Betrayed Disgraced: The Hidden Dragon Returns as War God

Bullets whizzed past my ears, and the RPG's exhaust traced a deadly arc in the night sky.

"Alpha Squad calling headquarters! We've been ambushed! Repeat! We've been ambushed!"

I held the M4A1, watching my brothers fall one by one.

Blood spread across the sand, its color turning an eerie blackish-red under the moonlight.

Derek, the communications soldier, lay sprawled at my feet, blood gushing from his mouth, staining his beard red. With his last strength, he gripped my trouser leg, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping against stone: "Why? Why did they know our plans beforehand..."

I was about to answer when an RPG hit the rock where we were hiding.

The shockwave from the explosion threw me into the air, my body plummeting like a kite with a broken string into a two-hundred-meter-deep canyon. The whistling wind and the echo of Derek's dying question lingered in my ears. The icy river swallowed me.

In the last second before consciousness faded into darkness, Victor's voice came through the radio: "Targets confirmed destroyed. Marcus Reed, dead."

There was a barely perceptible hint of laughter hidden in that voice.

I suddenly opened my eyes.

The fluorescent lights buzzed like dying mosquitoes. The clock in the corner showed 3:15 a.m. I wiped the shelves with a rag, my movements mechanical and numb. The face in the mirror had a messy beard, cheap black-rimmed glasses, and deep dark circles under my eyes. Three years had passed, and I could hardly recognize myself.

My plain black T-shirt was faded from washing, and my jeans had patches on the knees. I looked like any other loser on this street—the owner of a 24-hour convenience store on 7th Street in Chicago's South Side.

The sensor at the door went off.

A drunken middle-aged man staggered in, grabbed two cans of beer from the freezer, and strode away without even glancing at me.

"Hey! You haven't paid yet!" the young clerk behind the cashier shouted.

I looked up and said calmly, "Forget it, let him go."

"But boss—"

I said, forget it.

The shop assistant curled her lip and muttered under her breath, "No wonder this store is getting worse and worse..."

I continued wiping the shelves.

At 3:40 a.m., another drunkard stumbled in. He plopped down on the floor, a beer bottle rolled to my feet, and shards of glass splattered everywhere.

"Hey...hey over there...give me a pack of cigarettes..."

I bent down, picked up the broken pieces, wrapped them in a tissue, and threw them into the trash can: "What brand do you want?"

He suddenly grabbed my collar, his breath reeking of beer mixed with his bad breath, and said in my face, "Can't you even do this simple thing right!"

The scar on my left shoulder started to throb. I know it's a hallucination; the bullet was removed three years ago. But every time I need to control myself, my body remembers that tearing feeling.

I didn't move.

I expressionlessly pried open his fingers, one by one. I took a pack of cigarettes from the shelf and placed it on the counter.

He snatched the cigarette, spat on my shoe, and swaggered away.

I looked down at the phlegm stains on my shoes and wiped them away with a tissue. The movement was slow. My expression was blank.

The day's business was finally over. I locked the shop door, turned off most of the lights, and went into the cramped warehouse.

I took off my T-shirt. Moonlight streamed through the small window, illuminating the crisscrossing scars on my back—knife wounds, bullet holes, burns, each a signature of death. There was a bullet hole the size of a coin on my left shoulder.

I placed my hands on the ground and began doing push-ups. After fifty one-handed push-ups, my breathing remained steady. Sweat dripped onto the ground, and my gaze shifted from gentle to cold. My muscles were taut in the moonlight, each one clearly visible.

The old-fashioned television in the corner was still on, broadcasting the late-night news.

"...Victor Reed, the new War God of the Hand of God mercenary organization, gave an exclusive interview today. This legendary warrior has led the organization through 27 high-risk missions in the past three years, achieving a miraculous record of zero casualties..."

In the image, Victor, dressed in a custom-made suit worth $100,000, smiles brightly. He stands before the floor-to-ceiling windows of a skyscraper, overlooking the Chicago skyline. A tattered, gold-plated medal hangs on his chest—a medal that should have been mine.

I stared intently at the screen, my face expressionless.

The reporter continued, "Mr. Victor, I heard that there were dissenting voices within the organization when you succeeded as the God of War?"

Victor smiled, stroking the medals on his chest: "Those are all in the past. A true leader earns everyone's respect."

I turned off the TV, went up to the rooftop of the convenience store, and lit a cigarette.

The Chicago night sky was tinged a dark red by neon lights. In the distance, the Gold Coast district blazed with lights, skyscrapers piercing the night sky, each window a symbol of power and wealth. I stared at the tallest building to the north—Willis Tower, where Victor's office was on the top floor.

I stood on the rooftop of this dilapidated convenience store, with a garbage-strewn slum below.

The phone was clutched tightly in his palm. As agreed, Ethan was supposed to send the code at this time. For three years, every Friday at four in the morning, without fail.

But today, the screen is empty.

4:05. Still nothing. 4:10. Still nothing.

I remembered waking up three years ago in that icy river, half my bones broken. It was Ethan who found me. He bypassed the Hand of God, healed my wounds, and arranged for me to escape to Chicago. “Marcus, don’t rush back,” he said. “I will find out the truth.”

We agreed on a secret code. Every Friday at four in the morning, an encrypted text message confirms that we are still alive. For three years, rain or shine, we've done it without fail.

My phone suddenly vibrated.

There is no text on the screen. Only a string of gibberish.

My fingers froze on the screen.

This is not the agreed-upon ordered code. Our cipher system has never malfunctioned in three years. This string of gibberish disrupts all the rules—symbols, squares, unrecognizable characters. It's not in any of the formats we've agreed upon.

A finger hovered over Ethan's encrypted number. Dial it, and it would mean breaking a three-year-long rule of concealment.

But what if he has already been exposed?

The cigarette butt burned to the very end at my fingertips, a searing pain shooting through me. I stubbed it out, put my phone in my pocket, and turned to go downstairs. I couldn't act rashly before I had concrete evidence.

The phone was under the pillow, and the screen never lit up again all night.