang froze in terror. The bullets in Bardi's hand seemed endless, and the ease with which he dispatched their comrades left them trembling.
Finally, one by one, they began to surrender. Guns clattered to the ground as they knelt, raising their hands in submission.
"I surrender!"
"We surrender!"
"You're the boss now!"
"Boss!"
Bardi nodded in satisfaction, the bullets in his hand dropping onto the stage with a metallic clink. Only one bullet remained in his fingers as he turned his attention to Jetley.
Jetley, overcome with grief and fear, suddenly dropped to his knees. He kowtowed to Bardi, his head pressed firmly against the ground.
"Don't kill me!" Jetley pleaded, his voice trembling. "I'm the third boss of the Brotherhood. I can help you control the gang quickly. I'll do anything you ask, just spare me!"
Though his posture was one of submission, Jetley's face twisted with resentment and hatred as he bowed. His eyes burned with unresolved fury even as his head remained low.
Bardi looked down at him, his expression cold and unmoved.
With a flick of his fingers, the last bullet flew.
Jetley's head snapped back as the bullet tore through his skull, his lifeless body collapsing onto the blood-soaked floor.
Bardi's voice echoed through the room, cold and dismissive.
"I don't need a traitor."
Chapter 67
In just one week, Bardi completely took control of the territory once ruled by the Brotherhood.
He gathered all the members, executed the two leading rebels, and then restructured the organization. Balancing brutality with benevolence, he implemented a carrot-and-stick approach: those who obeyed would benefit, while those who resisted would be killed without hesitation. Under his rule, the gang members earned more than before, and their lives, though dangerous, became marginally more stable.
Life in the suicide slums was harsh, and not many people were truly willing to fight back. The environment was so bleak that death often went unnoticed, a body floating in a filthy puddle was just another statistic. Here, safety was nonexistent, and everyone lived in constant fear.
But under Bardi's rule, things began to change. His iron-fisted governance brought a semblance of order, and for the first time in years, the neighborhood had a faint sense of stability. In front of everyone, Bardi set new rules that transformed the slums:
The gang's exploitative cut of prostitution profits was reduced from 70% to 50%, allowing the women to keep more of their earnings and improve their lives.
The inhumane practices of organ trafficking and child kidnappings were abolished entirely.
Protection fees, which had previously been extorted several times a day, were capped at a fixed amount, payable only once per month.
He even established strict rules for the gang members themselves, restricting their behavior.
For the Brotherhood, these rules were unthinkable. To them, they were oppressive and far too harsh.
"This isn't a gang anymore."
"It's completely unrealistic."
"We've always done things this way."
"How can this even work?"
The complaints were endless. Gang members were used to taking whatever they wanted, extorting protection fees multiple times a day, looting stores, and helping themselves to anything they desired without paying. To them, these new rules felt like a mockery of what it meant to be part of a gang.
"This isn't even the underworld anymore," one muttered. "Are we supposed to be choir boys now?"
Their dissatisfaction reached a boiling point, but it was short-lived.
"I like having rules under me," Bardi said coldly, "because I'm the only one allowed to be unscrupulous."
He made his stance clear with swift, brutal action. Those who dared to complain were crushed on the spot, their blood splattering across his pristine white coat like a grim reminder of his authority.
No one dared to voice their opposition after that.
And yet, Bardi did improve their conditions. The gang members quickly realized that as long as they followed the rules, they earned more money and lived safer lives than before. Compared to the chaos they had previously endured, the new system was undeniably better.
Mike watched all of this. For the first time, he understood the depth of Bardi's ambitions. The rules Bardi was setting weren't just for a gang, they were the foundations of a nation.
Under Bardi's rule, the downtrodden and desperate gained something they had never had before: security.
Where Bardi ruled, the people were allowed to live in peace.
Where Bardi ruled, they had food and clothing.
Where Bardi ruled, they had a place to belong.
He turned the powerless into sheep, binding them to him.
But even as he controlled them, they would look to him with gratitude, thanking him for giving them what little they had.
Bardi didn't just want to rule, he wanted to stand above everyone else, high on a throne, dominating life and death itself. Those who submitted would survive, and those who defied him would meet swift and brutal ends.
In this world, Bardi didn't just want to be a tyrant—he wanted to be the tyrant. The only one qualified to live without limits.
Mike felt his blood boil as he watched his leader in action. He had once thought Bardi's ambition to conquer and unify the world was laughable, a pipe dream. But now, standing in the presence of this ruthless and cunning man, Mike felt his doubts dissolve. Beneath Bardi's white trench coat was a man cruel enough, smart enough, and capable enough to make those ambitions a reality.
For the first time, Mike felt an overwhelming desire to follow this man. He wanted to stand beside him as he stepped on this world and ruled over it. He wanted to be part of Bardi's vision, to help him dominate everything.
"For Barmulodi!"
Inside the former Brotherhood nightclub, every surviving gang member had been summoned. The once-chaotic venue had been cleaned and reorganized, resembling a reception hall.
The atmosphere was tense, almost suffocating. Fear gripped everyone present. Bardi's unpredictable, ruthless nature kept them constantly on edge, as he killed without hesitation, challenging their courage at every turn.
The Brotherhood was no more.
Their gang had been renamed Barmulodi, a name taken directly from Bardi himself.
"For Barmulodi!"
Mike raised his glass, his voice booming with conviction. His fiery tone carried an almost religious fervor, as though he were shouting out a creed rather than a toast.
Leon, standing beside him, watched Mike's solemn expression. Hesitating for a moment, Leon clumsily mimicked the motion, raising his fist and shouting with all his might.
"For Barmulodi!"
Leon spoke, his voice not loud, but in the quiet, tense atmosphere of over a hundred people, it cut through the silence, soft yet unmistakably clear.
His heart raced. He had never stood before so many people, never been in the spotlight like this. It felt surreal. For a moment, it reminded him of the moment he cut off that head, the way it forced him to break through his limits, to do something he never thought he could.
Now, under the watchful eyes of the crowd, something stirred within him.
Heat.
A fire ignited in his chest, spreading through his veins like wildfire. His heart pounded, and his entire body felt electric. His hair stood on end, goosebumps rippled over his skin, and his blood seemed to boil with excitement.
To be seen. To be noticed. To have the eyes of so many fixed on him.
This feeling… This feeling was intoxicating.
He loved it.
"For Barmulodi!"
This time, he roared the words, his face flushed with passion and intensity.
Leon punched his fist into the air once again, his entire body trembling as if it couldn't contain the surge of energy inside him. His eyes burned like twin flames, his excitement reaching its peak.
Leon's fervor was infectious, spreading like a spark to his companions. They had already heard of Leon's role in the events of the past two days, how he had followed Bardi into the Brotherhood's headquarters, witnessed the deaths of the three brothers, and seen the neighborhood fall under new rule.
And now, they felt it, this was their chance to create their own legend.
"For Barmulodi!"
Leon's friends raised their fists in unison, punching the air as their voices rang out. Their faces turned red from shouting, their youthful passion ignited like a roaring flame.
They weren't content to remain unseen, unremarkable.
This was their moment.
The old order was gone. It was time to create a new world.
The young men shouted as if their voices could shatter the walls of the suicide ghetto, as if they could break free from the poverty and hopelessness that had bound them for so long.
"For Barmulodi!"
The fervor was contagious.
The heat was contagious.
The madness was contagious.
The faith was contagious.
Even the original Brotherhood members couldn't resist its pull. At first, they looked at one another hesitantly. But slowly, one by one, fists began to rise.
"For Barmulodi!"
The voices grew louder, more powerful. Like a tide, the chant spread until nearly every voice joined in. It was as if the room had been consumed by a virus, an unrelenting wave of belief and fervor that united them all.
"For Barmulodi!"
The sound grew into a deafening roar. It gathered around Bardi like a physical force, a storm of devotion and madness that surrounded him.
The fiery energy of the crowd burned hotter and hotter. Their eyes locked on Bardi, filled with awe and reverence. Their bodies trembled with adrenaline, their voices hoarse from shouting, but they didn't stop.
Bardi stood at the center of it all, his figure absorbing the sound waves and the frenzied energy.
"Hahahahaha…"
Bardi suddenly laughed. His grin widened into a wild, unrestrained smile, and a faint red light flickered in his eyes as he looked out at the crowd.
The feeling was exhilarating.
The entire world seemed to revolve around him, roaring his name, submitting to his will.
He straightened his body, standing even taller. His laughter abruptly stopped, his face turning serious as he raised his right fist.
And then he punched the air.
The force of his motion seemed to ripple through the room, stirring the air as if he had physically shifted the space around him.
The crowd erupted again, their fervor reaching its climax. They raised their fists as one, their blood boiling, their bodies shaking with raw emotion.
"For Barmulodi!"
Chapter 68
Underground Exchange.
Storehouse.
"Do you know Barmulodi?"
"Who doesn't? A group of maniacs with submachine guns, screaming 'For Barmulodi!' while shooting like lunatics."
"Are they insane?"
"My god, it's madness. In the past two weeks, they've wiped out the City Council, the Ninety-Nine, the Gambino Mafia branch, and the Brotherhood."
"They took over the biker gang's system factory, seized the Satan's Hell ordnance workshop, and even the Rose Blood Gang practically threw themselves at them in joy. First Blood, Jack Gang, Dark Chief, Secret Organization, the Chopping Hand Club, the Hell Club, the Giant Gang, the Mafia, the Vietnam Gang, the Jagged Banner Club, the Angel Gang, the Hell Club, even the foreign branches of the Thirteen Covenants, they've all been smashed."
"They said no gang can establish contact points in this area without their permission. Drug production, weapons manufacturing, loans, protection fees, prostitution, all of it belongs to them now."
"Damn… this is insane and exciting. They're going up against the entire world!"
"Their boss must be out of his mind. How could he possibly fend off the retaliation of so many forces? Some of the ones they've destroyed even hired professional killers."
"They're doomed."
"It's just a flash in the pan!"
"They'll be wiped out soon."
"The suicide slum has always been like this, ever since the metropolitan central cities were established."
"No one can change that."
"No one can survive going up against the entire Metropolis at once."
"Not necessarily. I heard the boss of Barmulodi is unstoppable. They say his body is invulnerable, harder than steel, and his strength is inhuman. He stormed into the headquarters of the City Council, the Ninety-Nine, the Gambino Mafia branch, and the Brotherhood, all on his own, and killed their bosses in front of their men before taking over."
"Yeah, I heard the Gambino Mafia even tried using a rocket launcher on him, and it didn't work. He walked out of the blast and crushed their boss."
"And the City Council boss? He tried escaping in a helicopter. Know what happened?"
"What?"
"The boss of Barmulodi stepped out of a massive crater, leaped more than a dozen floors, and kicked the helicopter out of the sky. The entire suicide slum saw it—saw the helicopter explode in midair. And he just stood there, on the high building under the full moon, his white coat glowing, looking down on the world like a god."
"That night, the entire suicide slum went crazy. They screamed and shouted, 'For Barmulodi!'"
"The whole slum lost its mind."
"They're all shouting for Barmulodi now."
"He's conquered the suicide slum."
"But here? This is the Underground Exchange."
"Exactly. No one can touch the Underground Exchange. It represents the upper-class elites of the Metropolis—the nobles, the government, the police. How could he dare to fight here?"
"Why not?"
"Because… because…"
'Boom!! Boom… Boom!'
Suddenly, a massive explosion shook the ground. The buildings on the surface of the Underground Exchange were instantly reduced to rubble. Black smoke and flames billowed into the air as armed men swarmed in from every direction, pouring in like a hive.
--
Early morning.
As dawn broke, the first traces of light, the pale white of the fish belly sky, stretched across the horizon.
In the heart of the suicide slum, an old tower stood in a square. Known as the Tower of Babylon, it was a rare imitation landmark in this rundown district.
Bardi sat on the balcony at the very top of the Tower of Babylon. His white trench coat billowed in the wind behind him, as small whirlwinds of sand swirled and dissipated around his feet.
He was in a great mood. Humming a cheerful tune, a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he gazed into the distance. From his vantage point, he could see the remnants of the Underground Exchange still smoldering, the fiery aftermath of the explosions and the chaos of the battle. Faint echoes of gunfire and the thunderous roar of "For Barmulodi!" carried through the air.
Bardi drummed his fingers against the corroded stone balcony rail, the rhythmic taps echoing faintly. The surface was pockmarked and weathered, as if eroded by countless droplets of water over time.
The gunfire at the Underground Exchange quieted, gradually fading into silence.
As the pale light of dawn began to recede, a golden glow appeared on the horizon. The sun peeked over the edge of the world, its rays spreading warmth across the clouds, painting them in brilliant gold. Shafts of sunlight pierced the sky, illuminating everything.
The first beam of sunlight struck Bardi's face. His humming stopped as the energy of the sun seeped into his body. He could feel it, his cells drinking in the sunlight like nourishing milk, absorbing and thriving under its rays.
Bardi stood, his smile widening into a confident grin. His fists clenched tightly, and his chest swelled as he breathed in the morning air.
Deep within his pupils, a faint red light flickered. His eyes itched as energy surged through him, making his muscles tense.
Tears welled up in his eyes, spilling from his tear ducts before evaporating almost instantly, leaving behind a faint mist. The flickering red light in his eyes grew brighter, hotter, and more intense.
Bardi's teeth clenched as he fought against the fiery sensation in his eyes. The veins around them darkened to red, glowing like molten metal. Every cell in his body seemed to awaken, releasing energy that coursed through his veins like rivers of fire. The energy surged toward his retinas, converging in his eyes like countless electric currents flowing into a single circuit.
His eyes turned fully red, burning with heat and power.
Bardi raised his head high.
Below, the sound of marching boots echoed as Barmulodi's forces swarmed the streets, converging on the Tower of Babylon. From every alley and corner, they poured forth in a black tide, their gazes fixed upward.
On the balcony, Bardi stood tall, framed by the golden light of the rising sun.
And then they witnessed the impossible.
Bardi tilted his head back, his trench coat rippling in the wind. His powerful chest heaved as he let out a thunderous roar:
"AHHH!!!"
His crimson eyes glowed, and with a deafening crack, two blazing beams of red-hot energy erupted from his eyes, tearing through the sky.
The crimson beams ripped apart the sky, cutting through the golden clouds above.
The spectacle lasted for half a minute before the beams faded, retreating back into his eyes. Bardi closed them briefly, then reopened them, his gaze calm and piercing as he surveyed the suicide slum below.
The faces of Barmulodi's followers glowed with madness and fervor, their faith in him solidified.
Bardi smiled warmly, the sunlight bathing him in gold as his hair and coat fluttered in the wind. The scene was divine.
Chapter 69
In a villa with warm lighting, a sturdy, unsmiling lieutenant general in his thirties stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
Sam Lane gently swirled the vodka in his glass, his eyes fixed on the night outside.
Vodka, in its purest form, carried no noticeable smell. Its sweetness and fiery passion only emerged upon drinking, smooth as water, but as intense as fire.
It was invigorating and sharp, sending a stimulating wave through the senses. For those unaccustomed to its strength, it could send shivers down their spine. But to those who savored it, its flavor lingered pleasantly, with a sweetness that grew richer over time.
Sam took a small sip. The fiery sensation rolling down his throat made his eyes narrow slightly.
He stood upright, his posture the textbook standard of a soldier. His back was straight, his gaze unwavering, and his presence carried the weight of authority.
Sam had a strong physique and a rugged, commanding face. He was the youngest and most promising lieutenant general in the military. His family background, combined with his personal achievements, had catapulted him into the spotlight. He had played a significant role in both the Vietnam War and the Cold War against the Soviet Union, earning accolades and solidifying his reputation.
If not for the lack of a vacancy in the admiral ranks, he would already be in line for promotion. However, military protocol dictated a strict "one out, one in" policy for admiral appointments, a vacancy had to occur first, followed by a presidential nomination and approval from the Senate. Until then, he would have to bide his time.
"General Lane! General Vic has secretly deployed elite troops in the suburbs," an adjutant announced as he entered the room. His spine was straight as he saluted and delivered his report.
Sam Lane's narrowed eyes gleamed faintly. "Target?"
"After confirmation, the target is the leader of the 'Barmulodi' gang in the suicide slum. General Vic's intelligence appears to be accurate, the target matches the description of the biological warrior sample that escaped from the research institute. It is the only successful sample in the program."
The adjutant continued, "The target has not concealed his whereabouts. He established the 'Barmulodi' gang in the Metropolitan Suicide Slum and has since unified the gang landscape there. Observations confirm he possesses immense physical power and is invulnerable.
"Our reconnaissance also indicates that he can leap over forty meters in a single bound and, as reported last week, kicked a helicopter out of the sky.
"Two days ago, at the Tower of Babylon in the suicide slum, his eyes emitted beams of red light. Preliminary analysis suggests these were infrared laser beams, highly concentrated clusters of thermal energy with extreme temperatures."
Sam's breathing slowed slightly as he processed the report. His expression remained composed, but his eyes betrayed a trace of shock.
Stronger than expected.
A single leap of forty meters, roughly the height of ten floors, possibly more. An invulnerable body harder than steel. Eyes capable of emitting lasers.
The intel from General Vic hadn't described Bardi's abilities in such extraordinary detail.
Since the missile explosion at the military base, General Vic had provided the military with extensive biological data, describing Bardi as the sole successful result of an experimental super-soldier program. There was no mention of him being an alien, just a biological warrior developed through classified research.
The military was aware of General Vic's long-standing ambitions to create super-soldiers for the Cold War against the Soviet Union, so an accidental success didn't seem entirely implausible.
But even so…
"Super-soldiers are one thing. But mastering hacking technology to infiltrate military systems? Hacking an entire base, launching missiles, destroying the facility, and diverting reinforcements? Eradicating an underground research institute, wiping out all genetic samples and biological data without leaving a trace?"
Sam Lane frowned deeply.
He knew more about General Vic than most. He had studied the man extensively and had access to classified information. No matter how he looked at it, this didn't align with what he knew of Vic's capabilities.
Even Colonel Willife, General Vic's trusted aide, was merely an alien-chip-based bioweapon developed with immense resources from Area 51. Could General Vic have created something far beyond Willife's abilities on his own?
Sam didn't believe it.
So… where did this creature come from?
This monster—what was its origin?
"Investigate General Vic's movements over the past two years," Sam Lane ordered, his sharp eyes narrowing. "I want to know everywhere he's been and when he started taking a particular interest in that military base."
His mind raced, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place.
This was no ordinary situation.
Sam was one of the most highly regarded officers in the military. If no admiral retired soon, he would remain in his current position until one of them stepped down or aged out.
That process was far too slow.
Now, however, an opportunity presented itself.
Admiral Vic was in trouble. The biological information he provided had only been a temporary measure to placate military officials. However, the reality of the situation was dire: nearly 7,000 soldiers were dead, 3,000 were severely injured or permanently disabled, and countless classified materials had been lost. For now, this catastrophe had been suppressed and overshadowed by the ongoing Cold War with the Soviet Union.
But once the backlash came, Admiral Vic's position would no longer be secure. Absolutely not.
America's youngest general!
America's youngest general!
America's youngest general!
When the position became vacant, Sam knew he would rise to fill it. He would soon become the youngest general in the nation's history. At just thirty-three years old, he would sit at the pinnacle of military power. His name would be etched into history, remembered for generations.
In the future, every American, when discussing military generals, would know his name: Sam Lane, the youngest general to ever rise to such a position.
The sheer thought of it was exhilarating, almost intoxicating.
Sam's heart burned with ambition. His desire for power consumed him, filling his mind with visions of his future.
And beyond the rank of general was an even greater title: five-star general, the equivalent of a marshal.
That rank was only awarded during wartime. And now, amidst the Cold War with the Soviet Union, there was a chance—a slim one, but a chance nonetheless—to achieve it. If he could rise to general, and then to five-star general, and ultimately lead the United States to victory over the Soviet Union, his name would be immortalized.
His legacy would become a milestone in American history.
He could see it now, his portrait printed on the head of a U.S. dollar bill.
"Ha…"
Sam exhaled softly, suppressing the growing flames of his ambition. His eyes returned to their usual calm focus.
He knew it was impossible. Becoming a five-star general, much less having his face on currency, was nothing more than a fantasy.
But becoming an admiral? That was within reach. He just needed to act decisively and stay a few steps ahead.
"Prepare the car. I'm going to see Vic," Sam ordered.
He walked lightly down the villa's grand staircase. As he passed by his daughter's room, he paused. Quietly, he pushed open the door and peeked inside.
His daughter was fast asleep, her small body curled up in bed. Her blanket had slipped off her legs.
Sam stepped into the room, moving with the careful precision of a soldier on reconnaissance. He gently tucked the blanket over her legs and pulled it up to her chin.
Leaning down, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead.
The touch made little Lois scrunch her face in her sleep. With a dissatisfied grumble, she turned over, burying her face in her pillow. Her father's kiss, it seemed, had disrupted her dreams.
Sam couldn't help but chuckle, a rare smile lighting up his otherwise serious face. In that moment, he was just a father looking at his daughter, his usual stern demeanor melting away.
He stood there for a moment, watching her sleep.
Then, with quiet steps, he tiptoed out of the room.
Carefully, he pulled the door shut.
As soon as it clicked closed, his entire demeanor changed.
His back straightened, his shoulders squared, and his face returned to its stoic expression. The warm father was gone, replaced by the unsmiling Lieutenant General Sam Lane.
Chapter 70
It was nighttime, the sky was clear, and stars sparkled brightly across the heavens.
An off-road military vehicle sped from the bustling metropolis into the remote southern suburbs.
This was the site of General Vic's latest deployment. Here, powerful weapons had been prepared, including newly developed laser strike systems, ground-launched missiles, and a supersonic force field calibrated to match Bardi's unique physical frequency.
As the vehicle approached the site, Sam Lane's usually composed expression began to shift. Gradually, his face contorted into one of horror, a reaction rare for a man who had witnessed the gruesome realities of war. His pupils contracted in shock.
What was he looking at?
In the distance, he saw a monstrous creature that defied reason. Its grotesque form was riddled with bulbous growths, as if tumors had overtaken its body. Thick, worm-like protrusions stretched across its surface, interwoven with jagged bones jutting outward in irregular patterns. The creature appeared to be in a constant state of evolution, its body violently breaking and regenerating as its bones and cells warped and twisted.
Even from afar, the sight was terrifying. The very existence of such a creature was an affront to nature.
As the vehicle drew closer, Sam's horror deepened. The monster stood nearly six meters tall, an imposing and terrifying presence. Its mere gaze emanated an oppressive pressure that suffocated the air around it. Even at a distance, Sam felt as if an invisible force had gripped him. His breathing hitched, and goosebumps erupted across his body.
The creature was held inside a massive steel cage. The bars were as thick as the arms of a grown man, and their construction appeared almost indestructible. Yet, as solid as the steel seemed, Sam felt no sense of safety.
The monster's cold, emotionless eyes turned toward him, and a jolt of electricity shot through Sam's body. From his feet to the top of his head, he felt paralyzed. His heart pounded violently, and a primal fear spread through him.
Shaking off the sensation, Sam exited the vehicle with a resolute stride. His face was grim as he marched toward General Vic's wartime tent. Fury burned behind his otherwise calm demeanor.
He stormed inside, his voice sharp with anger. "Vic! What the hell are you doing?"
It was obvious that this abomination had been created by Vic. What infuriated Sam was the fact that it had been done without any report to the military. Vic's history of operating outside the chain of command was no secret. From massacres in Vietnamese villages to the catastrophic missile explosion at a military base, Vic had repeatedly acted on his own, showing little regard for oversight or consequences.
General Vic sat behind a temporary desk, his posture relaxed as he went over calculations and plans. At Sam's abrupt entrance and accusation, anger flickered across his face.
Vic rose from his chair with deliberate slowness, his expression dark. He pushed the chair back, his hands pressing firmly on the table as he stared at Lane.
"Lieutenant General Lane," Vic said coldly, his voice laced with disdain. "Where's your salute to your superior officer?"
Sam clenched his teeth, forcing himself to restrain his anger. Straightening his posture, he clicked his heels together and saluted crisply. His tone was flat, devoid of emotion.
"General Vic, you are deploying elite troops and advanced strike weapons here without informing the military. May I ask—what exactly are you planning?"
Sam's composure cracked slightly as he spoke, his voice rising with restrained outrage as he finished the question.
Vic's face grew darker, his expression a mixture of irritation and arrogance. His voice dropped to a cold, threatening tone.
"I will report to the military when I deem it necessary," Vic said. "And let me remind you, Lieutenant General Lane, you are just a lieutenant general. You have no authority over me, and you certainly have no right to question me. Now, get out."
Vic stepped around the desk, jabbing a finger toward Lane's chest as he spoke. His anger was barely restrained, each word carrying a sharp edge.
Sam didn't flinch. His face remained stern as he locked eyes with Vic, refusing to back down.
"What is he, General Vic?" Lane demanded. His voice was loud and clear, cutting through the tense atmosphere. "What is Bardi? He's not the experiment you claim to have created!"
Sam stared into Vic's eyes. The tightening of Vic's pupils and the look of unease on his face told Sam everything he needed to know.
This wasn't a biological experiment created by Vic.
If Sam could uncover Bardi's true origins, it would be enough to bring Vic down.
Vic was already walking a fine line.
"Get out!" Vic bellowed, his voice filled with rage. His breathing was heavy, his chest heaving as he glared at Sam.
Vic knew better than anyone that his position was precarious. His only chance to hold onto power was to capture Bardi—dead or alive—and continue studying him. It was the only way he could regain control and keep himself from being outmaneuvered by people like Sam.
The idea of a lieutenant general daring to question him filled Vic with fury. His hands trembled, his anger barely contained.
Sam took a long, hard look at Vic before turning and striding out of the temporary command tent.
As he stepped outside, his sharp eyes caught sight of a tall man approaching. The man wore a sleek, black mesh bulletproof combat uniform, and a black eye patch covered his right eye.
Sam froze for a moment. His expression remained neutral, but his mind raced in shock.
Slade Wilson.
A man officially listed as dead, a colonel presumed lost long ago. Yet here he was, alive and walking toward Vic's tent.
Sam's gaze lingered for only a moment before he continued walking, his face betraying no emotion.
Slade entered the tent, his presence cold and imposing. Inside, Vic was leaning heavily on the table, his hands gripping its edges so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. His eyes were fierce, and when he saw Slade, his anger boiled over.
"Slade," Vic growled, his voice low and venomous. "Kill Sam Lane. He's too eager to take me down."
Slade crossed his arms over his chest, his single eye cold and unyielding as he stared at Vic.
"Vic," he said calmly, "I'm not your dog."
Vic's eyes widened, and a guttural roar rose from his throat. "You dare betray me?"
"This isn't betrayal," Slade replied coldly. "I've done enough for you. I've risked my life for you. I've even followed orders I shouldn't have."
Slade took a step forward, his voice steady but laced with a dangerous edge.
"That alien was right. Without your constant interference, Bardi wouldn't have escaped from the underground research institute. You gave him the opening he needed. You were too focused on controlling everything, on putting your mood above the mission, and that's what allowed him to get away."
Slade's gaze hardened.
"Only a free man can reach his full potential, Vic. And I won't let you cage me the way you caged Jenny."
Vic slammed his fists onto the table, his voice trembling with rage. "She entered the cage willingly! That woman was growing stronger, taller—and losing her sanity every second. Do you think I was cruel to her? She was a threat!"
Slade sneered, his disdain for Vic evident.
Without another word, he turned and walked toward the tent's exit.
"The only reason I stayed here was to find Bardi," Slade said, his back to Vic. "I'll finish this myself. Let's see who's stronger, the alien or me."
Pausing at the tent flap, Slade's voice turned cold and dismissive.
"As for your corpse, send someone to pick it up."
With that, he stepped outside, leaving Vic seething in anger.
...
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