[Chapter 71]
11 years ago
"Hah, hah, hah, hah..."
Amazon, 2300, Thursday, 31 December, 2015.
A dark-skinned boy ran toward the jungle with nothing but an inventory of weapons on him.
"I hope I'm not too late. Eva, just hold on."
Shan Wolf was 15 before his peaceful life was taken away. He ran with his personally self-modified HK416D, every attachment adjusted by his own hands. The grip was worn to fit his palm. The trigger pull was lighter. The sling was shortened for faster transitions.
He moved through the Amazon jungle alone, wearing body armor that felt heavier with every breath. Grenades rested against his vest. Backup ammo lined his chest. A tactical knife pressed against his thigh. Sweat dripped down his temple, mixing with dirt and old scars. His breathing was sharp but controlled. Each exhale carried anger. Each inhale carried fear he refused to acknowledge.
He made it to the one place he never wished to return to. But he did, for one reason. Eva Kim. She was 12 years old at that time.
Now Shan Wolf was making his way back to that hellish mercenary camp after being saved by the military.
He had escaped before, barely alive. But not before suiting up by stealing from the military armory. He was going to save everyone from that camp. Not just her. Everyone.
He finally made it to that hellish camp. He spotted five adults guarding the front gate, rifles slung lazily but fingers never far from the trigger.
Shan lowered his body into the shadows. His breathing slowed. His heartbeat steadied. One step. Pause. Another step. He used the jungle's darkness like a cloak.
He moved first.
Three went down in a flash. A suppressed burst to the first throat. A pivot, elbow to the second jaw before a quiet shot to the temple. A swift roll into cover and a controlled double tap to the third. Their bodies dropped almost simultaneously, barely a sound escaping.
The fourth noticed movement. His rifle began to rise.
Shan's tactical knife left his hand in a clean arc. It pierced through the man's face before he could pull the trigger. The impact forced him backward. Shan lunged forward, catching the falling rifle before it hit the ground. His jaw clenched. No hesitation.
The fifth turned too late. Shan closed the distance, grabbed the man by the vest, and silenced him with a brutal strike before finishing it.
He halted the fall of the body and carefully lowered it. Then he gathered the four bodies, dragging them one by one with controlled urgency. His arms strained, muscles burning, but he did not stop. He stacked them and lit them on fire.
Flames rose into the night sky. Smoke twisted upward.
The remaining mercenaries spotted it and called in backups, shouting and rushing toward the blaze.
Once they left the main compound exposed, Shan slipped in through the side like a ghost. His eyes scanned every corner. Every door. Every shadow.
He found them locked inside a dim wooden structure. Small figures huddled together. Weak. Afraid.
He moved to Eva first.
He gently covered her mouth before she could scream and whispered, "It's me."
Her eyes widened.
He removed his hand slowly.
"Boo? You're alive...?" she whispered like a little kitten, her voice trembling.
A small smirk appeared on his dirt-stained face. "Told you I ain't dying that easy, little one."
Eva threw her arms around him, burying her face into his chest. Her fingers clutched the fabric of his vest as if he might disappear again. Her small body shook violently as muffled sobs escaped her.
"Big brother... big brother..."
Shan froze for half a second. His arms hovered before slowly wrapping around her. His hand rested on the back of her head, fingers tightening slightly. His throat burned. His eyes softened, but only for a moment.
"Shhh," he whispered close to her ear. His voice was firm but gentle. "Remember what I told you, little one. Emotions can lead to hesitation. Right now, we need to get out of here while saving the rest."
Eva nodded against his chest, trying to suppress her cries. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, though they kept falling.
Shan pulled away slightly and looked into her eyes. There was fear there. But there was also trust. Absolute trust.
He gave her a small nod.
"Stay behind me. No matter what happens."
And just like that, the boy who once had a peaceful life disappeared again, replaced by the soldier the csmp had created.
Eva woke the group quietly, glancing over her shoulder. "Viper? The fuck are you out of bed?"
078, code name Hyena, froze mid-step.
Eva gestured sharply for him to shush and quickly explained the plan. His eyes widened as they landed on Shan Wolf.
"Grim? You're alive?" 078 whispered, disbelief and relief mixing in his voice.
"Hehe," Shan replied with a smirk, brushing sweat and dirt off his armor. "Guess I'm living up to the code name Grim Reaper for once."
One by one, the remaining mercenary children were stirred awake, shaking off sleep. Their movements were sharp and practiced, a mix of fear and readiness, as they gathered their guns and weaponry.
Shan scanned the group, his eyes locking on 007. "Gorilla, still got my six?"
007, now 19, nodded firmly, shouldering his rifle with ease. "Right back at ya, Grim. Though I'm surprised you're alive. The commanders told us you were dead."
"Pfft," Shan scoffed, a glint of defiance in his eye. "Like I die that easily."
The group moved into a single tent, forming a tight, efficient unit. Each person's breathing was controlled, silent yet tense, ready for what was to come.
Shan's gaze fell on 005, code name Cheetah, the fastest operative among them. "Cheetah, can you get to that post as fast as possible?"
"Yes, Grim," 005 replied without hesitation, eyes sharp and focused.
With precise movements honed by training, 005 sprinted out, silent as a shadow. Within moments, the devices Shan had provided were expertly planted on each post, each placement exact, each movement fluid, efficient, and deadly in its precision.
Shan watched, a faint sense of pride hidden beneath the grim expression. The children were ready. The plan was in motion. And the nightmare that awaited their enemies would soon begin.
"Okay, yall. I will lure the commanders while you all get out and head to this location." Shan marked a map, which it was the military camp were he was saved.
Though they don't know it was a military camp. They nodded and waited, Shan Wolf heads out and went to the base to see the 5 commanders were in a meeting.
Helean, Roger, Faruk, Fujimoto Tosaki, and Daniel.
"Great, just where I want those assholes in one room." Shan muttered to himself, remembering the training he personally got received by them.
Helean is a female commander. She trained the females in the mercenary art of seduction. Though for Shan Wolf, it was a different story. She took a liking to his potential when he was 8 and soon personally gave him a hell of a training.
Helean taught Shan Wolf how to seduce, how to show dominance, how to control his breathing, his tone, and even the way he walked into a room.
She trained his stamina until his muscles trembled and collapsed beneath him. She forced him to rebuild his body, shaping it into something muscular and athletic long before he even understood what that meant.
Her training was not gentle. It was calculated. Precise.
She injected him with a permanent and powerful liquid she had developed herself. It was only given to those who survived her personal hell of training.
The serum burned through his veins like fire. His body would convulse on the cold floor as she watched, clipboard in hand, observing, analyzing, never once blinking at his screams.
A few were chosen before him. They died. Their bodies simply could not endure the transformation she demanded.
But Shan endured.
Helean saw that endurance and smiled faintly, a rare expression from her. She would circle him slowly as he did push-ups on bleeding knuckles, correcting his posture with the tip of her boot.
If he faltered, she would lean down, her voice calm and almost affectionate, whispering that weakness disgusted her. That potential meant nothing without results.
She broke him down piece by piece.
She made him hold eye contact for hours without blinking. She made him stand perfectly still while others tried to distract him.
She trained him to control his heartbeat under pressure, to mask fear behind confidence, to weaponize charm the same way others weaponized bullets.
And every time he survived another trial, she pushed him further.
Roger is a male commander of guns and weaponry. He gave the harshest training to the kids and even beat them with his fists if they ever missed a target. His methods were crude but effective.
For Shan Wolf, Roger gave the cruelest, harshest, and most brutal training that not even military or marines of any field would go through.
Roger believed pain carved discipline into the bones.
He would line the children up at dawn, rifles heavier than their arms could properly hold. If they missed a target, he did not shout first. He stepped forward and struck them across the face with a closed fist. Then he made them fire again.
For Shan, it was different.
Roger saw defiance in his eyes. A refusal to submit fully.
So Roger escalated.
Live ammunition drills with no warning. Targets that moved unpredictably. Night exercises in pouring rain where mud swallowed their boots.
He forced Shan to disassemble and reassemble weapons blindfolded while counting down from ten. If he failed, Roger's boot would slam into his ribs before he could recover.
He made Shan fire until his shoulders bruised and his fingers blistered raw. When Shan's arms shook from exhaustion, Roger would shove him back into position and press the barrel up again.
"Again," Roger would growl.
The recoil bruised his collarbone. The gunpowder burned his nose. His ears rang for hours after training ended.
This was not a military academy. This was a mercenary camp where kidnapped children were turned into weapons.
Roger wanted obedience.
Helean wanted perfection.
And Shan survived both.
Faruk is another commander who specializes in survival and field training. He taught them how to move quietly, recognize danger, practice basic navigation, hide without leaving traces, scavenge for food, and survive in harsh environments.
His lessons were conducted deep in the jungle, where the air was thick and heavy with humidity.
He would disappear without warning, forcing the children to track him through broken twigs, disturbed soil, and faint footprints.
If they failed to detect a trap, he would spring it himself, watching who reacted first and who froze.
Faruk made them sleep in the rain without shelter. He rationed food until their stomachs growled in protest.
He taught them which plants healed and which killed. He showed them how to listen to the forest, how to sense when something was wrong even before seeing it.
When one of them stepped too loudly on dry leaves, Faruk would appear behind them as if summoned by the mistake itself. His grip would tighten on their shoulder, firm and unforgiving.
"You are dead," he would say calmly.
For Shan, Faruk's training was not the cruelest, but it was relentless. Shan learned to slow his breathing until it was barely noticeable.
He learned to blend into shadows and wait without impatience. He learned that survival was not about strength, but awareness.
Then there was Tosaki.
Fujimoto Tosaki was the most feared among all the commanders. He was the sickest of them. His pleasure was blood and blood alone.
Rumors had it that he used his personal katana and killed 200 innocents, including children, during his time as special operations. No one knew if the number was true. No one dared to ask him.
Tosaki taught only a few he personally selected. None survived his full training.
His eyes once lingered on two boys standing in formation. One was Shan Wolf, numbered 000. The other was a boy numbered 001.
Tosaki chose them both.
Training under him began before sunrise and ended long after sunset. The wooden floors of the dojo were stained from years of drills. The air smelled of steel and sweat.
He taught them how to handle swords with precision, correcting their grip with a sharp strike if it was wrong.
He drilled hand-to-hand combat until their knuckles split open. Every movement had to be exact. Every stance had to be stable.
They practiced all forms of martial arts he deemed necessary. Striking. Grappling. Throws. Joint locks. Repetition without end.
Discipline was absolute.
If their posture faltered, Tosaki's bamboo stick would crack against their shoulders. If their eyes wandered, he would force them to kneel for hours without moving. He enforced mental conditioning rooted in Bushido influence. Honor. Obedience. Control over fear.
Pain tolerance and endurance were not lessons. They were expectations.
He made them hold heavy stances until their legs trembled violently. He ordered them to spar with no protective gear, stopping the fight only when one could no longer stand. Blood on the floor did not concern him. It satisfied him.
Close-quarters efficiency was his obsession. Every strike had to end a life. Every movement had to conserve energy. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
Yet, among all techniques, Tosaki preferred teaching Shan Wolf Koppojutsu, a traditional Japanese martial art that focuses on attacking and manipulating the bones and skeletal structure of an opponent.
He would circle Shan slowly, observing his footwork, then suddenly attack without warning. Shan learned to read the slightest twitch of muscle before a strike.
Koppojutsu focused on breaking structure, attacking bones, collapsing an opponent from within. Tosaki demonstrated on wooden dummies first, splintering them with precise strikes. Then he demanded Shan replicate it.
"Again," Tosaki would say softly, eyes cold and unblinking.
Shan's arms would ache. His lungs would burn. Sweat would drip from his chin onto the floor. But he would rise every time he was knocked down.
Tosaki watched him differently from the others. Not with warmth. Not with pride.
With curiosity.
And perhaps, something darker.
Lastly, Daniel, age 59. The Chief Commander of the child mercenary camp.
He handled the logs, missions, and costs. But most of all, he was a manipulator.
Daniel was the "ten steps ahead" kind of man, or at least that was what he constantly told himself. Calm. Calculating. Always watching.
He only personally trained the top ten. From 000 to 010.
Before any of the other commanders began their personal training on Shan Wolf, Daniel wanted to test something.
Shan Wolf was 8 years old.
Daniel was 48.
The spar was set in the Amazon jungle clearing. The ground was damp, soft with mud. Humid air clung to the skin.
Eva, 009.
005.
001.
002.
078.
They sat kneeling in a half circle, backs straight, hands resting on their thighs. Silent. Watching.
The other children had been dismissed.
Even the other commanders paused their training to observe.
Helean stood with quiet interest.
Roger folded his arms, skeptical.
Faruk watched the foot placement.
Tosaki's eyes were sharp, studying the boy's movements.
Daniel stepped forward, holding a combat knife loosely in his right hand.
Across from him stood Shan.
Eight years old.
Barefoot.
Small.
Holding a knife that looked almost too large for his hand.
Daniel spoke calmly.
"Show me."
The first clash came fast.
Steel rang sharply as their blades met. Daniel moved smoothly, testing angles. Shan reacted on instinct, blocking high, stepping back too wide, nearly slipping in the mud.
Daniel noticed.
He pressed forward.
Short strikes. Controlled. Measured.
Shan's breathing quickened, but his eyes never left Daniel's shoulders. He didn't understand full technique yet. No refined stance. No trained rhythm.
Only raw survival.
Daniel aimed low. Shan barely twisted away, the blade grazing his side. A thin cut formed. Blood mixed with sweat.
The watching children tightened their fists against their knees.
Daniel circled.
Shan adjusted.
Daniel increased speed.
Shan stopped thinking.
He lunged.
Wild. Aggressive. Improper form.
Daniel countered easily, striking Shan's wrist. The knife nearly fell, but Shan gripped harder, teeth clenching.
Morning stretched into afternoon.
Mud coated their legs. Sweat burned their eyes.
Daniel began applying pressure. Shoulder checks. Knife traps. Feints.
Shan stumbled more than once. Fell once. Got back up immediately.
No hesitation.
No tears.
Only glare.
The sun began lowering.
Daniel decided to end it.
He lunged forward with a clean, decisive downward strike meant to disarm and pin the boy.
But Shan did something unexpected.
Instead of retreating, he stepped in.
Too close.
Too reckless.
Daniel had not predicted that.
Shan twisted his small frame under Daniel's arm. The motion was clumsy but desperate. His grip reversed without elegance, only instinct.
And he slashed upward.
The blade cut across Daniel's left eye.
Not deep enough to blind.
But deep enough.
Blood spilled instantly, running down Daniel's cheek.
The jungle fell silent.
Even the insects seemed to pause.
Daniel staggered half a step back.
Shan stood there, chest heaving violently. Arms shaking. Knife still raised.
Mud. Sweat. Blood.
Daniel slowly touched the wound. His fingers came away red.
He looked at the boy.
Not with rage.
Not with humiliation.
But with something calculating.
Interest.
The spar had lasted from morning until evening.
Finally, Daniel lowered his knife.
"That's enough," he said quietly.
Shan did not lower his weapon immediately.
Only after several seconds.
The other commanders exchanged looks.
Helean saw potential.
Roger saw defiance.
Tosaki saw something feral.
From that day forward, Daniel carried a scar beneath his left eye.
And from that same day forward, Shan Wolf became more than just 000.
He became a variable Daniel had not accounted for.
Back to the current situation, the commanders were inside the camp, discussing missions and mercenary deals in the black market. Maps were spread across the table. Weapons lay within reach. Their voices overlapped in low, controlled arguments about profit, routes, and targets.
Until suddenly, a tactical knife was thrown and hit the center of the wooden table.
The blade pierced through paper and sank deep into the wood with a sharp crack.
"The fuck?!" Roger snapped, pushing his chair back.
"Huh?" Faruk turned sharply.
"What the—"
"Nani kore...?" Tosaki muttered, eyes narrowing.
All five turned toward the entrance.
Their eyes widened in shock.
Shan Wolf stood there, half-lit by the dim lights inside the room and the faint glow of the jungle outside. Mud still clung to his boots. His HK416D hung at his side. His gaze was steady.
"Miss me… teachers?" Shan taunted, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Helean's eyes scanned him from head to toe. No hesitation. No visible fear.
"You're alive, boy?" she asked calmly, though her fingers subtly tightened around the knife at her waist.
Shan tilted his head slightly. "What? Death is my Grim, after all."
The air shifted.
In a blink, all of them lunged at him.
Tosaki was the fastest. His katana slid from its sheath in one smooth motion, steel flashing under the lights as he dashed forward with controlled precision.
Helean moved next, drawing her twin knives with fluid grace, circling to flank Shan from the left.
Roger stepped back instead of forward, pulling out his guns with practiced speed, lining up a shot without hesitation.
Faruk crushed a smoke bomb in his palm and threw it toward Shan's feet. Thick gray smoke exploded outward, swallowing the room in seconds.
Daniel did not reach for a weapon.
He lunged straight at Shan with his fist, aiming to break his guard before the others closed in.
The room erupted into chaos.
Shan kicked the table forward, flipping it onto its side just as Roger fired. Bullets tore through wood instead of flesh. Splinters flew. Shan rolled through the smoke, coughing once but keeping low.
Tosaki's blade sliced through the haze, cutting only air.
Helean's knife flashed toward Shan's ribs, but Shan twisted his torso, grabbing her wrist mid-motion. He shoved her aside just as Daniel's fist came crashing down where Shan's head had been moments before.
The impact cracked the wooden floor.
Shan retaliated with a sharp elbow to Daniel's ribs, then ducked as Tosaki's katana swept horizontally. The blade grazed Shan's vest, slicing fabric but missing skin.
Smoke thickened.
Roger fired again blindly through the haze.
Faruk moved silently within the fog, attempting to reposition.
Steel clashed. Gunshots echoed. Wood shattered.
They spilled out of the meeting room and into the open camp grounds, fighting under the dark Amazon sky.
Then—
Boom.
One of the posts 005 had planted detonated.
The explosion tore through the night. Flames burst upward, lighting the jungle in violent orange.
A second blast followed.
Then a third.
Shockwaves rattled the camp structures. Fire spread rapidly across dry wood and fuel reserves.
Hellfire rushed into the Amazon jungle, consuming tents and towers alike.
The mercenary children saw the flames from a distance.
That was the signal.
Without shouting, without panic, they moved. Grabbing their packs. Securing their weapons. Running toward the marked location Shan had described.
Back in the camp, firelight flickered across Shan's face as he stood against five commanders at once.
Smoke, sparks, steel, and gunfire surrounded them.
And for the first time—
The hunters were no longer in control.
Shan Wolf's eyes scanned the chaos like a predator's. Smoke choked the room, flames flickering along the walls, reflecting off glinting steel and the sweat-drenched faces of his masters. He wasn't just fighting—they were his past, his tormentors, his hell—and he was ready to end them all.
Tosaki lunged first, katana arcing downward with terrifying speed. Shan twisted, barely evading, feeling the steel graze his shoulder, ripping through fabric and drawing blood. He rolled forward, scraping along the splintered wooden floor, and came up behind Tosaki.
A swift jab with his tactical knife pierced Tosaki's thigh. He stumbled, twisting, but Shan was already on him.
Elbow met temple, snapping the man backward into a table. Splinters pierced skin, glass shattered, and the firelight reflected off Tosaki's blood as he hit the ground with a wet thud.
Shan spun, knife ready, spotting Helean circling from the left. She darted toward him, knives flashing, aiming for his throat.
He parried with his own blade, slashing across her forearm. Flesh tore with a wet rip. Helean hissed, retreating, blood streaming from the gash.
"Not fast enough," Shan whispered, a grim smirk spreading across his bloodied face. He kicked a broken chair toward her, forcing her to stumble.
He closed the distance, gripping her wrist, twisting it violently. A wet crack echoed as the joint gave way. Helean screamed, knives falling to the ground, and Shan drove the tip of his knife upward into her abdomen. Blood sprayed over his chest as she crumpled, gasping, eyes wide in shock.
Roger had been taking shots in between, firing blindly into the smoke. Shan dove low, rolling across the floor, grabbing a loose pistol and flipping the gun into his hand. He shot once, twice, striking Roger in the chest.
He fell back into a wall, coughing blood. Shan was on him instantly, crushing Roger's neck with a kick and then finishing him with a precise stab to the heart.
Daniel, ever the strategist, waited for Shan to be committed to the other targets. He lunged, fist aimed for Shan's jaw. Shan twisted, letting Daniel's momentum carry him past, and slammed a knee into his stomach.
Daniel doubled over, gasping, and Shan's knife cut across his shoulder, spraying blood like a crimson fan. Another swift strike to the side of the neck, and Daniel collapsed, gasping for air that would not come.
Faruk had been dealt with first, but his body twitched as if he wanted revenge, his last ragged breath choking him. Shan wiped the sweat and blood from his forehead and looked around.
Every commander lay in a pool of their own making, the floor slick with blood, smoke curling upward from scattered embers, and the stench of gunpowder and iron thick in the air.
Shan dropped to one knee, chest heaving, knife still slick with blood. Every movement had been calculated, every strike lethal, every master killed in the style that had forged him. He wasn't just surviving. He was purging.
He looked at the carnage and whispered, "Teachers… class dismissed."
The jungle outside roared as the fire spread, flames licking the sky. The mercenary children, seeing the signal, ran toward the safe location.
The masters who had once broken him, trained him, and tormented him were gone—reduced to nothing but bloodied corpses and shattered steel.
Shan sheathed his knife, stepping over splintered wood and fallen bodies. He took a deep breath.
The weight of vengeance was heavy—but necessary. This was mercenary life. Brutal. Bloody. Efficient. And now, it was his turn to dictate the rules.
As Shan Wolf prepared to burn the remaining camp structures, Helean staggered to her feet. Blood coated her clothes, her breathing ragged, yet she was still alive. Shan's eyes narrowed, taking in the sight of her standing after everything.
She lifted a gun and aimed at him, but for a moment, her hands shook.
"Go on," Shan said, voice low, cold, and taunting. "Take the shot, woman."
Helean's gaze lingered on him. Slowly, almost painfully, she lowered the weapon.
"How can a mother kill her children?" she whispered.
Shan raised an eyebrow, voice sharp. "We are not your children. You and all these mercenaries kidnapped us, robbed our childhood, and turned us into killing machines."
Helean's face twisted with conflict, a flicker of grief crossing her features. She took a shaky step toward him.
Shan Wolf raised his gun, firing into her torso. Each shot rang out, but she did not falter. Step by step, she advanced through the hail of bullets. He emptied his magazine, yet she still moved forward.
Finally, she reached him. Helean wrapped her arms around Shan, holding him in a surprisingly gentle embrace. Her voice was calm, warm, and tearful, soft enough that only he could hear:
"I'm sorry, my child…"
In the next instant, Tosaki launched himself toward Shan from behind, katana aimed for a fatal strike.
Helean reacted instinctively. She fired a shot, striking Tosaki mid-lunge. The force knocked him back, but his katana landed on Helean's chest. Pain shot through her, and she collapsed.
Shan caught her, his hands trembling. "Why…! Why would you do that?!" he shouted, voice breaking, eyes wide in shock.
Her hand reached up to his face, brushing a streak of blood and dirt from his cheek. With her final breath, she whispered, each word heavy with love and regret:
"Live… my… child…"
Shan held her close, the weight of everything crashing down. Flames roared around the camp, smoke billowing into the sky.
Helean's eyes slowly closed, leaving only her warmth lingering against him as the chaos of vengeance and fire consumed the night.
"Oi… oi! OI!!!" Shan Wolf shook Helean's lifeless body, cradling her in his arms. His voice broke and cracked with a rage unlike any he had felt before.
"Why… why! Why can't I cry!!! Why!!! Stupid… stupid fucking head! Cry! Make me fucking cry for every fucking god's fuck!!!!"
He pounded his fists against her chest, sobbing and screaming, but no tears came. His chest heaved violently, but the emotions stayed trapped inside him like coals burning without a flame.
An hour later, the mercenary camp was nothing but a roaring inferno. Flames consumed the structures, the tents, and the corpses of the fallen commanders.
Smoke rose thick into the Amazon night, curling around shattered trees and splintered wood. Shan Wolf watched the fire, expression unreadable but eyes cold and burning with purpose.
But Helean… she was different.
Shan lit a torch and carefully placed it atop a wooden pit built around her body. The flames caught, spreading across the timber, encasing her in a blazing memorial.
White flowers rested atop the pyre, carefully laid by Shan himself. The fire danced along her form, and he held the dog tag that had been in her hand, clutched in his palm.
A moment of silence passed as he watched her go, the flames reflecting in his eyes.
Without another word, Shan Wolf turned and walked away. He left the mercenary camp in ruin behind him.
Smoke and fire marked his vengeance, and he carried only the memory of what had been—and the promise of what was to come.
He went straight to the designated location. From the treeline, he could see the children gathering. Their small forms, ragged but alive, were rushing forward.
Eva was the first to notice him. She broke into a sprint, tears streaming down her cheeks, and launched herself into his arms.
"BOOO!!!" she cried, clinging to him as her sobs shook his chest. Shan hugged her tightly, letting her bury her face in him, her tiny body trembling against his.
The designated location was a small military camp—the same one where Shan had been rescued months ago, before betrayal struck during a patrol.
Soldiers ran to aid the rescued mercenary children, providing medical attention and blankets. Shan didn't care about protocol, orders, or consequences. This was survival, nothing else mattered.
Officers from the camp rushed to confront him, guns drawn. A corporal stepped forward, voice sharp and authoritative.
But before he could reach Shan, all the mercenary children—Eva, 005, 001, 002, 078, and the rest—had weapons raised.
"Lay a hand on our savior," one of them said, voice cold and deadly, "and we will show you how hell is."
The corporal froze. Every soldier in the camp could see the glint of steel, the unwavering aim of the children protecting their saviour Shan Wolf. The air was tense, heavy with unspoken threat. No one dared move.
Shan Wolf, holding Eva in one arm, scanned the camp. His eyes were calm, but a storm raged behind them. He had survived, taken revenge, and now, for the first time in years, he was in control.
The mercenary children were safe. The camp, destroyed. The masters, gone.
And Shan Wolf was finally free.
Military Safe Camp, 0000, Friday, 01 January, 2016.
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Chapter 71 — End.